The Actress and the Aristocrat by Katie Ashley

 

Chapter One: Charlotte/Charlie

If you happened to poll most up and coming actors or actresses, many would tell you there isn’t anything they wouldn’t do for their big break. Okay, maybe that isn’t entirely true. Let’s say anything that might land you in an unflattering orange jumpsuit behind bars was definitely out of the picture. Or any film that might be screened on Pornhub, rather than Netflix, was out too. Well, at least it was for me. I might not be opposed to a nude scene or two with strategic angles, but anything hardcore just wasn’t happening.

It should go without saying that the road to stardom sure isn’t easy. It’s paved with broken dreams and lots of blood, sweat, and tears, and I mean that literally and figuratively. Now that I’d potentially gotten my career-making role there wasn’t anything I wasn’t willing to do to keep it. That was precisely why I was currently in the sweat and potential tears aspect of the road to stardom because I was allowing myself to be tightened into the equivalent of a medieval torture device.

I’ve learned there is a true hell on earth that few twenty-first century women have had to endure, and that is an old-school corset. Sure, there might be a small subgroup who have donned one in anticipation of some sexy time, but it’s not like the torture device stays on long…at least I hope for their sake and their internal organs’ sake it doesn’t. I thought underwire bras were heinous. I mean, they’re an epic pain in the ass as well, or I guess I should say pain in the tit. You count on them to keep your girls corralled, and then some errant stave pops out of line and stabs you for no apparent reason.

Underwire bras just wrap themselves around your breasts and back. But this dreaded artifact digs itself into your ribs and waist. It leaves you breathless while also shoving your boobs under your chin, which forms a perfect chitit or chin tit.

“Oomph,” I muttered as the principal dresser jerked the threads of my corset tighter, cinching my waist further. Yes, my corset. The torturous device I’d wear for twelve to fifteen hours.

Leaning over my shoulder, she asked, “Too much?”

While my ribs screamed in protest, I wheezed, “Maybe a little.”

“No problem. I’ll loosen them a bit.”

Since I didn’t want to be perceived as a diva, I quickly replied, “Oh no, I don’t want to be a pain. I just need to toughen up and get used to it.” I’m not sure how convincing I sounded since I sounded like I’d just run a marathon.

With a smile, she shook her head. “While they’re not supposed to be overly comfortable, they’re not supposed to be overly painful either. After all, we can’t have you passing out or unable to say your lines.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Groaning, I added, “I can’t imagine how absolutely horrifying it would be to face-plant on my first day of filming.”

The dresser, whose name was Marjorie, laughed. “Now that would be a memorable first impression.”

Once she adjusted the strings a bit, I exhaled a relieved breath. “It’s been a couple of years since I’ve been in one of these medieval torture devices.”

“I thought this was your first time shooting in England?” Marjorie asked.

“Oh, it is. This was for a made-for-television movie that we filmed in Canada.” I couldn’t help wrinkling my nose at the thought of some of my earlier work. While I might have twenty-plus titles on my Internet Movie Database page, they were predominantly supporting roles. I’d done everything from a literal snack for some zombies on a popular post-apocalyptic show to being a demon who got staked by two very handsome supernatural slayers.

Then I’d found a niche as the quirky best friend. After that, I segued into a few leading roles in made for TV movies à la Lifetime and Hallmark. Like the bridesmaid who is never the bride, I waited patiently for my prince, aka the perfect role, to come along. And two months ago, it finally did.

Ankle-deep in various animals’ excrement wasn’t exactly how I pictured the moment that would change the trajectory of my career and subsequently my life, but when you go back home to help out on your parents’ cattle farm, that type of shit happens.

“Ready for the dress?” Marjorie questioned, sweeping me out of my thoughts

Getting into costume always helped transform me into my role. In this case, I embodied an aristocratic young woman at the turn of the century who was attending a dinner party. Back in the day, said dinner parties meant a full regalia of intricately beaded dresses, glittering jewels, and elbow-length white gloves. I don’t know why donning the duds made it all so real. Somehow, I was just Charlie Monroe when I was in my street clothes or my robe. But once I was strapped into the corset and I slipped on an evening dress, I became Lady Rowena Avondale.

