“So change them,” said Thelma. She could feel a quiet sort of panic setting in—at Reggie’s diagnosis, and at Gloria’s quiet resignation. “It’s his health, Gloria, you can’t afford to take risks.”
“That’s why we extended our trip,” said Gloria. “Reggie agreed—a change of scenery, a few months away from the Newport crowd, they’re all as bad as he is. But you saw him last night, drinking and carrying on... He was coughing up blood the other day, Thelma. Blood.”
Thelma hesitated. “You’re sure?”
“He tried to pass it off as a nosebleed, but he’s a terrible liar. I don’t think he can do it, Thelma. I don’t think he’s taking this seriously at all. And me with my heart...” Gloria began to cry; she looked too small against the cushions of the daybed, too young to have such worries. “What will happen to Little Gloria if—if—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Thelma. She shifted from the armchair to the daybed, collecting Gloria into a hug. “Nothing’s going to happen. It won’t come to that.”
“Won’t it?” said Gloria. “Watch him at dinner, Thelma. Watch him, and you’ll understand why I worry I’ll be a widow by the time I turn twenty.”
* * *
“A daughter in the nobility—well, it would make up for Consuelo’s faults,” said Mamma. She had called on Thelma and Gloria as the maids served afternoon tea, sinking into Reggie’s armchair with a restless Little Gloria in her arms. The mere mention of Thelma and Gloria’s elder sister was enough to cast a shadow on her face: two years earlier, Consuelo had divorced a French count to marry a diplomat’s son.
“Mamma, I’ve met him once,” said Thelma.
“And look at the impression you made on him,” Mamma replied. “This is an opportunity—give him reasons to believe you would make a good wife. Read a newspaper—you’ll want him to think you’re worldly.”
Thelma took a madeleine from the tea tray, balancing it on the edge of her plate. “And would you like me to grow two inches as well, so that he can kiss me more easily?” she said. Beside her, Gloria hid her laugh behind a hasty cough.
“He’s tall?” Mamma replied. “Wear your sister’s highest heels.” Little Gloria squirmed free of her grasp and thumped across the room; for once, Mamma let her go. “When you ran off with that Converse fellow I thought you were ruined,” she said. “All I had worked for, wasted on that reprobate...” She trailed off and watched Little Gloria kneel to open the back of a splendid doll’s house. “When you divorced him, I was sure you’d never be accepted into society again. It’s why your father and I let you run off to California. Society has a looser sense of propriety there.”
Thelma’s face grew hot, and she lowered her plate with the uneaten madeleine to the table.
“Quite frankly, I’m astonished he’s showing an interest even after Reggie told him you were a divorcée,” said Mamma. She leaned back and settled her hands above the rise of her stomach. “And I’ll tell you this—another opportunity won’t come along easily. Wealthy men don’t look far for distractions. Think carefully about the advantages Lord Furness would give you.”
“Surely it’s not quite as dire as all that,” said Thelma, feigning bravado. She wished Gloria wasn’t in the room; she wished Kieslich wasn’t listening. “I can take care of myself—”
“Can you?” Mamma had taken to drawing her eyebrows on higher than they naturally sat; she would have looked ridiculous, if she wasn’t so unnervingly stern. “Your father and I have our differences, Thelma, but I know how expensive your divorce was for him. Do you expect to live on Gloria’s good will? Or are you planning to train as a secretary?”
Thelma looked down. She’d tried, in California—she’d made pictures, posed in magazines, turned up at all the right parties—but Hollywood hadn’t wanted her, not on her own terms. She could have stayed, she supposed, and found herself some elderly studio executive, following the path of a thousand young starlets into vanity projects that would never make it into theaters, filling the family coffers with cheaply set jewels from new-money admirers—and still Mamma would be there, telling her she’d failed.
“Well,” said Thelma, not bothering to hide the bitterness from her tone as she looked up. “We know Gloria and Reggie can’t support us both.”
She could feel Gloria staring at her but held Mamma’s gaze, waiting for the rebuke. Then Mamma sighed.
“No,” she said. “They can’t.”
Thelma couldn’t bring herself to respond.
“Think about Furness’s wealth. And his title—what that might do for you. You would be able to move to Europe permanently, and leave the stain of your divorce behind you.” She reached forward and took the madeleine from Thelma’s plate. “Think about that—then tell me a little effort wouldn’t be worth your time.”
Four
Thelma slid into the back of the motorcar, reaching up to ensure that her jeweled headpiece hadn’t gotten dislodged by the movement. Beside her, Gloria reached over and batted Thelma’s hand down.
“You’ll ruin it,” she said as the chauffeur pulled away from the curb. The expansive lights of Place Vendôme gave way to the narrower streets of Rue de la Paix, storefronts glittering as they passed. Ciro’s wasn’t far, but Thelma was glad they’d driven. It gave her a few moments to collect herself.
Thanks to Gloria’s intervention, Thelma was wearing an intricately patterned dress with a zigzag hemline that brushed the backs of her knees. She’d borrowed Gloria’s spectacular pearl necklace—a gift from Gloria’s mother-in-law, so long that, even though Thelma wound it twice around her neck, it still fell below her waist.
The motorcar turned onto Rue Daunou, the sidewalks closing in further as they rolled down the cobbled street. They stopped outside the brightest building, light spilling out of square windows and splashing onto the sign out front. Even within the confines of the motorcar, Thelma could hear the pulsing beat of an orchestra.
The chauffeur parked at the curb, and as Gloria stepped out she waved: Reggie was standing on the street corner.
“Came out for a breath of fresh air,” he said, taking a final puff from a blunt cigar. He had come to Ciro’s from a poker game at a nearby club; Thelma wondered how he’d done, but his expression betrayed neither victory nor defeat. In the yellow glow of the restaurant’s lights, Reggie looked sallow, his complexion the color of antiqued paper; but he grinned nonetheless, dropping his cigar stub onto the curb. “Furness is inside.”