Leading Lady (32 page)

“Not unless you’re fond of wasting your money,” the chemist said, sweeping the jar into his palm. “It’s the soap, young man. I’d wager my last shilling.”

Outside again, paper bag clutched in one hand, the other dis creetly scratching his ribs beneath his coat, Noah caught himself smiling in the reflected glass of a milliner’s shop.
Thank you, Father!
This time he was going to get relief. He just knew it.

****

A short barrel-chested man about Noah’s own age, with gray eyes sunk into bulldog-like cheeks, was leaving the lodging house. He glanced at Noah and reached back to stop the door from closing.

“Thank you,” Noah said, catching the door with his free hand.

“You’re welcome.” But instead of standing aside, the man squinted up at him and said with a faint trace of Irish brogue, “Would you happen to be Noah Carey?”

In spite of his most recent spate of optimism, the first thought in Noah’s mind was
Olivia.
Not satisfied with the money she had bled from him, she had hired a local attorney to try for more.

You’re closer to Bedlam than you think,
Noah chided
himself, and dropped the bag into his coat pocket so that he could offer a hand. “I am. And you are . . . ?”

“Grady McGuire,” the man replied, smile widening as they shook hands. “I’m from the Royal Court Theatre. Mrs. McGuire tried to telephone you, but the connection was broken each time. May we walk to that coffeehouse across the street for a chat?”

Twenty-Three

“Will Mr. Hicks be allowed fruit when he leaves the hospital?” Jewel asked Mr. Birch, who, according to him, had endured so many surgeries that his skin resembled a patchwork quilt.

The head attendant paused from counting the playbills stacked upon Grady’s desk to shake his aged head. “Not for weeks. Get him a wheel of mild cheese. Wensleydale, for example. But the family would appreciate the fruit.”

“I believe I’ll get a ham as well.”

“A ham would be nice.”

“I don’t understand the logic of taking flowers to sick people,” Jewel went on, ignoring the commonplace sounds of footfalls in the corridor. “Food is more practical.”

“Quite so,” Mr. Birch agreed. “And a basket of fruit is every bit as attractive as a—”

The door opened and Grady walked in, followed by a tall, strapping fellow with Roman nose, high forehead, and ink-black hair. “Jewel, may I introduce Mr. Carey?”

Mr. Birch had been around long enough to know that was his signal to excuse himself. He would probably eavesdrop through the greenroom wall, but since the whole cast and crew knew they were searching for a replacement for Mr. Hicks, Jewel was not overly concerned. The old fellow had but few thrills remaining to him.

“And may I introduce my wife, Mrs. McGuire,” Grady continued as the door closed. “Will you have a seat, Mr. Carey?”

The actor gave Jewel a shy smile and folded himself into the chair facing Grady’s desk. Grady pulled out his own chair.

“I’ve informed Mr. Carey that the opening is for Mr. Whitmore’s understudy and will only be available until Mr. Hicks is able to return to work.”

“It would be an honor to work with Mr. Whitmore during
any length of time,” Mr. Carey said, elbows resting upon chair arms. “I’ve read of his work in the
Strand.
”

“And . . .” Grady said, his grin so wide that his jowls disappeared, “Mr. Carey has played the part of Robert Brierly in York!”

This was too good to be true. Cautiously, Jewel asked the actor, “Did Mr. McGuire inform you that the starting wage is three pounds weekly?”

He gave her a weary little smile. “At this point in my life, Mrs. McGuire, that seems a fortune.”

The only hitch, Grady explained, was that Mr. Carey suffered a skin condition that was made intolerable by theatre lights.

Mr. Carey stared at the carpet, his cheeks flush.

“I said that he could read for us here in the office instead,” Grady went on.

What were you thinking?
Jewel sent her husband as puzzled a look as she dared without seeming rude to their visitor. She turned again to Mr. Carey.

“You do understand that we’re not able to lower the lights during a performance. For the occasional evening or early morning scene, yes, but as a rule they burn full strength.”

The actor raised his head again. He shifted in his chair. “Yes, I understand.”

Regretfully, Jewel noticed his eyes were nice, a rich dark brown fringed by dark lashes. In fact, he had what they were always seeking: handsome face, imposing stature, and experience to boot. Perhaps down the road, if he recovered, they could find a part for him.

