Daughter of Deceit (5 page)

It was over. The audience was wildly enthusiastic. There was Desiree, led onto the stage by the man who would love her if she were a shopgirl still. He kissed her hand and then, to the delight of the audience, her cheek. The flowers were brought and Desiree made a curtain speech.

“Dear,
dear
people … you are
too
kind to me. I don’t deserve it!”

“You do. You do,” from the audience.

Holding up her hand in mock modesty, she told them that the greatest joy she could know was to play for them. “I knew you would love Maud. I did from the first moment I met her.”

Echoes came back to me. “This stupid creature, why do I have to play such an idiot?”

It was all part of the playacting which was her life.

People were making for the exits. I caught one more glimpse of Roderick in the crowd. He turned to look at me and smiled. I looked towards Charlie. He had still not seen his son.

I went to Desir6e’s dressing room with Charlie and Robert after that. Martha was rapidly helping her to change. Champagne was drunk.

Desiree kissed Dolly and said: “There, I did it.”

Dolly said: “You were magnificent, darling. Didn’t I tell you you would be?”

“I could feel how much the audience loved it.”

“It was you they loved.”

“The darlings!”

“Well, you are rather wonderful, you know.”

“Thanks, sweetheart. Say it again. I love to hear it. And there’s my Noelle. What did you think of your mother, pet?”

“You were absolutely splendid.”

“Bless you, sweet.”

Robert said in his amusing French accent: “Is she … Noelle … old enough to drink the champagne, eh?”

“Tonight she is,” said my mother. “Come, darlings. Let’s drink to a nice run … not too long. I don’t think I could stand Maud for too long. But enough to make it a success and full houses to the end. And may she know when it is the right time to leave us.”

We drank to Maud. It was about half an hour later when we drove back to the house. Thomas had the carriage waiting for us.

There had been a good deal of kissing and more congratulations before we parted, and in the carriage there were just Martha,
my mother and myself. The streets were not very busy, for the crowds were fast dispersing.

“You must be exhausted,” I said to my mother.

“Oh, my dear, I am. I shall sleep right through until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Knowing that
Maud
was a great success,” I said. “It was a success, wasn’t it?”

“Of course. I knew it would be, darling,” said my mother.

Martha looked at me and raised her eyebrows.

“Oh, one’s always jittery just before,” said my mother defensively. “You have to be. If you weren’t, you’d go onstage flat. It’s the life, darling.”

As we were pulling up at the house, I noticed the girl. She was standing near a lamppost, but I could see her face. She looked rather dejected and I wondered what she was doing standing about at this time of night.

My mother was saying: “Oh, I’m so weary, and ‘Can I help you, madam?’ keeps going round and round in my head.”

Thomas had jumped down from the driver’s seat and was holding the door open. My mother alighted. I saw the girl take a step forward. Her face was still tense. Before I could alight from the carriage she was hastily walking away.

I said: “Did you see that girl?”

“Which girl?”

“The one who was standing over there. She looked as though she was watching you.”

“Came to take a look at Countess Maud, I reckon,” said Martha.

“Yes. But she seemed different somehow.”

“Another of the stagestruck crowd,” said Martha. “Thinks she’s another Desiree, I don’t doubt. Most of them do.”

“Come in,” said my mother. “I’m half asleep, if you’re not.”

I knew that we should all find it difficult to sleep. It was like this on first nights … but this night seemed different. There were two things to make it so: the presence of Roderick in the theatre, which set me wondering again about Charlie, Lady Constance and the relationship he must have with my mother; and
then the girl in the street. Why had she made such an impression on me? People often stood about to get a glimpse of my mother … outside the theatre and occasionally outside our home, for the press had betrayed where Desiree lived. The girl must have been, as Martha had said, stagestruck: she had wanted to see Desiree at close quarters.

I should be at peace. The first night was over. Now there would be a long run and my mother and I would have more time together.

The Accident

Countess Maud
had settled in— another success for Desiree.

It was about three weeks after the opening night—a Thursday and a matinee. My mother had left for the theatre and I had said I wanted to do some shopping and I would come to the theatre so that I could join her after the performance and Thomas could drive us home together. He often did this. It gave us a little time together before she dashed off for the evening performance.

As I came out of the house I saw Roderick Claverham coming down the street.

“Hello,” he said, and for a few seconds we stood smiling at each other.

I spoke first. “You are still in London, then?”

“I have been home and came back again.”

“How are the remains?”

“No further discoveries. It would be surprising if there were. I was hoping I might see you. I’ve been here once or twice before with the same object in view. This time I’ve struck lucky.”

I felt pleased because he had admitted that he was looking for me.

“Were you going to call on us?” I asked.

“I thought in the circumstances that might not be quite acceptable, would it?”

“Perhaps not.”

“Whereas meeting by accident …”

“Would be quite another matter, of course.”

