Born of Deception (7 page)

I told him that I’d be careful and didn’t mention the crazy scavenger hunt Cynthia had thrown as my good-bye party.

I’d added a rose from the hotel lobby as a boutonniere and fashioned a wand from a wooden hanger. Handcuffs hang from my wrists like bracelets.

As I crawl in the back with Calypso, she introduces me to her friend, a young man who is dressed as a queen. “Anna Van Housen, this is Cecil Beaton, or should I say Queen Elizabeth? Cecil, this is Anna Van Housen, or should I say Harry Houdini?”

I gasp as if I’d been kicked in the stomach, but somehow make the right noises as I squeeze in next to them.

Calypso chatters to Cecil, blissfully unaware of the panic her words had caused. I forced myself to breathe. She couldn’t possibly know that Houdini might be my father, could she?

When she turns to me and hands me a flask, I don’t even hesitate and take a long drink that burns as it hits my stomach. I choke, my eyes watering as I hand it back to her, but the relaxation I feel is immediate.

“Calypso tells me you’re an actual magician, Miss Van Housen. Perhaps you will treat us to a demonstration this evening?” Cecil asks in a high, reedy voice.

“Not Miss Van Housen! Harry! That’s what I’m going to call you tonight, poppet.”

Then she reaches over and gives my shoulder a friendly little nip. I jump, and she and Cecil laugh.

The party is being given in some sort of private room at Grey’s Club. Or rooms, I should say, as a large dance floor branches off into several hallways with smaller, even more private rooms. It’s the first time I’ve been in one of London’s clubs, the kind that New York can only aspire to. Grey’s Club was established exclusively for men and only allows women at private parties such as this one. I look around, trying to catch a glimpse of the famous snobbery behind the gay trappings of the party, but can only see the stunning colors.

The walls of the spacious room are covered with draperies of blue Indian silk, and giant urns of fresh flowers abound. One of the fake potted palms already has empty bottles stuck on its branches, a harbinger of the debauchery to come. On the shining parquet dance floor, couples in various costumes swing around and around as a band plays American jazz in one corner.

Dazzled, I spot Romeo doing the Charleston with Little Miss Muffet, Marie Antoinette dancing with Captain Hook, and a man wearing only a diaper swaying with a woman dressed as Mozart.

“Here!” Calypso snatches a couple of drinks off a tray being carried by a waiter in a tuxedo.

I take a cautious sip, pleased with the fruity taste. Then I remember, there’s no prohibition in England so the booze is much, much better than most of the rotgut we get back home.

“Elizabeth! Come meet my friend.”

A pretty, rather thin young woman dressed as a toddler joins us. She and Calypso press their cheeks together before turning to me. “Elizabeth Ponsonby, this is Anna Van Housen. She’s an American magician. For real, not just tonight.”

Elizabeth raises eyebrows that have been penciled in darkly above pleasant, rather vacuous blue eyes. “So nice to meet you. You must perform for us at some point. Your handcuffs are deevie! I love them. My poor parents would have kittens if I started wearing handcuffs.” She puffs off her long cigarette holder and blows the smoke into a cloud above her head.

I shake my cuffs at her. “The important thing is to always have the key, or learn how to pick them open. Otherwise they could be dangerous.”

Elizabeth laughs, her eyes already moving past us, her demeanor restless. This is clearly a woman who doesn’t stay in one place long. “Oh, there’s Babe! Excuse me, will you? And don’t forget, I want a magical demonstration before the night is over.”

With a twitch of her skinny shoulders she’s gone and Calypso is once again scanning the crowd. Suddenly her eyes narrow and I feel her jittery irritation. “What is he doing here?” she mutters. “I’ll be right back,” she says, and takes off across the room, her full knee-length red-and-gold skirt swishing furiously.

I try to spot who she is after, but only see a black-haired young man dressed as a rajah disappearing through a door with Calypso hot on his heels.

Abandoned, I sip my drink and tap my toes. I love to dance, though rarely get the opportunity. Cole doesn’t seem like the dancing type, so I’ve never brought it up.

“Anna! What are you doing here?”

I jump at the sound of my name. Whirling around, I stare into Bronco Billy’s handsome face. He’s wearing his full cowboy getup and has a petite, blond, medieval princess on one arm and a languid brunette angel on the other. “I’m pretending to be a magician,” I tell him, unaccountably irritated by his companions. “What are you doing here?”

