Harry’s two-week engagement at the Hippodrome turned into two months. He had thoroughly entertained Superintendent Melville with both his brazenness and his skill, and even though he would not reveal how his tricks were done, Melville had done him a favor and brought in the papers. A London Times reporter was present when Harry broke out of a concrete cell in Scotland Yard in under fifteen minutes, and the paper published the story as an advertisement for his nightly acts. People flooded the theater, bringing with them a dozen handcuffs and restraints, all of which Harry was able to extract himself from. Bess wore her usual white dress and black tights and retrieved the cuffs from the audience members, then brought them to Harry onstage. In the afternoons, while Harry was readying his new tricks to show her, she walked through the London streets, looking in shop windows. She purchased a fancy crimson-covered sketchbook in a department store, and then spent the hours on park benches, drawing. She wanted to remember these days, the small moments you see only when sitting still for a long time—the women in gossamer dresses floating like spirits over the grass, and the lonely carriage drivers who brushed their horses’ manes with the tenderness of parents. When she came home, Harry would be fast asleep on the bed. Only half awakening at the sound of the door opening, he would reach out his arms and pull her down with him, and they would nap together until it was time to get up and dress.
A week before they were scheduled to perform in Budapest, Bess convinced Harry to walk with her after lunch. He was too pale, she said. It wasn’t healthy. It was cool out, and the sky was glass blue, and she simply had to leave the dark little room in the actors’ boardinghouse they had been sharing for weeks. They walked across the park and onto Regent Street, which had some of the most fashionable shopping. The windows were dressed with rope portieres and displayed everything from silver hatpins and porcelain jars of cold cream to glass table lamps.
“The buildings are all so much older than in New York,” Bess said. But Harry didn’t answer. He was looking up at them with a furrowed brow, and she knew he was thinking of some kind of new trick. “Harry, no—”
“What about bridge jumping?” he mused. “Do you think I could escape the cuffs underwater?”
Bess looked at him, aghast. “Don’t you dare.”
He shrugged. “I’ll think it over.”
“Harry, don’t. I’m serious.” She tried to change the subject. “Look at that.” She pointed to a beaded black ball gown with an enormously ballooned bottom, dressing a mannequin in a store window. It was lined with white lace at the cuffs, and exposed the shoulders. “It’s exquisite.”
Harry looked at her with a twinkle in his eye. “You should try it on.”
“That’s ridiculous. We can’t afford to buy something like that. It wouldn’t be decent to go in there and pretend we can afford it.”
But Harry was already striding ahead of her, into the shop. “We’re Americans,” he was saying. “I heard there are so many American heiresses here, looking to marry into titles, that everyone assumes all Americans are rich.”
Inside, they learned that the dress was not available for sale. It had been designed for Queen Victoria, the shop owner explained, but her son had recently become ill, and she had cancelled the purchase.
“I’d like to buy it, then,” Harry said.
The shop owner raised his eyebrows. “One does not sell Her Majesty’s relics, sir.”
“How much would it cost if it did not belong to the Queen?”
He thought about it. “Probably fifty pounds. But it’s not for sale.”
Bess pulled Harry aside. “You most certainly cannot buy me that dress,” she whispered. “You’re getting carried away. We’re not royalty, and we don’t have the money.”
Harry pressed his hands into hers. “Bess, look at it. It’s just my mother’s size, don’t you think? I’m going to buy it for her.”
Bess stepped backward. “Oh,” she stammered.
“It’s too large for you,” he said. “You’re such a tiny thing.”
She nodded mutely. Harry pulled away and turned to the shopkeeper.
“I’d like to purchase this for my mother,” he explained. “She grew up very poor, and I’d like her to have a dress made for a queen. I’ll pay you fifty pounds for it.”
The shopkeeper shook his head. “I told you, the dress is not for sale.”
Harry pulled a bill out of his wallet and waved it at the man. “You’re telling me I am standing here as a paying customer and you are refusing to take my money?”
“I am sorry, sir.”
Bess put her hand on Harry’s arm. “Darling—”
Harry began to shout. “Well why the hell did you put it in your window then?”