Leading Lady (31 page)

And there would be one condition to that.

****

“She’ll be away another week,” Jewel said after hanging up the telephone. “Aunt Phyllis and Uncle Norman need her.”

“I knew life was moving along too well for us,” Grady
muttered, tapping his pencil against the open receipt ledger on his desk.

“Grady . . .” she said with a reproachful look, shocked at this dis play of uncharacteristic coldheartedness. Especially considering how often he wiped tears during Douglas’s memorial service.

“Forgive me, darling Jewel.” He appeared perilously close to tears again and said with voice soft, “I don’t know what came over me. You lost your cousin, and here I sit grousing over numbers.”

How could she not forgive him? She gave him an understanding little smile. “It’s your job to grouse over numbers.”

“But not to the degree where they’re all that matters.”

“Well, we’ve people dependent upon us. It’s not just
our
rent that’s affected if we don’t make a profit.”

But it did seem as if God had decided that they had sailed along on favorable winds for long enough.

On a positive note, rehearsals for
The Ticket-of-Leave Man
were going on well. It was the story of Robert Brierly, framed and falsely imprisoned because a notorious underworld thief desires the love of his fiancée, May Edwards. After serving his time, Robert conceals his identity to gain employment at a bank, only to be blackmailed by the same underworld thief. Amanda Hill was gamely rehearsing Muriel’s role as May Edwards, in addition to playing Lady Audley in the eve nings. With Muriel such a quick study and perfectionist, Jewel had no worry over her cousin stepping up to the lead role once she returned.

“You know, we’ve just gotten spoiled,” Jewel said. “We need these reminders of how vulnerable we are now and again, so we don’t take our blessings for granted.”

****

She remembered those words on the following Monday, the first of August, when they received another such reminder. Lewis, the callboy, burst into the office to inform them that Oscar Hicks, under study for the lead role of Robert Brierly,
had collapsed during rehearsals. Jewel waved Grady on and rang Doctor Ramsdell, whose office was on nearby Symons Street.

When she hurried to the stage, Grady and Richard Whitmore knelt on either side of the groaning man. Cast and crew stood about with helpless expressions or hovered over the trio with helpful sug gestions.

“Hang in there, Mr. Hicks,” Grady was saying.

“What is it?” Jewel asked.

Mr. Whitmore shook his head. “Don’t know. He says he’s been having pains in his abdomen.”

By late afternoon Mr. Hicks was admitted to St. George’s Hos pital, where the source of the pains was determined to be gallstones. He underwent surgery the following morning.

“How is he?” Jewel asked when Grady returned.

“He was still feeling the effects of the ether when I left.” Grady gave a little chuckle. “He addressed me as ‘Mr. Whitmore’ more than once. I was quite flattered, I must say.”

“And the surgery?” Jewel said pointedly, her nerves frayed from begging the secretaries of the
Era
and the
Stage
to squeeze in last- minute casting call advertisements in their August issues.

“It went well, so says his surgeon.” Grady paused, pursed his lips, and shook his head. “I’ve forgotten his name already. I hate that. He was a real decent fellow too. Didn’t speak to us as if we were imbe ciles.”

“Well, we’ve missed the deadlines for the trade magazines.”

“It was one of those long aristocratic names. Began with a
C.
That much I do remember.”

Jewel closed her eyes and rubbed the space between her brows. She did not know if she preferred the Grady who worried or the Grady who occasionally strayed down irrelevant paths to refrain from worrying. “Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

“Heard you? Why, yes.” Grady advanced to his own desk. His revolving chair squeaked with his weight. “Advertising
wouldn’t help anyway, dearest. By the time the papers hit the stands, we’ll only have eight days until opening night. Not much time for rehearsals.”

“Perhaps Mr. Hicks will have recovered by then?” Jewel said with faint hope. After all, she knew nothing of how long it took to recover from gallstone surgery.

Grady shook his head. “Two weeks in the hospital, another month at home, perhaps even two.” He slapped a palm lightly upon his desk top. “
Cavendish!
That was his name.”