The grin he flashes is saucy and shows the deep dimples at the corners of his mouth. “Pretending to be a cowboy. Would you like to dance?”

I blink. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”

He looks from side to side as if surprised to discover the girls still clinging to his arms. “Oh, I don’t know their names. Sorry, ladies, this here is Anna and we’re going to dance now. See you later? Here, have a drink. Looks like you can use one.”

He takes the glass from my hand and passes it to the medieval princess before pulling me out on the dance floor.

“Thank God you were here,” he says swinging me into his arms. “I thought I was never going to get rid of them.”

“Where did you meet them?” I ask, glancing over his shoulder to where the girls are staring at us, their faces sour.

“On the street. Now, before you lecture, I was just moseying on back to the hotel after practice and they yelled out of a cab that they would give me a ride to the party. Apparently, they thought I was on my way here. I figured why not, but after getting into the car I realized they were the kind of girls I wouldn’t easily rid myself of.”

“Do you have a lot of trouble with that?” Part of me is curious; another part is strangely jealous, which is horrible considering that I’m in love with Cole.
It’s only because he’s so handsome
, I comfort myself.
Any girl would feel the same way.

He glances at me sideways as if he knows what I’m thinking and tilts me into a fast dip. I squeal and he laughs. The music quickens and Bronco Billy matches his steps. “Not that often,” he says. “But often enough to make it annoying. City girls love a cowboy.”

I change the subject, not wanting to hear any more about city girls. “Where did you learn to dance, Bronco Billy? Philadelphia?”

He nods. “And for the love of God, don’t call me Bronco Billy. That’s my stage name. Billy is fine.”

I smile in assent, and give up conversation to concentrate. I need all my wits and breath to keep up with him. I look up, only to find his eyes are looking directly into mine and he gives me that magical smile that would make any girl’s toes curl.

“You know how I got here,” he says. “How did you end up at this shindig?”

The music moves into a slow dance song and he pulls me close. For a moment I can’t breathe and then I shake my head.
Get ahold of yourself
. Even though I’m inexperienced, I’m not a child. I grew up on the road, the daughter of a modern woman who took lovers for pleasure as well as the meals or lodging they occasionally provided.

“A friend invited me.” I concentrate on my steps and stare over his shoulder.

“Where is he?” Bronco Billy asks, looking around.

“
She
disappeared soon after we got here.” I must have sounded worried because his arm tightens.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get back to the hotel all right.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Do you know the way home?”

“Not exactly, but just how big could London be anyway?” He grins and I smile. The dance floor is so crowded we can hardly move, and he leads me out of the crowd and to an unoccupied corner.

“Boy, these Brits know how to throw a party, don’t they?” He stares out into the throng of people, interest written all over his handsome face. A young man dressed as Henry VIII is trying to down an entire bottle of champagne in the center of an appreciative crowd.

My eyes widen as I recognize one of the revelers. “They aren’t all British.” I nod toward a lovely young woman dressed as an Indian maiden. “I think that’s Zelda Fitzgerald.” I wildly look around for her famous husband.

“‘There is a moment—Oh, just before the first kiss, a whispered word—something that makes it worthwhile.’”

My head jerks up to see the expression on Billy’s face. He’s looking out into the dancers, but his eyes are far away. He notices my surprise and gives me a bashful, aw-shucks-ma’am look. “I’m sorry. I loved that book.”

“
This Side of Paradise
is one of my favorites,” I tell him.

He nods. “I kept a little pocket version in my saddle pouch. I used to read when I was lonely. Sometimes I felt as if books were the only friends I had.”

I know that feeling so exactly that my throat swells. We share a glance of complete understanding and then I look away, uncomfortable by the intimacy of the moment.

“Stay here,” he says, and disappears. I’m grateful for the chance to recover and by the time he returns, two drinks in his hands, I’ve shoved the feeling out of my head.

“I hope you don’t mind these are nonalcoholic. I’m not really a big drinker.”

“I’m not either,” I assure him. He gives me a wide smile and my heart skips a beat.
Stop that.

Just then Calypso joins me, her pretty face looking drawn. “Are you ready to leave?” she asks. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Oh.” I glance at Bronco Billy, who stares at Calypso as if she were a strange bird that just landed on the pommel of his saddle. “Yes, I’m ready.”

“I can take you home if you like,” Bronco Billy says.

