Chapter 17
Chapter 17
Harding Hall, located between Thornbury and Bristol, occupied a renovated Edwardian mansion. A modern extension contained the dormitory and a clinic. Family interaction was encouraged—the staff strongly advocated for it. Residents neglected by relatives suffered frequent bouts of depression, unlike those receiving regular visits and cards and emails. Dan and his father and Sandra visited separately, and frequently. They were permitted to attend physical therapy sessions or medical examinations and could observe group activities. Brian’s chief carer let them know if he was having a difficult day.
When Dan presented his identification, required by protocol, the woman at the reception desk messaged the attendant to discover Brian’s location. Handing over a visitor badge, she said, “He had his tea outdoors this afternoon. Norman is taking him to the day room.”
He made his way along the corridor to the rear of the house and the former ballroom, where a wall of windows overlooked a broad terrace. Watching his sibling shuffle alongside Norman, Dan recalled the agonizing vigil in the hospital ward, when tubes and wires had connected the inert body to monitors and machines and bags of fluid. Brian had survived, and basic motor skills were partially restored, but loss of his mental acuity was hard to accept. Progress in rehabilitation didn’t equate with recovery. The chatty, cheeky kid who had climbed trees and trained jackdaws and alternately plagued or emulated his two older siblings had vanished. In his place was a young man with a vacant expression and partial deafness, who communicated through unintelligible sounds.
“Brian, here’s Dan.” Norman, a Bristolian of Caribbean descent, was the son of Windrush immigrants from Dominica, both of them longtime health service employees. “Let’s sit and tell him our news.”
Brian mumbled.
During these one-sided conversations, Dan always focused on his brother’s face while Norman made statements and answered questions. With amplified cheerfulness, he said, “Good news, I hope.”
“Brian will participate in our annual Games Day. He and Nerys have practiced ring toss. Next, they’ll work on catching and throwing a ball.”
“Dad and I will be here to cheer you on.” He tapped the photo icon on his mobile and selected a close-up bird photo. “Here’s Jack. I saw him this afternoon.”
Brian squinted at the image.
Swiping to a different picture, he said, “This is my friend. She fed him digestives, just like you used to. He sat on her hand. Isn’t she pretty? Her name is Ellie.”
Brian lurched back in his chair and gripped Norman’s wrist. When he babbled, Dan desperately wanted to believe he recognized the bird in the photo.
“Best get him to his room,” said Norman, his statement tinged with apology. “He’s tired. Lots of stimuli today.”
“Right. I’ll be back soon.” He reached over to grip Brian’s bony shoulder. “Good fellow.”
“If you’re able to come back tomorrow, we’re screening a film for our residents. Bank holiday treat, and families are invited. Sir Terry said he’ll join us.”
“Wish I could, but I’ll be on my way back to London.”
“Quite the challenge, choosing something interesting without scary scenes. You wouldn’t think it, but we have to carefully vet the animated ones as well.”
“Consider a screwball comedy from cinema’s golden age. Fun and lively. Visually appealing, although they’re mostly black and white. And you could check out the technicolor musicals from the Fifties or Sixties.”
“Thanks for the tip. If our crowd enjoy themselves, we’ll do it again when Summer Bank Holiday comes round in August.” With a wink, Norman added, “You could bring along that fine-looking lass whose picture’s in your mobile.”
“I just might,” he replied.
The wardrobe in Dan’s bedroom contained items more appropriate for rural activities, but he did locate a white dress shirt, dark coat, and a pair of quality trousers. When he went downstairs, he discovered his parent wearing a casual cashmere jumper and corduroys.
“It’s a country hotel,” his parent said defensively, “not the Savoy. The jacket and necktie are surplus to requirements.”
“Not for a castle. Besides, this is my sort-of first official date with Ellie. You’re our chaperone.”
The instant he pressed the Jaguar’s start button, it woke with a purr. He reversed and eased into the roadway.
“When you rang this morning and said your travel companion is a former dancer, my interest was piqued enough to investigate. I discovered that Ellie Lowery rose rather quickly through the ranks of a major New York company and performed with Ballet Bruxelles. All well and good. But for reasons beyond my comprehension, she chose to become Stella Nue. A stripper.”