Tilting my head at my reflection in the mirror, I said, “Lord Winthrop, you do flatter me with your proposal.” When I’d first read the script, I’d worried if I could pull off a British accent well enough, especially one of the upper class. The fact I’d grown up in the backwoods was somewhat problematic when I first started acting, and I’d worked hard to lose my accent. Like my fellow Georgia peach, Julia Roberts, I’d ended up with a very neutral accent.

My secret? I’d ended up spending hours listening to recordings of the modern British royals, especially Queen Elizabeth and Princess Margaret. It wasn’t just their pronunciation I emulated, but it was also their delivery.

When a knock came at the door of the wardrobe trailer, I once again found it hard to breathe. This time it wasn’t from the corset but from my nerves about being called to the set. After opening the door, I found it wasn’t one of our AD’s in their headset preparing to deliver me to the scene. Instead, a very dignified older woman stood before me.

“Ms. Monroe?” she questioned.

“Yes.”

A smile curved on the older woman’s lips as she extended her hand out to me. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m Maude Newbury—Randall Whittingham’s personal secretary.”

As she extended her hand, I shook it. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“I apologize I wasn’t able to meet you all earlier this week when you began rehearsals. I assume Mrs. Shaw took care of you.”

Mrs. Shaw was the housekeeper of Sutherlin House. She’d already garnered a nickname with the crew as the “Silver General” because of the ferocity with which she barked out warnings of what rooms were restricted and what furniture was absolutely off limits. Biting my lip to hide my smile, I replied, “Yes. She did.”

“His lordship has just come back from London, and he’s extending private audiences to the cast leads.”

I glanced over at Marjorie. Did I want a private audience? All of this was so new to me. While I wasn’t the only American in the cast, my lack of knowledge of aristocratic social norms had me on edge. I certainly didn’t want to do the wrong thing and insult the lord of the manor. There was also the fact I imagined I’d be called to set at any moment, and I didn’t want to piss off my director either. “I believe Peter met him earlier this morning,” she replied.

Peter Dewsbury was a household name in the UK. He was playing my father who was a duke. “Then sure. Why not?”

Maude nodded. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to his personal office.”

“Marjorie, should the AD come with my call time, can you let them know where I’m at?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks.”

As I started out of the trailer, I reached for the hem of the dress. Like many of the period dresses, I, or one of the dressers, had to hold the hem to keep from stepping on it. Maude and my shoes crunched along the gravel as we made our way into the main house. Although I’d been inside several times for rehearsals, I never ceased being amazed at its beauty. You didn’t see many houses like this back in the States. Sutherlin House had been built in the 16^th century. It had been passed down from first son to first son for the last five hundred years. During the war, it narrowly missed being destroyed during the Blitz. Instead, the Nazi’s took out some guest cottages and a stable.

Turning to Maude, I said, “It’s my understanding that the house hasn’t been open to the public very long.”

A sour expression came over Maude’s face. “No. The tours only started six months ago. We’re still getting acclimated to having the house open to strangers.”

“I can imagine that might be a little unsettling.”

“It is. His lordship isn’t a fan of crowds.”

My mind went to the scowling expression I’d seen of Randall Whittingham’s face as his eyes narrowed under the flashing bulbs of the paparazzi. “Then it really is a great honor that we’re allowed to do principal shooting here,” I remarked.

“Truly, it is.”

Before we could start around the mammoth circular staircase, a woman about my age with curly red hair and bright green eyes came running up with a cellphone in her hand. “Excuse me, Maude, but you have an urgent call.”

Giving me an apologetic look, Maude said, “Please excuse me for just a moment.”

“No problem.”

When we were alone, the woman flashed me a smile. “You must be the lead in the production.”

“I am. I’m playing Lady Rowena.”

Tilting her chin at me, she said, “So they cast a yank in the main role, eh?”

With a laugh, I replied, “Quite cheeky of them, I suppose.”

She grinned as she extended her hand. “Hi, I’m Elspeth. I’m Maude’s assistant.”

My brows rose. “So, you’re the assistant to an assistant?”

She grinned. “I suppose you could say that.”

“You guys sound a lot like Hollywood. There’s always someone running around for someone else.”

“I would love to see LA one day. I’ve never been out of England.”

“I know how you feel. This is my first time overseas.”

“Are you homesick?”

“For Hollywood?” At Elspeth’s nod, I shook my head. “While I have to admit LA is pretty amazing, I’m not much for big city life.”