Calypso glances at him as if just noticing his presence. I quickly introduce them and then answer his question, “That’s all right. You stay and have fun. Thank you for the dances.”

His presence is confusing, and the last thing I need in my life is more confusion. I hurriedly follow Calypso out the door and we get into the car we arrived in.

“Cecil said his driver will take us to wherever we want to go. He’ll probably be at the party all night.”

I almost ask why she wanted to leave so early, but my head is suddenly aching and I have a strange buzzing in my ears. I press my head against the window to cool it. Perhaps the booze wasn’t as high quality as I thought it was.

I push Calypso’s disappearance at the party out of my mind. Let her have her intrigue. I’ll stick to my magic. That’s what I came to London for. I didn’t come for Cole or cowboys with hair the color of sunshine, the Society, or even to get away from my mother, though that is surely a bonus. I came to perform my magic, and that’s what I’m going to do.

Six

T
he unseasonal warmth of the past few days is gone as Cole and I drive to his house for tea with his mother and grandmother. The sky is dark with clouds producing a relentless downpour of drenching rain.

I’ve paired my new knockabout with a rust-colored wool coat my mother insisted on giving me when I left. The deep fur collar keeps my neck warm as well as giving me some much needed confidence. But in spite of my new hat and smashing coat, my stomach is churning from the anxious emotions coming off Cole. I want to ask him what’s wrong, but if he’s worried about me meeting his family, I don’t want to know it. I’m nervous enough as it is.

When Cole cuts the engine of the car, we’re in front of a large Queen Anne–style residence with a facade so formal and imposing that the swarm of butterflies in my stomach takes flight.

As I sit in the motorcar, waiting for Cole to open my door, I stare at the rows of sash windows set flush against the brickwork and the sweeping stone steps leading to a carved marble doorcase. Large white stone quoins on the corners of the house contrast with the cold gray of the brick.

This is a house to be reckoned with. A house that makes me squirm in embarrassment at my American accent, my circus upbringing, and my criminal past. This house wouldn’t understand that I did what I had to do in order to ensure the survival of my mother and myself.

The people inside probably won’t either.

I step out of the motorcar and am gratified that Cole takes my arm so I won’t make a fool of myself and run in the other direction. As if sensing my misgivings, Cole gives my arm a squeeze.

“They aren’t ogres, you know. My grandmother is a bit old-fashioned, but that’s just her way. My mother is going to love you.”

My stomach tightens. Meaning that his grandmother won’t.

The door opens as we come up the steps and I’m face-to-face with his mother. I’d half expected a stiff disapproving butler to open the door, not this welcoming, gray-haired woman who looks at me with Cole’s eyes. “You must be Anna. Cole has told me so much about you.”

She offers her hand and I keep hold of Cole’s arm as I reach out to greet her. His control increases my own and I feel nothing but the warmth of her hand.

If she’s not happy to see me with her son, I definitely don’t want to know it.

“I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs. Archer.”

“Please, call me Muriel.”

Other than the dark eyes, Cole’s mother looks nothing like him and I wonder if he got his intelligent good looks from his father. Muriel’s long face is saved from being horselike by the firmness of her chin and the fullness of her lips. Her hair is an iron gray that will never turn silver and her hands and feet are large. She’s an impressive woman who stops just short of being imposing by the kindness of her face and the warmth of her smile.

“Let us go into the sitting room, shall we? Robert has just laid a cozy fire so we will be much more comfortable in there than the dining room.”

I smile as Cole and I follow her down a large hall with a high ceiling and elaborate plasterwork. She and Cole have more in common than their eyes. They also have a measured way of speaking that is quintessentially British.

“Where is Grandmother?” Cole asks when we enter the empty room.

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll be down directly,” Muriel says, waving her hand vaguely.

My stomach lurches. I hope so. What would I do if she decided to show her disapproval by refusing to have tea with an upstart, no-name American? What would Cole do?

I take a seat on an overstuffed blue sofa. The sitting room is less formal than I expected, but still more formal than is common in the States. The walls are a delicate robin’s-egg blue, which contrasts beautifully with the dark parquet floor and the white marble fireplace. Stiff wingback chairs sit next to slender, polished tables that one should never set a cup on. On the other hand, the rugs on the floor look deliciously soft, and fuzzy throws are flung casually over the chairs.