“Were you going somewhere?”

“Only shopping.”

“May I come?”

“You wouldn’t be interested.”

“I think I should.”

“It is not necessary shopping. I was really going to finish up at the theatre and come home with my mother.”

“Perhaps I could escort you to the theatre.”

“It will be two hours before the show finishes.”

“Well, we could walk round a bit. You could show me this part of London. Perhaps we could have a cup of tea somewhere? Does that seem like a bore to you?”

“Quite the contrary.” , “Then shall we start?”

“Of course, you are attracted to the past,” I said as we walked along. “I don’t think we have anything here as ancient as your Roman remains. My governess is very interested in this area. You see, it is very much associated with the theatre and she is devoted to all that.”

“Perhaps that’s because she is with a theatrical family.”

“There is my mother, of course, but to tell the truth Matty rather despises her achievements. People do when they find someone who has reached the top of what they consider to be a lower grade than they themselves aspire to—particularly if they haven’t made even the first steps towards their goal. You see, Matty fancies herself as a great actress and thinks that she is wasting her time teaching.”

“I should have thought she should have been very proud of her present pupil.”

“We get along quite well. But it is acting she is really interested in. I think in her heart she knows all that is right out of
reach. But don’t you agree that people get pleasure out of daydreams?”

“Very likely.”

“It’s an easy way. Matty can live in her dreams—those moments when she is on the stage giving the finest performance of Lady Macbeth, winning the acclaim of the audience, receiving the bouquets, reading about her genius in the next morning’s papers. She doesn’t have to go through all the nerve-racking tensions, the hideous doubts, the nightmare of the opening performance as my mother does.”

“I should have thought your mother was absolutely sure of success.”

“It is because she isn’t that she is successful … if you understand what I mean. She tells me that unless you are in a state of tension you don’t give your best performance. In any case, I can tell you that being a successful actress is not easy and I am beginning to think that Matty’s dreams are more enjoyable than the reality. She gets lyrical about this place and she loves being in the theatrical environment. She thoroughly enjoys our walks round here.”

“As I am doing.”

“We always talk a lot about the old days. It must have been exciting when the theatres were reinstated. Matty goes on at length about the Puritans under Cromwell, who closed the theatres. They thought they were sinful. Matty rails against them.”

“I agree with her. I have a dislike for the sanctimonious who enjoy taking away people’s pleasures with the excuse that it is good for them to be without it while all the time they are indulging their pleasure in contemplating their own virtue.”

“I feel the same. But it was wonderful when the theatre came back. Almost worth having been without it! Matty is very interested in the Restoration playwrights. She has made it a subject for us to study. She says it will be good for me. I am glad she did.”

“I daresay she is teaching herself as well as you.”

“I am sure she is. We went to libraries and unearthed all sorts of information.
You
will understand how exciting it was. You have your Roman relics.”

“I
certainly do. And when you walk these streets you picture them as they were years ago.”

“Yes … with the men in their magnificent wigs and feathered hats—and Nell Gwyn was, of course, at Drury Lane selling oranges and then becoming an actress and fascinating King Charles. It’s all so romantic.”

“And you do not wish to go on the stage and share in the limelight with your mother?”

“I have too much respect for her talents to imagine I share them. I can’t sing and my mother has a beautiful voice. She is also a wonderful dancer.”

“And, unlike Matty, she does not sigh for the classical roles.”

“Countess Maud
and suchlike are good enough for her.”

“And very good she is with them.”

“I saw you at the play.”

“Yes, I saw you.”

“You didn’t stay. You must have hurried off.”

“I was unsure. Better to take no action when you are wondering which is the right one.”

“I suppose so. By the way, this is Vere Street. We discovered an interesting story about a theatre which was once here. It was opened by Killigrew and Davenant, who were two well-known theatrical men. They were so anxious to get the theatres started again that they opened one here only a few months after the Restoration. Matty said their enthusiasm must have been marvellous. They brought out a patent that women could play on the stage. Before that their parts were taken by boys. Can you imagine that! Women have been very badly treated through the ages. I think it is time we did something about it. Don’t you agree?”

“I fear that if I don’t I shall lose any regard you have for me, so I will say at once that I do.”

I laughed. “I should not want you to agree with me for that reason.”

“Forget that I said it. It was a foolish remark to make in a serious conversation. Yes, I do agree, but I am sure that with people like you around that situation will soon be remedied.”

“The story I was going to tell you was of a wronged woman.

She was one of the first women to play on the stage. She was in the theatre which was in Vere Street and she was playing Roxana in
The Siege of Rhodes.
The Earl of Oxford, Aubrey de Vere, came to see the play and conceived a passion for her. A de Vere could not marry an actress, but she would not submit without marriage. The villain then produced a bogus clergyman who arranged a sham marriage, and she did not learn how she had been tricked until it was too late.”