And then, perhaps not. Any fellow who would seek an audition and then declare that he could not work under stage lights had a problem that went deeper than the afflicted skin.

“But just today a chemist diagnosed the cause of my rashes,” Mr. Carey continued. “I had developed an intolerance to soap. He informed me that switching brands will clear it up within days.”

“Indeed?” Jewel had never heard of anyone not able to bear soap, but after a second’s thought she recalled an actress who had had to leave the profession a couple of years ago because even the smell of greasepaint broke her out into hives.

And Mr. Whitmore enjoyed excellent health, she reminded herself. He seldom put Mr. Hicks to use. Why, it could be weeks and weeks before Mr. Carey stepped out under the lights.

Jewel met her husband’s hopeful look, smiled, and rose from her desk. “I’ll get a couple of playscripts.”

****

“How is Mr. Carey working out?” Grady asked when Jewel returned to the office on Friday during a break in rehearsals.

“You’re a genius,” she replied.

Grady beamed. “I like hearing you say that.”

“And
I
like saying it.”

Indeed, the understudy disaster had proved itself a tempest in a teapot. In spite of having already acted the role, for the past three days Mr. Carey had studiously observed rehearsals from the wing with playscript in hand. He arrived early, stayed late, and did not attempt to chat up the actresses or insinuate his presence in any way.

Of course part of the latter could be due to the wide berth that most members of the cast gave him. Jewel spared her husband the few rumblings that had met her ears, the fears that this newest cast member might have lice or even measles. Those would die of their own weight once Mr. Carey recovered.

Normalcy loomed promisingly on the horizon. Even though attendance would be weak for tonight’s closing performance of
Lady Audley’s Secret,
opening night for
The Ticket-of-Leave Man
—with Muriel back in the lead—was only eight days away. A promising start to the new season.

Which reminded Jewel. Bethia should be warned, hopefully to spare her any awkward moments.

“I believe I’ll take Bethia to lunch,” she said. “Will you stay here in case Muriel stops by? I’ll bring yours back.”

“But of course,” said Grady, still glowing from her earlier compliment. He pushed his chair out from his desk. “I think I deserve a kiss before you leave, don’t you?”

Jewel smiled and walked around his desk. A fraction of a second later, she was seated sideways upon her husband’s knees.

“Someone could walk in,” Jewel murmured after a nice long kiss, her head resting against his broad shoulder.

“I know,” he replied, rubbing the small of her back. He sighed. “It’s difficult sharing an office with a temptress. A lesser man would never be able to concentrate on his work.”

“But then, you’re a genius,” she reminded him.

“A genius to marry you, love.”

****

The wardrobe room was organized chaos, with some costumes hanging about on hooks and others draped over chairs and tabletops. Final fittings were scheduled for all of next week, in preparations for dress rehearsal on the twelfth of August. There were shadows under Bethia’s eyes, her hair was gathered carelessly into a long scrap of fabric with frayed edges, and she wore a bandage about the finger she had gashed with a razor while letting out a seam yesterday.

“We’ve just some last-minute trim and buttons,” Bethia informed Jewel as the two seamstresses sat at the drafting table, pulling needles and threads through a gown and a shirt.

“Have you had Mr. Carey up here?” Jewel asked.

“We’ve not had time. Hopefully Monday. But I spotted him in the wing, and it’s fortunate that he appears to be the same size as Mr. Hicks. We may get by with altering what we have instead of having to make new costumes.

“There is no hurry,” Jewel assured her. Understudy costumes were important but never top priority. “And he may be more comfortable in another three days.”

Bethia nodded understanding. The seamstresses’ heads
bobbed likewise over their sewing. Jewel was not surprised that word of Mr. Carey’s affliction had risen to the upper storeys.

“Come have some lunch with me,” Jewel said after Bethia showed her the last finished costume, a peach-colored poplin gown for the character of Mrs. Willoughby.

“Oh, but we’ve too much to do.”

“You can always spare the time to eat.”

“But I brought—”

“Oh, go have some lunch,” Miss Lidstone said, waving her on. “We’ll give your sandwich to Lewis. He’s always sniffing about for something to eat.”

“Very well,” Bethia said halfheartedly.

Jewel smiled and tugged on an end of the piece of trim, releasing the mop of Bethia’s hair. She brushed the curls over her cousin’s forehead with her fingers. “But first let’s make you presentable.”