Muriel sits on the chair opposite the sofa and Cole takes a seat very close to me. We’re not touching, but I can still feel his calming influence. “Robert will bring us our tea in a moment.” She turns to me. “Cole tells me you’re quite well traveled.”

I stifle a laugh. Well, yes, if you call moving from one flea-infested boardinghouse to another all across small-town America well traveled. It wasn’t always bad, of course. When we were flush, we might stay in a fancy hotel for a week or two, but it never lasted long. “I’ve seen quite a bit of the States, but I’ve never been to Europe before, so this is exciting.”

She gives me a gracious smile and I have a suspicion she knows more than she’s letting on about my past. “I hear you’re a talented magician. How did that come about? Most girls your age aspire to be office girls in the city or perhaps actresses in the picture shows.”

Her voice is perplexed and a bit wary and I understand. Muriel Archer isn’t making any judgments. Yet. But she is concerned that her son is so taken with someone with such an odd profession.

I’m not offended. I’d feel the same way.

I try to figure out how to explain my love of magic in a positive way. I swallow and settle on the truth. At least part of the truth.

“My mother was a magician’s assistant when she lived in Hungary, so I guess a love and appreciation for magic is in my blood.”

“Lord have mercy, she’s a Hungarian magician!” I startle at the fervent words uttered behind my back.

Turning my head, I track the stately progress of an elderly woman dressed head to toe in black. The rustle of her old-fashioned taffeta heralds her progress as does the tappity-tap of her gold-handled cane. Her hair is piled on her head in a mass of silver curls and a choker of pearls gleams around her neck.

“Now, Mother,” Muriel clucks as the dowager takes the seat next to her.

I’m struck dumb as her sharp blue eyes appraise me. My knees feel suddenly painfully bare even though they’re covered by silk stockings, and I resist the urge to yank down my skirt.

“It’s wonderful to see you, Cole,” the old woman says. “I don’t see you nearly enough, but I understand. The young do gad about so. Now sit up, dear. There’s a boy.”

I feel Cole straighten next to me. He clears his throat. “You’re looking well, Grandmother. May I present Miss Anna Van Housen?”

My lips curve in a tentative smile.

His grandmother sniffs. “If you must.”

The smile slips off my face, but Cole continues as if his grandmother hadn’t spoken. “Anna, this is my grandmother. And please don’t fret. Her bark is far worse than her bite.”

The woman leans forward onto the cane. “My bite is precisely as bad as my bark.”

I believe it.

An ancient butler, who I assume is Robert, comes in with a tinkling tea cart. It’s loaded with enough tiny little finger foods to satiate an entire army of Lilliputians. He carefully lifts a silver tray from the cart and places it on the table in front of us.

“Perhaps our guest would like to pour the tea?” Cole’s grandmother interjects, a gleam in her pale blue eyes.

I swallow hard. Then, to let her know I’m not that easily intimidated, I curl my lips up ever so slightly at the corners. “Oh, you don’t want me pouring. I would hate to spill it.” I don’t add,
all over you
but I don’t have to, my meaning is clear.

Shades of my mother.

“I’ll pour,” Muriel says hastily.

A heavy silence descends as Cole’s mother pours the tea and little plates of food are passed. A slight buzzing starts in my ears and I shake my head, wondering if I’m getting sick.

Cole’s grandmother clears her throat. “So as an entertainer, do you perform onstage with men?”

I almost choke on a crumpet. I lift my eyes to meet hers. She stares back at me, malice written in the creases and lines of her face. I know in an instant that this is no grumpy old woman who can be won over. To her I will never be more than gutter trash her grandson picked up—and American gutter trash to boot.

“Grandmother,” Cole exclaims, but I lay a hand on his arm to let him know that it’s all right.

“I usually performed with my mother, but occasionally I performed with a sword swallower named Swineguard. He was like a father to me, actually.” I pick up a clean butter knife and twirl it. It flashes in and out of my fingers before I calmly dip it into the butter to spread on my crumpet.

There’s a long silence before Cole says cheerfully, “Did I forget to tell you? Anna worked in a circus too!”

Cole’s grandmother’s mouth purses. “How curious.”

In spite of my bravado, my face flushes. I hate being judged for things I had no control over. The buzzing in my ears increases and I give everyone a vague smile. What
is
that?

I turn to his mother, who is glancing from me to her mother-in-law with the horrified look of someone who’s found herself in a drama not of her making. I take pity.

