Before the filming of our picture began, I attended another meeting in Normandy’s office. I arrived first and listened as he and Rosenberg spoke cheerfully about the returns of Nora’s latest film. Ashley Tyler entered next, looking impeccable in his white pants and blue sport coat. He was followed by Charles Laughlin, the slightly sickly young man who would play the deceptive German, and Arthur Bowen, the thick-necked actor cast as the navy captain. Then came John Wellington, the dignified older actor who would play Nora’s father, the army general. Finally, Harriet Cole burst into the room, fifteen minutes late, followed almost reluctantly by Nora. Mrs. Cole was wearing an emerald-green jacket and dress and a rather severe black hat. She glared at Rosenberg and then at an empty chair that was pushed against the wall, until he understood that she wanted it placed in front of Normandy’s desk. He moved it, she sat, and then she stared at Normandy and Tyler as if to indicate that the meeting could now begin.
It had been several months since I’d met Nora in the courtyard, and while I had since caught glimpses of her around the studio, I hadn’t spoken to her at all. She appeared thin and slightly tired—still girlish, but some of the softness was gone from her face and middle—and there was the same lack of interest in the happenings around her, the same dreaminess I’d seen the day we met. She settled in a chair in the back of the room and conspicuously avoided looking at her mother.
Given the way my first encounter with Mrs. Cole had unfolded, I had not looked forward to seeing her again. But she kept strictly to the business at hand. She discussed the script in a professional manner, commenting here and there about a particular plot turn, questioning Tyler about his vision of especially crucial scenes. Although she refrained from saying anything explicitly negative, it was my impression, judging from her expression of distaste, that Mrs. Cole was not particularly enthused about the prospect of her daughter starring opposite me, and it was clear she had misgivings about working with the producer who was responsible for Sleight of Hand. Mrs. Cole was, I believe, in somewhat of a bind—pleased by the success of Normandy’s films, which guaranteed attention for the current one; and afraid that some of the elements that had contributed to their popularity would carry over into his current project. She wanted assurances that there was no hint of romance between my character and Nora’s, and Tyler promised her that this was not the case. There was, in fact, a male romantic figure in the film—the somewhat roguish Arthur Bowen, who played the captain of the American warship—and Mrs. Cole accepted this news without comment. She then asked—as she apparently did at the commencement of every project—if she would have access to the filming.
Tyler replied firmly, “No, Mrs. Cole. I always keep a closed set.” Then he softened. “You may, however, view some of the rushes.”
“All right, I won’t argue with that, but there are certain rules I still expect you to follow.” Her daughter would never be alone with any man, she said—not me, not Bowen, not Tyler, not even the costume people. She seemed to see the entire male population of Hollywood as a group of predators, and her near-obsessive protection of her daughter’s honor aroused my sympathy for the girl.
As the meeting progressed, Nora sat in the back corner staring out the window like a child who had accompanied her busy mother on an errand that had nothing to do with her. When she did turn back to face the room, it wasn’t to engage in the discussion, but rather to watch Ashley Tyler, whose commanding manner captured even her fleeting attention.
When the filming began for The Noble Servant two weeks later, I found—as both Tyler and Normandy had assured me—that Nora was a pleasure to work with. She was always on time, always pleasant and prepared, and not given to the fits of hysteria or pique that afflicted so many other young actresses. More importantly to me, she was serious about her work. The melancholy I’d sensed from our very first meeting infused her portrayal of the sad and complex Sarah Davidson, and she was able to convey her character’s emotions at being ignored by her father with subtlety and power.
In spite of her mother’s worries—and the clear intentions of Arthur Bowen, who was famous for his exploits with young girls—there was nothing between Nora and any of the actors. Indeed, despite her earlier attentions to me in the courtyard, I appeared to be invisible to Nora. It quickly became apparent that the only man she saw was our director, Ashley Tyler.
I noticed her affection almost immediately. On the first day of rehearsal, as he moved about the set and shouted directions, I saw Nora looking at him with the unmistakable bliss of romantic adoration. One couldn’t blame her. Tyler was, after all, a handsome man, and the sight of him with his sleeves rolled up was the very image of masculine vitality. His accent helped also—I’d heard many women comment on how appealing it was—and the brilliance of his films was undeniable. But perhaps the director’s most agreeable
