Colorado Dawn (46 page)

Silas called down mental blessings on Matilda for being willing to serve with Beatrice. Then he noticed the tightness around Matilda’s mouth. She would bear with Beatrice if it meant bettering the lot of the orphans who had just taken up residence in the new Martin City Children’s Home, but she was well aware it would be an uphill battle.

“There is one last thing on the agenda.” Silas tapped together a folder of papers. “These questionnaires arrived from the home office this week. Each of the elders and deacons—not the deaconesses, I’m afraid—are asked to fill them out, seal them in the envelopes provided, and drop them in the mail by the end of the month. This is the first step in my performance review.”

He handed the folder over the railing to Jesse, who took a set of clipped pages and passed the folder back. “I won’t ever see these questionnaires, so you can feel free to be honest. In about six weeks, the district supervisor will arrive to interview the board and me and to sit in on at least one church service.” Silas’s heart beat faster. “I would appreciate your prayers for myself and for each other in this matter.”

The meeting finally adjourned, and he motioned for the Mackenzies to stay behind for a moment so he could thank them privately. But before he could, there was the Drabble gauntlet to run.

She pressed her fingers into his palm. “I’ll make sure Walter gets that paperwork filled out and sent in promptly. He has a tendency to let things like that wait until the last minute if I don’t prod him along. I have to say, you’re looking much too thin these days, Reverend Hamilton. You’re not ill, are you? You’re working too hard and not getting enough home cooking. I insist you share our evening meal tomorrow night. It won’t do for our pastor to be looking gaunt and overtired when the district supervisor visits.”

“I’d be delighted, Mrs. Drabble.” He accepted, glad for her sake his schedule was open. “Nothing is better than an excellent meal in congenial company. It’s nice of you to be concerned about my health.”

She beamed. “Actually, it was Alicia who brought it up. She’s so caring that way, always looking out for everyone else. Such a giving, compassionate girl. She’ll make a man a wonderful helpmeet, don’t you think?”

Pitfalls yawned everywhere around this woman. “A daughter to be proud of.”

More beaming, and a proprietary gleam in her eye that made his throat go dry. “Tomorrow at six. Don’t be late now.”

Jesse waited until she was out of earshot then chuckled. “You better be careful, or you’ll wake up one day and find you’ve Beatrice Drabble for a mother-in-law.”

Silas gave a shaky grin. “Perish the thought.” He held out his hand to Matilda. “Thank you for jumping in when you did. You’ll be rewarded in heaven.”

Jesse’s laugh boomed out. “It will have to be in heaven, because I doubt working with Beatrice here on earth will be rewarding.”

Though he echoed Jesse’s sentiment, his conscience knocked on his heart. “When I’m tempted to complain about awkward parishioners, God always reminds me He loves them as much as He loves me, and I have more than a few shortcomings of my own that need attention.”

“You’re right.” Jesse gave him a sheepish smile. “We’ve all got our faults. Although as far as Beatrice is concerned, though you might have some minor issues that need your attention, so far you’ve only one major flaw.”

“Being single?” He rubbed his palm on the back of his neck.

“There’s a quick way to fix the situation. If you get married, she won’t have anything to complain about.”

“Jesse”—Matilda tugged on his arm—“Silas shouldn’t get married just to stifle critics. When he meets the right girl, I’m sure he’ll be only too eager to wed. Until then, it’s his business. Sometimes you barge in where angels wouldn’t tiptoe.” An indulgent smile took the sting out of her chiding.

“Maybe, but the truth remains. If he wants to get Beatrice off his back, all he’s got to do is get married.”

B
y the third curtain call, with the audience appearing to have lost little steam, Willow knew they had a hit on their hands. The entire cast bowed again to uproarious applause, and though Francine would probably later remark on the behavior as vulgar, the men filling the cheaper seats stomped and whistled.

Philip gripped her hand so tightly her fingers tingled. She had to give him credit. He played his role as the masterful, brooding, mercurial Mr. Rochester with skill and flair. The consummate professional on stage. Too bad that professionalism disintegrated the moment he stepped into the wings.

The house lights brightened, bringing the audience into view for the first time. Though she had told herself not to be silly, she couldn’t help searching the sea of gas-lit faces for the one that had occupied her thoughts and even her dreams this week. Curtsying, waving, acknowledging their appreciation over and over, she looked for him. Her chest squeezed when she didn’t find him.

Stop it, Willow. Be patient. There’s such a crush in here, you probably couldn’t find your own sister in the crowd
.

This thought did make her smile, since Francine considered it her duty to make sure
everyone
saw her.

Clement leaped onto the stage carrying an armful of red roses. She kept her smile in place, familiar with this opening night ritual, but he didn’t stop in front of Francine, as was his custom. This time he breezed past and stopped before her. When he laid the flowers in her arms, the audience erupted again. “Congratulations, my dear. You are a sensation.”

Pleased, bemused, and surprised, she cradled the fragrant blossoms. She hoped her makeup hid the blush she knew colored her cheeks. “Thank you, Clement.”

He placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed her brow to more raucous applause. “You deserve every rose, every laud, every praise. I have never seen a more gifted performance.” He patted her hand. “Now, go get out of your costume and into a party dress. The reception will begin as soon as you arrive.”

The opening night gala. A ballroom festooned with streamers and hothouse flowers, a laden buffet table, and hundreds of guests. As she threaded her way back to the dressing room, weariness seeped through her and a faint pounding began behind her eyes. If tonight’s party followed the familiar pattern, it would be approaching dawn before she could be alone and sift through all the thoughts tumbling in her head.

“Help me with my dress.” Francine, always the last to leave the stage, marched into the dressing room. “Hurry up. We’re expected.”