This was not a disaster, Jewel reminded herself, picking up her pencil again and rotating it with her fingers. Not when one posi tioned this on a scale of possible disasters. A disaster would be the theatre burning down during a production, killing everyone inside. The Thames flooding and sweeping the building away, killing every one inside. An earthquake . . .

“We’ll post signs about town.” Grady’s voice broke her morbid train of thought. “Devote a day to auditions.”

Jewel shuddered. While they could assume that most people who read the trade papers had a least a little stage experience, posted signs would also draw in people simply following a whim, figuring they had nothing to lose. Reminding herself that Muriel had followed a whim by auditioning simply reinforced that belief. Lightning did not strike the same place twice.

But what other choice had they? Lead roles required skilled understudy actors, and none of the utility actors in the company had Richard Whitmore’s height and stage presence.

She was about to mention all of this to Grady when he came to that conclusion himself. Rising from his desk again, he said, “No good, posting signs. Every petty thief in town would consider it an invitation to wander the corridors. I should give the cast a report on Mr. Hicks. Why don’t you call about, love, see if anyone knows someone who’s looking.”

For an understudy role?
Jewel thought, taking her address book again from the top drawer. No one ever
looked
for such a role. In an actor’s eyes, that was the reward for not being
quite
as talented or famous as the lead. To understudy for a healthy lead actor meant staying in the background, playing utility parts such as crowd and bystander scenes, and when granted the lead during a matinee or odd night now and again, pretending not to hear the disappointed mur murings as he steps out on stage.

“No one so far,” she said when Grady returned.

“Ah, well . . .” He showed her an Irving Street address scribbled in pencil on the back of a yellowed playbill for
The Foundling of the Forest.
“Mr. Rigby says there is a tall, good-looking fellow in his lodging house who has some experience on the York stage—and has been chasing down auditions.”

“Hmm. If he’s any good, why hasn’t he found a job?”

“Apparently he’s only been down here but for two, three weeks. What do you think . . . shall we give him a ring?”

By
we,
Jewel knew he meant
you.
She sighed and dropped the paper upon her desk. “I’m too hungry to think. Let’s have lunch, then we’ll telephone.” By
we’ll,
she meant
I’ll.

****

“Thank you,” Noah said, pushing out his chair in the dining room. “That was delicious.”

He was not overly fond of lentil soup, but today’s batch con tained bits of bacon. Mrs. Savill came over as if to pick up his empty bowl and spoon, but instead eyed him critically.

“Why do you scratch yourself, Mister Carey?”

He did not realize anyone had noticed. He had tried to be so discreet, even hiding his hands with the bloody whelps on the backs. But the itching was driving him mad, despite the fact that he felt like a basted Christmas goose from all the lanolin. Yesterday it had dis tracted him so during the audition at the Criterion Theatre for E. V. Seebohm’s
Little Lord Fauntleroy
that he lost his place in the script not once, but twice.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“I cannot allow lice in my house.”

Cheeks on fire, Noah glanced at the three other lodgers in the room. They had ceased spooning soup into their mouths to watch. “My head doesn’t itch, Mrs. Savill. I’ve seen a doctor, and it’s not lice, I assure—”

“We will see. You will come with me.”

Like a little boy, he followed her into the kitchen, up a narrow flight of stairs, and into the tiny courtyard. Towels hung limply on the clothesline, and an herb garden sent out scents that would have been pleasant were he not so humiliated. The landlord’s wife motioned toward the lone bench, and he sat and submitted to the further indignity of her digging fingers through his hair as if they were monkeys at the Zoological Garden.

“Be still!” she ordered.

“Sorry.”

In the pursuit of steady employment and absorbed as he was by the itching, he had not taken note of the significance of today’s date until that very moment. The second of August. What a far cry from waiting at Saint Thomas’s altar for his bride to walk up the aisle.

Paying your dues,
Noah reminded himself for the hundredth time. What choice had he if he wanted to stay? Besides, he was begin ning to wonder if lice were the culprits after all.

“Hmph!” Mrs. Savill said finally, taking a step backward. “What does the doctor say?”

Noah blew out a breath. “That a poisonous plant caused it. But I’m treating it with lanolin, and it should be better with time.”