They walked up the pavement to Capucine’s, a bakery popular for its flaky meat pies as well as pastries. Because the time was barely past eleven, only one of the small round tables outside the bakery was occupied. Jewel shepherded Bethia to the one farthest out and ordered two pork pies and two cups of tea from the server.

“Are you all right, Bethia?” Jewel said, glad she had come up with the idea of spiriting her away from the theatre for a while.

Bethia pushed some of her hair back from her forehead. “Well, you know how final fittings are.”

“But I’ve never seen you look so tired. Should we hire another seamstress, do you think?”

“Oh, no. I would be hard-pressed to find her something to do during slack times.”

Jewel laughed. “What, exactly, is a slack time?”

That brought a smile to her cousin’s face. The meat pies and tea arrived. Jewel cut the corner of her pie with a fork and became serious again.

“It’s not just fittings, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re thinking about Douglas.”

Bethia did not reply, but the luster that came to her blue eyes was answer enough.

“What happened wasn’t your fault, Bethia,” Jewel said.

Her cousin pressed her lips together, nodded. “I accept that intellectually, Jewel. Most of the time. But my heart says otherwise.”

“Then trust your intellect.”

“I’m trying,” Bethia said and mustered a smile. “Really, I am.”

When they were halfway through their pies, Jewel could delay the inevitable no longer. “Muriel returns to town today.”

“Poor Muriel.” Bethia set down her fork. “Will she return to work?”

“She says she would like to.”

“I’m not sure how I should behave when we’re together,” Bethia said, pushing away her plate a bit.

“That’s understandable,” Jewel said. “But I want you to know that I asked Bernard to speak with her when we were up there. He assured me he would inform her of some things in Douglas’s past that the family kept from her at the time. She’ll see how wrong it was to blame you.”

Bethia blew out a breath, closed her eyes briefly. “Thank you, Jewel.”

****

A roan horse was pulling away a hansom cab from the front of Royal Court Theatre when Jewel and Bethia drew near. It was not an unusual occurrence, and as Muriel’s own coach and driver would have met her train and brought her by the theatre later, Jewel thought little of it. She and Bethia parted at the staircase inside, Bethia clutching the brown paper bag containing raspberry charlottes for the seamstresses and the remaining half of her pork pie for Lewis’s bottomless pit.

Muriel was seated in the office, swathed in mourning clothes.

“Hello, Jewel.”

“Muriel!” Jewel placed the bag containing Grady’s two meat pies on a bare spot on his desk. Her cousin rose and allowed herself to be embraced.

“She’s not even been home,” Grady said.

“But where—?”

“I sent Georgiana and her nanny on to the house,” Muriel said.

“You poor dear.” Jewel held her cousin out by the shoulders. Through the black netting, Muriel’s fair skin looked paler than ever. “You must be exhausted. Will you take some tea?”

“Tea would be nice,” Muriel replied.

Mr. Birch appeared in the open doorway. “Shall I fetch some, Mrs. McGuire?”

“Yes, please,” Jewel replied. With so many tea drinkers about, Mrs. Ainsley kept a couple of kettles simmering on the little stove behind the refreshment counter just before the lobby. They left the door open for Mr. Birch’s return. As his footfalls faded, Jewel asked about the family.

“Mother drifts from chair to chair. Father has finally returned to work but rarely speaks. Bernard and your mother see to them as best as they can, but . . .” She shrugged. “It was good that I stayed that extra week after all.”

Jewel had no idea what she meant by the ‘after all’. Wasn’t that the idea, to help out her parents? But then, Muriel was probably not thinking clearly.

Mr. Birch returned with a pot and three cups. Jewel took the sugar bowl and a spoon from the corner cupboard and served everyone. When the door closed behind the elderly man, Muriel took a sip, looked up, and said, “I’m afraid I have more bad news.”

Jewel’s cup froze halfway to her lips. She could not hear
Grady hold his breath but knew he was doing so just by the rigid set of his shoulders.

“What is it, Muriel?” she said.

“It’s Bethia Rayborn.” Muriel pressed her lips into a line for a second. “I’m the last person to cause trouble, Jewel . . . Grady. And I appreciate all you’ve done for me. But I cannot continue being under the same roof as
her
every day. It’s just too painful for me. I hope you’ll understand.”