Jim stands abruptly. “I’m away. Duty calls. But I’ll see you all this evening.” And with that, he takes his jubilant demeanor from the room with a wide stride.
As soon as Jim’s footsteps recede, Madge stands. Her face is a storm cloud. Agatha glances over at me, warning in her gaze.
“Never, ever take me for a fool,” she seethes, turning that sharp gaze on Agatha and then me. “I don’t know exactly what you two are up to, but consider yourself advised. Tonight is my night. And I do not want it ruined.”
Chapter Thirty
APRIL 1, 1931
MANCHESTER,ENGLAND
I’ve never been known for my fashion sense. As the only child of a vicar and his wife, I was meant to be appropriately dressed for our proper status in Bluntisham. But while we inhabited a lovely rectory with extensive gardens, we lived at the financial mercy of the Church of England, and Father’s stipend was never enough for the sorts of frocks expected of me. Castoffs became the norm—beautifully altered by my mother—during childhood, boarding school, and Oxford. My sole evening dress was at the tailor when Agatha and I set out for Abney Hall, and, in an echo of my youth, tonight’s gown is borrowed. It is a castoff from Madge, worn when she was “a bit bigger,” as she put it. The vivid purple silk gown—not my color, but beggars can’t be choosers—sports the drop-waist style popular in the last decade instead of the more flattering, nipped-at-the-waist design favored today. I’m fairly certain I resemble an aubergine, and I cannot help but think this is intentional on Madge’s part.
Trying to push this thought from my mind, I step into the Abney Hall parlor at the appointed hour for drinks before dinner. I make a beeline for the exquisitely, if somberly, dressed Agatha, who’s having an animated discussion with her sister. Weaving through the dozen or so guests outfitted in the latest couture gowns and bespoke evening wear, I hear her say “Enough!” in a furious tone just as I reach her side.
I freeze, but before I can retreat, Madge marches off to the opposite side of the room. Agatha faces me with a weak smile. “Are you quite all right?” I ask.
“Just the usual sisterly spats,” she answers, but it’s plainly much more.
“Are you quite certain?” I ask. I don’t want to pry, but I hope she knows she can trust me.
“Madge isn’t terribly fond of Max,” she answers, referring to her husband of a year. “She’s suspicious of his motives because he’s fourteen years younger than I am, even though I hardly think it’s fair to call him a gold digger. I have no gold.”
“Perhaps she’s just being overprotective. She is an older sister, after all, and I understand that’s their purview. Not that I know from firsthand experience.”
“Perhaps. She does enjoy smothering me,” she replies, smiling. “Madge is a complicated woman.”
Complicated indeed. Madge is also a terribly jealous woman. Though she may love and protect her sister, those emotions are intermingled with envy. It is plain to see.
“It seems as though she also enjoys tangling you in her web—if the web contains your theater accomplishments and if it benefits her,” I blurt out, then immediately regret it. My hand flies over my mouth. What am I thinking? Madge is Agatha’s sister, and I am at Abney Hall at her invitation. “I’m so very sorry.”
Agatha giggles. “Whatever for? It’s the truth, and I find it refreshing to hear someone speak plainly about Madge.”
“Well, it shouldn’t be me. She’s been nothing but kind to me. For the most part.” I call attention to my dress.
“You have nothing to be worried about, Dorothy,” Agatha says with a squeeze of my hand.
Time to change the subject,I think. Taking in the room, I ask, “Whom should we talk to first?”
That there are two factions of guests at this soiree—theater folks and the Watts family’s usual crowd—is obvious from attire anddemeanor. Agatha subtly points out a number of theater types—actors, actresses, directors, and producers whom I recognize from the newspapers—and waves at a few. One name catches my attention.
“Can you repeat that last one?”
“Basil Dean. He’s a director and producer.”
“Why does his name sound familiar?”
“He’s directed quite a few Noël Coward plays. Perhaps you read about him in the paper.”
“Perhaps,” I say, but I don’t think that’s it.
Agatha slides her arm through mine and conducts me across the drawing room. We aim for a gentleman in evening dress with a peacock-feather tie and a perfectly shaped waxed mustache. He stands in the corner chatting up a bottle blonde. “Let’s try Mr. Dean first,” she says in a whisper.
Jim, who appears as though he’s been squeezed into his evening suit with a shoehorn, cuts us off mid-approach. “You two seem terribly intent. May I assist? Someone inadvertently providing impetus for a character?” He seems delighted with this idea.
“We are homing in on Basil Dean,” I answer conspiratorially.
“I can see why. But proceed with care,” Jim says. “I overheard one guest describe him as a piece of work.”