“Lanolin?”

“It’s a salve. It comes in a jar.”

“Very well. You do that, and stop scratching or you have to leave. You frighten the others away.”

“Yes . . . sorry.”

“You want more soup?”

“No, thank you.” He could not be dragged by his heels back into that dining room. He would stay out here until he was
certain the other three lodgers had finished. Opening the door for her, he said, “Will you tell the others I don’t have lice?”

“I’ll tell them.”

Returning to the bench, he folded his arms, crossed his knees, and listened to the street noises. The pattering of an automobile engine reached his ears. He had seen three since arriving in London and ordinarily would have hurried to the front for a look.

Am I being punished, Father?
he prayed beneath his breath. With the fact that this was his wedding date fresh upon his mind, he real ized he could have handled the situation with Olivia with more tact, somehow. He did not regret not marrying her, but the anger and bewilderment upon her face, her family’s faces, still made him cringe inside. He should have gone home and cooled off for several days after meeting with Miss Spear. Perhaps asked Miss Spear’s permission to confide in Vicar Norris, ask his counsel. He could not even recall praying over the matter.

Perhaps, rather, his offense was not finding a church in London, he thought, scratching his arm through his sleeve. Or even accom panying Jude to the Presbyterian chapel just a block down Irving. God was a member of no denomination. The itching, which was his excuse, did not keep him away from casting calls, disasters that they were. Could he not spare an hour a week to worship, as he had since a child?

I’ll do better, Father,
he promised—even if he was never relieved of this condition and itched until his hands had to be tied to keep him from scratching off his skin. For it was wrong to try to bargain with the Almighty. But he could not stop himself from hoping that God would be pleased enough with his resolve to work a miracle this time.

****

An hour later, it was all he could do to keep from shedding his coat and shirt and rolling in the grass in Leicester Square like a dog with fleas. “That’s the largest jar you have?”
Noah asked in the Boot & Company Limited drugstore on Leicester Street.

The chemist cocked an eyebrow and grinned. “Have you been eating the stuff?”

“Heh-heh,” Noah obliged, resisting the urge to reach over the counter and grab the man by the collar. He realized his reddened hand was resting upon the counter, in plain sight, and shifted it to his pocket.

“That’s quite a rash you have there,” the chemist said.

The sympathy on the man’s bearded face disposed Noah to think more favorably of him. “It’s driving me mad, quite frankly.” He could only shudder at the thought of how much worse it would be, were he not faithfully applying the lanolin twice a day. He would be in Bedlam by now.

“Seen a doctor?”

“He’s the one who recommended lanolin. He believes I came in contact with some sort of poisonous plant up in Yorkshire.”

The chemist leaned forward to rest an elbow upon the counter. “Hmm.”

“What is it?” Noah asked.

“When were you last in Yorkshire?”

Noah thought for a second. “Three weeks ago to the day.”

“Well then, you should be better by now.”

“I’ve wondered . . .”

“I’ve had patrons complain of soap allergy,” the chemist said. “They use one brand for years and suddenly they’re covered with a rash.”

“We’ve used Swan Soap for as long as I can remember,” Noah said. In fact, his mother had packed a half dozen cakes among his bath towels and face flannels.

“It’s fine soap. We use it at home. But it was
Swan
my neighbor’s cook was using when her skin broke out into rashes. I recommended she switch brands, and—” he raised himself to snap his fingers—“it cleared up within days.”

Even though the man behind the counter did not have a
diploma from the Royal Medical College on the wall of a posh waiting room, the authority in his voice and his gray hair made Noah take him just as seriously. Cautious optimism swept away the despair that had so plagued him for weeks.

“What brand would you recommend?” he asked.

The chemist smiled and produced a round cake wrapped in silver wax paper.
Peerless Erasmic Herb Soap
was written in script on the label, beside an etching of a young woman holding up a looking glass. In smaller block letters were the promising words
Recom mended by the Medical Profession for Improving & Preserving the Complexion.

Gladly, Noah dipped into his pocket for his purse. “I don’t sup pose I need continue the lanolin. . . .”