“Burlesque artist.”
“I understand French. Nue means naked.”
“A misnomer,” Dan replied. “She didn’t take everything off.” Only once, just on top, in her final performance at the Archway.
“Very little was left to the imagination in images that popped up on my computer screen. You’re surely aware that the strict discipline performers apply to their art doesn’t often carry over into personal relationships. They lead erratic lives.”
“You’re very much mistaken if you believe Ellie is incapable of commitment. She was married.”
“Was?” The implication was clear.
Dan unclenched his teeth. “She’s not divorced. Her husband was killed when a drunk driver struck his car.”
In an altered tone, his father said, “How very sad.”
“Yes.” Dan, knowing hardly anything about Harry Colman, wondered whether Ellie would ever choose to reveal more.
“Unless they are extraordinarily gifted, ballet dancers don’t receive much in the way of salary. Removing her clothes in public venues and private clubs apparently provided her with a substantial income.”
“She didn’t switch professions to make money. Her father made a fortune in the restaurant business. She inherited her husband’s trust funds and other assets. Her worldwide tours always sold out, and she earns a great deal from product licensing.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“At the Ritz’s Rivoli Bar. Six, seven weeks ago. Lou and Kelly and I went there after seeing her show at the Archway Cabaret in Mayfair. When the curtain closed on her final performance, she ceased to be Stella Nue. She takes classes at a drama academy. You should ask her about it.”
During the journey from Tayer Court to the castle, Dan’s anticipation of a pleasurable evening dissipated. The marginally gracious welcome his father had extended towards Ellie had annoyed him. The prejudice he’d just expressed was infuriating.
He made a left turn at Castle Street. As he proceeded towards the hotel, he passed the stone church. It was distinctive for the finials and intricate tracery adorning its square and extraordinarily tall steeple, which appeared to scrape the dimming sky. Numerous family members, known and unknown, lay in the churchyard over the boundary wall. Oliver’s headstone was there, sited close to the more recent ones marking the resting places of their Wheeler grandparents. Distant ancestors were interred inside the church, under the floor. The more prominent or wealthier ones had been commemorated by brass or stone-carved memorials.
The Tudor-era castle was indelibly associated with Henry VIII, who had ordered its noble owner’s execution, and later stayed here with Queen Anne Boleyn during their royal progress through the West Country. The building was topped with ornate brick chimneys and its towers, stout or narrow, were adorned with crenellations.
Drinks first, he decided, as he and his father strolled through the courtyard to the entrance. That’ll loosen him up.
Ellie was chatting with the young woman at the reception desk. A silk scarf held back her auburn hair, exposing the small hoop earrings that she frequently wore, and a rectangular onyx pendant hung from the gold chain around her neck. The flowing paisley blouse over her simple black dress was left unbuttoned. Dan appreciated her understated glamor and hoped his father did as well.
During his younger years, he’d occasionally experienced an infatuation. He could tell the difference between that and the overwhelming, all-consuming emotion Ellie stirred in him. It began as a superficial response to her outward attributes—beauty, desirability. But it had progressed from growing awareness of her intelligence and perceptiveness and tenacity. He appreciated her sense of humor. And, as he’d discovered beneath the stars, she was an exceptional kisser.
She greeted his father before asking him, “How was your visit with your brother?”
“Brief. Is your room satisfactory?”
“Positively regal. A tower suite, named for a Queen of England. It was vacated by a couple who had their wedding here yesterday. The ceiling paint is twenty-four carat gold. The furniture has blue velvet upholstery. Stone walls. Two fireplaces. The bathroom overlooks a big church.”
“Our family has attended services at St. Mary’s for several centuries,” his father told her.
“The bed is the largest fourposter in any British hotel. It has a canopy and curtains.”
This information conjured an intriguing scenario that Dan struggled to suppress. “We’ve half an hour before the time of our booking. Shall we order a round of drinks?”
He held Ellie’s hand on their way to the vast lounge stuffed with reproduction period furniture covered in tapestry or tartan. Wood paneling ran halfway up the walls, and intricate white plasterwork extended to the ceiling. Beyond the fireplace was a secluded seating area, overlooked by a painting of Henry the VIII with a favorite wife, surrounded by his children and retinue. A waiter speedily arrived to take their orders. To fill the silence, Dan embarked on an uninspired summary of the castle’s history. His store of facts ran out by the time they received their libations.