“Seriously? I adore when his lordship is in London. Speaking of, have you met the Earl yet?”

“No. He was away during our rehearsals.”

Elspeth fanned herself. “He’s positively peng.”

“He’s what?”

She giggled. “It means he’s seriously hot.”

“I got ya.” From the pictures I’d seen of him on the Internet, I had to agree about his hotness. In actuality, Randall Whittingham was more classic Clooney than action-star Hemsworth. Sure, he was extremely well built, but he exuded an old-school glamour like the Hollywood megastars of the past I’d been raised on such as Clark Gable and Cary Grant. “I think I remember hearing he’s divorced?”

“Thank God.” A disgusted look came over her face. “He was seriously married to the Wicked Witch of West.” From what I’d read in some of the British tabloids, it had been far from an amicable divorce. As if it could be anything else though.

“She didn’t look very nice in the pictures I saw,” I admitted. While there was no denying Lydia Halsey was beautiful with her long chestnut hair and hazel eyes, every pictures I saw of her she wore the same snooty expression. “As we say in the States, she has one of those resting bitch faces.”

After glancing left and right, Elspeth said, “He was seriously besotted with her—so much so he refused to have her sign the part of a pre-nup that allocated if she cheated on him, she got nothing. Then he catches her shagging his best friend.”

Even someone like me who came from a family where there was no need for prenups couldn’t help wincing. “Now that’s painful.”

With an angry shake of her head, Elspeth said, “So she took him for everything, which meant he had to open up the house to tours.”

“And film crews.” As someone who had been cheated on more than once, my heart went out to Earl Whittingham. It had to suck that not only did he have to experience the breakup of his marriage, but it had changed his entire world while in front of the whole world.

“Unfortunately, yes. The Earl is a very private man. It completely mortifies him that strangers are traipsing around his family’s ancestral home.”

Maude reappeared ending our conversation. “My apologies.”

“It was no problem. Elspeth and I were just getting to know each other.”

“I’m glad.” Gesturing with her hand, Maude added, “Shall we?”

“Nice meeting you,” I said to Elspeth.

“And you.” With a wink, she added, “Knock ’em dead, Yank!”

I laughed. “Will do.”

After making our way around the staircase, Maude escorted me down a hallway that was blocked off by the type of velvet roping you might see at a club. I’d seen several of them posted around the house with warning signs that read Off Limits to Cast and Crew.

When Maude knocked on the door, a deep, rumbling voice called, “Yes?”

“It’s Maude, sir.”

“Come in.”

Maude stepped in the room first, and I followed close on her heels. At the sight of the impossibly good-looking man sitting behind a desk, a swoony sigh escaped my lips. While it was a total cliché, the pictures I’d seen didn’t do him justice. His tailored suit stretched against his broad shoulders. His dark hair had that tousled look that made my fingers itch to run themselves through the strands. His piercing blue eyes seared through me.

While I might’ve been staring at the Earl like he was a snack, his surly expression told me he didn’t return the thought. Inwardly, I groaned at my asinine response to his mere presence.

“May I present Earl Whittingham and Lord Whittingham. This is Charlotte Monroe,” Maude stated.

“Charlie,” I corrected good-naturedly.

It was only then that I noticed another man in the room. He popped out of his chair in the corner and strode over to meet Maude and me. He was slightly shorter than the imposing man behind the desk, and his blue eyes weren’t so piercing. However, he did have the same dark hair. With a mischievous wink, he extended his hand. “Buggar all the formality. I’m Rob.”

Shaking his hand, I replied, “It’s nice to meet you, Rob.”

Extending his arm, he said, “And the constipated-looking bloke is my brother, Rand,” he teased.

“Honestly,” the Earl grumbled as he swiveled in his red-leather chair.

While biting my lip to keep from laughing, I shifted my attention to the Earl. I took a step forward to close the gap between myself and desk. “It’s a pleasure meeting you, your grace,” I gushed. Quickly, I dropped into a low curtsy. Besides my accent, I’d worked hard to nail the proper curtsy.

“You can’t be serious.”

Tilting my head up, I cowered slightly under his scowl. “E-Excuse me?”

“Did you do any preparation on the British aristocracy for this film?”

“Yes, my lord, I did.”

“Then why the bloody hell are you curtsying to me?”

Fuck.