“What a lovely tea, Muriel,” I tell her even though my head feels so fuzzy, I can barely swallow a bite.

“Thank you, dear. Cole tells me you’re going on tour soon?”

“Merciful heavens,” his grandmother murmurs.

Everyone ignores her. The buzzing in my ears is like a symphony of honeybees getting ready to take flight, and everything tastes like paper. Desperately, I take a swallow of tea, only to burn my tongue. I shake my head to clear it and Cole gives me an odd look. “Yes, we’ll be gone for three weeks and giving ten performances. This is a minirun to work the kinks out of the show.”

“Where are you going?” Muriel asks.

His grandmother snorts to let us know exactly where she thinks I’m going.

My mind is curiously blank and I look at Cole in near panic. I don’t want to get sick in front of his mother and grandmother. I suddenly feel his presence, comforting me, and the answer pops into my mind. “Budapest, Warsaw, and Prague are the big cities, and I think there are a couple of smaller venues, as well. We’ll be doing several shows at each, tweaking our performances until we get them just right. Then we’ll come back here for a couple of weeks before we go to France.”

“How exciting!” Muriel says.

It
is
exciting. Entertaining people with my magic—feeling their excitement, watching their amazement—is what I love doing best in the world. So why don’t I feel more excited? Perhaps because I’m sitting with people who believe that performers are one small step above Gypsies and thieves.

Even though the buzzing has abated, my head still feels as if I’m trying to think through a bowl of aspic. Cole senses that something is amiss and shifts the conversation to the university and what he’ll be studying.

“I don’t understand why you want to be a detective,” his grandmother sniffs. “Why waste a fine legal education on that when you can go into the civil service like your father? That’s what I would like to know. Being a detective is so common.”

Cole and his mother continue talking as if they hadn’t heard and the rest of the tea goes just like that. His grandmother throws in comments so spiteful that I want to blow up at her, while the other two both behave as if it’s normal. Perhaps it is, but by the time we finish our tea, my temples are throbbing and I’m more than ready to leave.

Cole’s mother is effusive in her good-byes, no doubt trying to make up for her mother-in-law’s poor behavior. His grandmother picks up a book and begins reading to avoid saying good-bye to me, so I leave it be and hurry out the door.

As we walk back to the motorcar Cole says, “They liked you.”

I stop, a surprised laugh escaping before I can choke it back. “Cole, that was
awful
!”

He smiles. “Oh come on. It wasn’t that bad. My grandmother can be a bit gruff, but . . .”

“You’re joking, right? She was absolutely nasty to me.”

He opens the door for me and then shuts it. Hard.

He can’t be serious.

“Were we even in the same room?” I wonder when he climbs in.

“I think you’re overreacting just a bit. She’s basically harmless . . .”

“She’s as harmless as a piranha. What about the things she was saying to you?”

“What things? Oh, you mean about being a detective? That’s just the way she is. She’s had a harder life than you would think. My grandfather died when my father was very young and she raised the children by herself. She was devastated when my father died in the war.”

I press my forehead against the cold window. Yes, it must have been so hard raising three children by herself in that rich house with all those servants.

He places his hand on my shoulder and I turn my head to look at him. “My grandmother will warm up to you, and my mother already loves you. I can tell.”

He gives me such a reassuring smile that I can’t help but smile back. He starts the car and pulls away from the curb and I study his strong profile in the waning light. His Homburg is tilted ever so slightly on his head and the sharp clever planes of his face are filled with character. But in reality he was raised by nannies and tutors and in boarding school and privilege. Yes, he lost his father and was stranded deep within enemy territory while at school during the Great War, but as horrible as that was, he has never gone without food or shelter. I’ve done without both. Right now, the chasm between us feels insurmountable.

The next morning, I pull out the slip of paper Calypso gave me the day of our outing and telephone her at her boardinghouse. Luckily, she’s free and we arrange to meet after my rehearsal. I don’t want to spend the day alone, worrying about the stiffness that seems to have sprung up between Cole and me. I already spent a fitful night worrying about the strange episode I had at his house, which he neglected to ask me about. Then I lay in bed and worried why he hadn’t asked me about it. He knew something was wrong. Had I offended him, speaking that way about his grandmother? Then I worried about that, too. There seemed to be no end of the things to worry about, so I decided some lighthearted fun with a friend is just what I need.

Anything is better than moping about the hotel waiting for Cole to get in touch with me.