Seeking a way to erase his parent’s biases, he said, “Ellie takes daily class at British Ballet Theatre.”
Dad looked up from contemplation of his gin and tonic. “How did you arrange that?”
She replied, “Rafe Lawrence, their artistic director, was the danseur who partnered me most often, in New York and Brussels and elsewhere in Europe. Dan says you’re a ballet patron.”
“My mother’s influence. In her youth, she trained at a school in Bristol, inspired by ballerina Alicia Markova. When I was a lad, we regularly took the train to London to attend performances.”
“You saw Markova dance?”
For the first time, Dad produced a genuine smile. “I’m not quite that old. But I did sometimes encounter her after she retired. Mother served with Dame Alicia on a ballet academy board, and occasionally I escorted her to graduation performances and galas.”
“My mom danced professionally before becoming a teacher. There wouldn’t have been a Margot Fonteyn, she told me, without Alicia Markova. Before my performances, she always quoted Markova’s comment about her relationship with the audience. ‘I don’t reach out to them. I draw them in to me.’ At the time, I felt her attitude was insensitive. Ungrateful.”
“How do you mean?”
“She didn’t seem to value the people—like your mother—who adored her. But after I was promoted to soloist and could better connect with the audience, I recognized the truth of her words. Ballet lovers want to be enthralled and awed. Drawn in, as she said. Not merely by talent, but by charisma. People attend burlesque shows for the same reason.”
Her eloquence had charmed Dan, until she jarred him with a statement certain to revive his father’s disdain. He quickly suggested that they move to the dining room. Tudor roses were woven into the octagon blood-red carpet, and images of Henry the VIII and lesser personages gazed down from the walls. He followed Dad’s example and ordered the three-course offering. After intense study of the á la carte selections, Ellie requested crab ravioli. After hearing a description of the gariguette, a molded dessert of strawberries in various forms, she decided to try it.
Resuming their discussion of dance, Dad asked her, “By what method were you trained? I’ve heard that during the Cold War, the Russian style lost its popularity in your country.”
“My mother and aunt are from Montreal, and the Cecchetti method is dominant in Canada. Because Birchmont Academy’s most proficient pupils typically move on to a Royal Academy affiliate in Boston, they are prepared for that curriculum and exam process. At Ballet Bruxelles, I encountered a mix. Some of my colleagues had studied at St. Petersburg’s Vaganova Academy. Or in London. Mireille Charpentier began at the Paris Opéra. But as a répétiteur and coach at City International, she absorbed an American flavor.”
Ellie turned her head towards Dan. “Poor you, sitting through all this ballet chatter.”
“He’s accustomed,” his dad acknowledged.
Encouraged by their apparent bonding over his dad’s favorite subject, Dan relaxed enough to enjoy his wine and his meal. It was presented with flair, artistically arranged on bespoke dishes rimmed in green and gold and stamped with coronets. Ellie insisted on sharing her strawberry dessert.
After they left the resturant, she accompanied them as far as the inner courtyard. Pendant lamps illuminated the doorways, the fountain’s cascading waters glowed, and bollards topped with bright bulbs were positioned along the intersecting pathways.
Dan offered his fob to his father and hooked his arm through Ellie’s. “I’ll be a moment. Don’t leave without me.”
But if you did, he thought, I wouldn’t mind.
Since hearing Ellie’s description of her giant fourposter bed, he’d imagined spending the night there with her. Pulling her close, he said, “I can drive Dad home and come back. If you like.”
“I would. He wouldn’t.” Her hand dipped into the pocket of her dress. “Here,” she said, handing over an old-fashioned metal key. “I’ll get another from reception. Message me in the morning when you’re ready to leave Tayer Court. You can find me by following signs for the queen’s tower suite. It’s at the top of a spiral staircase.”
His finger traced her jawline. “You’re inviting me to breakfast?”
“No room service before noon. I had something else in mind.”
“Oh.” He kissed her. “It’s all right if I return rather early?”
She sighed against his chest. “Extremely all right.”