Foolish of her to hope for some small word of praise or approbation for a good performance, and yet, the armor she’d grown around her heart where her sister was concerned proved to have a few vulnerable spots still. Francine had taken up where their mother had left off, and Willow saw no end to the criticisms and petty jealousies in sight.

“I must say, I enjoyed my role as Mrs. Fairfax more than I thought I would.” Francine dampened a cloth and removed the stage makeup from her face in wide swipes.

Willow said nothing. She unhooked the back of Francine’s costume and stepped away to see to changing her own clothes.

“Of course Clement had to present you with the flowers. He had no choice, since you were billed as the lead, but really, you’re going to have to work on your role. Wooden doesn’t begin to describe you. You could’ve been reading a menu rather than responding to the love of your life. Philip positively carried you through the proposal scene.”

Francine continued her sideways picking all through redressing her hair and reapplying her makeup. Willow could find it in her to pity her sister, so concerned with the outside shell and, nearing thirty, forever in pitched battle against her archenemy, time.

“Hurry up. We don’t want to keep people waiting. Help me with my gown.” Francine held her arms up so Willow could slip the silvery silk and lace evening gown over her head. The gaslight winked on the crystals sewn into the bodice.

“You look beautiful.” Willow straightened a few stray wisps of hair. “Are you going to wear the diamonds?”

“Of course.” Francine checked her reflection. “I wouldn’t be caught dead on opening night without my jewelry.” She opened her case and withdrew the necklace their mother had bequeathed to her. Securing it behind her neck, she dipped in again for several rings, bracelets, and a pair of teardrop earrings that caught the light.

Willow fastened her sister’s gown up the back and turned so Francine could help her with the removal of her own costume. Stepping into a white evening gown of chiffon over satin, she held her breath while Francine jerked at the buttons.

Please don’t tear the fabric
.

She finished, and Willow pulled the pins from her hair, letting the brown mass tumble out of the severe style necessary for her role as Jane. Brushing so quickly her hair crackled, she then pinned it up loosely on her head, encouraging a few ringlets to fall over one shoulder and pinning an ostrich feather and crystal clip to the back of her head. She lifted her single strand of pearls, also a bequest from her mother, and clasped them about her throat.

“You aren’t even done with your makeup.” Francine dabbed on perfume and checked her reflection once again.

“It won’t take me long. You could go ahead.”

A snort. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Arriving all alone and stealing the limelight?”

“I only didn’t want to hold you up.” She wiped off the makeup she’d worn on stage. Though it looked ghastly in the candlelight of the dressing room, the heavy paint was necessary in the lighting of the theater to make her look natural. Without the eye rouge, base, and powder, she would appear so pale and undefined as to be almost faceless.

But a ballroom full of theater guests was a different audience, and she could dispense with the heavy makeup. She took only a moment to powder her face and smooth her eyebrows before taking up her beaded evening purse and cloak, squaring her shoulders to brave the crowd. She swirled the black velvet cloak over her shoulders and tied the strings at her throat.

Her heart thumped against her ribs as she followed Francine from the theater to the hotel next door and into the ballroom reserved for the party. Perhaps
he
would be there, and she would have a name to match the handsome face.

Music and light poured from the ballroom, and people laughed and talked, helping themselves to the buffet and reliving the performance.

Clement met them at the door. “My dears, your public awaits. I’ve already spoken to several critics, and they’re all in raptures.” His hands never stopped moving, fluttering over his hair, tugging at his tie, ducking into his pockets, only to be withdrawn immediately. “Let me take you in.”

Francine took his arm. “Philip will bring Willow.” She raised her chin and flicked a glance at Philip over Clement’s shoulder.

Willow hid her grimace and stood back from the doorway to allow Francine to enter alone. A smattering of applause filled the air.

“She’s choked with envy.” Philip tugged on his white gloves. “And no small wonder. You did play your part beautifully.” He offered his elbow. “Come, my darling Jane Eyre. As your beloved Rochester, I shall see you into the party.”

She rebelled inwardly at being called
his
anything but untied the strings on her cloak and let it fall from her shoulders.

A hotel servant took the garment, and Philip let out a low whistle. “I say, that dress is striking. You’ll upstage every woman in the room.” Again he held out his arm.

Laying her fingertips lightly on his sleeve, she put on a calm, pleasant expression and prepared to act the part of the ingenue Clement wanted her to be.

The moment she stepped over the threshold, the room erupted into applause. Bodies pressed close, shaking her hand, showering her with compliments, and each encounter sapped a little more of her energy. Philip and Francine imprisoned her between them.

Several people called her Jane, a testament to her acting skill that they actually thought of her in terms of the character, but it left her hollow—as if she weren’t a real person, as if they didn’t see the real her.

Francine accepted every plaudit as if it belonged to her, and Willow was more than happy to let her have the attention. When she could finally escape the reception line, she found a quiet corner to sip a cup of punch in and study the crowd.

He wasn’t here. She really shouldn’t have expected him, and yet though her mind told her heart over and over he shouldn’t be this special to her—not after one chance encounter—her heart refused to be sensible.

“My dear, that dress becomes you delightfully,” Clement said as he approached.

“Thank you. It’s one Francine ordered, but when it came, she thought it made her look pale.”

“Well, on you it is enchanting. You look like an angel.” His knowing, pale eyes roved her face. “I’m not blind, Willow, nor is the rest of the cast and crew. They see how Francine treats you.”

She swallowed, touched by his concern. “It isn’t that bad. She just cares so much. Being the center of attention means everything to her. It’s all she has, all she knows.”

“The theater is all any of us knows. None of us could walk away unscathed.”

His words struck her. Was the theater all she had? Could she walk away unscathed?