“Me?” How did Hilda always catch her by surprise? It made her feel like part of her was sleeping, when in fact she was sure she was buoyantly awake.
“I’m attending Lady Astor’s salon, and if you’re free, I was hoping you might join me. It’s not just for fun,” Hilda clarified. “Scads of important people will be there. Actors, too, I believe, and so Miss Warwick will likely attend. It’s a good opportunity to woo potential broadcasters.”
“Why would they need wooing? Broadcasting pays.” Maisie was dumbfounded. She’d never heard of an actor to turn down work, money, or food.
“You’d be surprised how often that isn’t enough,” Hilda told her. “Remember, radio’s still not wholly reckoned as a force for good. It might ‘taint a career.’” She couldn’t say that without laughing. “In any case, I’d be glad for your help. As it’s work, I’ll of course give you extra pay. And she serves a lovely buffet supper.”
Extra pay? Had Hilda heard of the docked shilling? It almost didn’t matter, as the enticement of Lady Astor needed little sweetening. Only . . . Maisie looked down at herself. Same old brown frock, same mended stockings. Same face, same hair, same her. She glanced at the carriage clock. Phyllida had left, so there was no borrowing lipstick.
Oh well. No one will look at me, even if I’m not wearing Invisible Girl.
She plucked a fresh steno pad from the stash and they were off.
Lady Astor’s house in St. James’s Square was a jungle of tassels and ornaments and Baroque art. All this, for a house she lived in only when Parliament was in session. Or for “the season,” Maisie reminded herself, hearing Phyllida’s snort.
The place teemed with sequins and feathers and glitter and gloss. True to form, it was the actors who were the most showily dressed. Those born wealthy had a studied ease to their glamour. The intellectuals had given themselves a dusting and the artists competed to see who could be the most avant-garde.
“Ah, Miss Matheson, marvelous!” rang a commanding voice. Lady Astor: a masterful confection of cut cheekbones and arched brows, hair twisted elegantly at her neck, pearls and eyes equally black and sparkling.
“Lady Astor! Wonderful to see you. May I present my secretary, Miss Musgrave?”
Lady Astor extended a gloved hand. Maisie felt all the breath leave her body as she took it. Lady Astor had the sort of grip that could pick you up and pitch you like a horseshoe.
“How d’ye do, Miss Musgrave?” Her voice was patrician English, but with the slightest twang reminiscent of her Virginia upbringing.
“I . . . I . . . It’s such an honor. I’m so pleased to meet you. Milady!” she amended, relieved the room was dim enough to hide her blush.
Lady Astor’s smile was warm, but Maisie could see how just a twitch in her lips could turn it into a hatchet. She should have been an aristocrat back when they had had the power to order death sentences. No one would have ever crossed her.
“No need for any ‘milady’ nonsense. We’re both born-and-bred Americans.”
“Beg pardon, Lady Astor, but Miss Musgrave was born in Canada,” Hilda interjected.
“Ah, yes. A Canadian and a New Yorker, too—isn’t that right? Confusin’ bit of backstory, Miss Musgrave, and good for you, I say. Always keep ’em guessin’. Don’t you agree, Miss Matheson?” She turned to Hilda, with the expectant air of one who is rarely contradicted.
“Most certainly,” Hilda obliged. Maisie would have agreed as well, but she wasn’t asked.
“Now, then,” Lady Astor commanded. “Come along and let me present you to some interestin’ people. Might be good for your BBC, I think.”
Maisie tagged along at a safe distance, discreetly taking notes as Lady Astor introduced Hilda to some of the throng with the air of a matron chaperoning a debutante—a titan in publishing, a magazine editor who eyed Hilda with suspicion, and the artist Laura Knight, whom even Maisie knew was famous for her Self-Portrait with Nude. “I knew I’d done well when the Telegraph called me vulgar,” she said.
Eventually Hilda whispered to Maisie to get some food, and she didn’t need urging. She gathered a treasure trove of salmon mousse and stuffed mushrooms and retreated to a corner, perfect for watching Hilda chat with each person in turn, that curious manner just enough on the edge of self-deprecation to make them feel how much of a favor they would be granting were they to come broadcast.
“Oughtn’t you to be at her side?” A voice sounded suddenly, making Maisie jump. Her accoster looked a lot like Josephine Baker, only with darker skin and a more cynical eye.
“I’m observing,” Maisie explained. “And she said I should eat something.”
“You’re American,” the woman said, her enormous brown eyes glistening with interest. “I am, too. New Orleans,” she clarified proudly. “Wisteria Mitterand.” She held out her hand.
“Jeepers, that’s a gorgeous name!”
“I’m glad you like it. I tweaked it for effect,” Miss Mitterand said, with a wink.