Leading Lady (34 page)

Mr. Graham stepped from behind the screen, Mr. Birch following. The actor’s black suit fit well, save the legs of the trousers puddling about either side of his shoes.

“I thought I hemmed those, ha-ha,” Mrs. Hamby said.

That’s it!
Bethia thought, and turned to the seamstresses. “Will you see to it now? I’ll be back.”

She hurried down the empty staircase, rapped upon the office door and turned the knob before hearing an invitation to enter. Jewel and Grady turned grim faces toward her; Jewel from her chair, Grady from where he stood propped against his desk with arms folded.

“Mr. Carey’s gone?” Bethia asked, though the answer was obvious.

“Why, yes,” Grady replied. “Just a moment ago.”

She turned for the lobby, ignoring her cousin’s “Bethia?” She would explain later. Outside she stood under the marquee and scanned the pavement both ways and Sloan Square across the street. With his height, Mr. Carey would be easy to spot, and she recalled he was wearing a gray suit. The fact that he would accept an understudy role and lived in a lodging house meant he was poor, so she was quite certain he had not caught a hansom. Which left the underground railway.

“I beg your pardon, Miss?” the booking clerk said from the ticket window. “You must purchase a ticket!”

“I’m not taking the train,” she replied, hoping she had an honest face.

Fifty-one steps led down from the booking hall to the tracks. A half dozen steps were behind her when reason surfaced.
Bethia paused, hand upon the railing, heart thumping. She could simply telephone the lodging house.

But then a man below her swayed briefly to the right, allowing her sight of Mr. Carey.

In for a penny, in for a pound,
she thought, taking another step. Besides, she could not bear the thought of anyone suffering a minute longer than necessary the disappointment she had witnessed in the actor’s expression.

She certainly couldn’t yell to him like a fishwife, but he was too far a distance for him to hear her if she called to him in a civil tone, with chattering and the tromping and clicks of shoes and boots. The gap was widening, so she risked a loud-but-just-within-the-bounds-of-decorum “Excuse me! Mr. Carey?”

The result was a few curious looks in her direction. Mr. Carey continued on with no change in the set of his shoulders to indicate he had heard.

You’re being foolish,
she thought. She wasn’t even certain her information would be helpful. She was wondering if she should just ring him later after all, when, eight steps below, a boy of about seven twisted to glance back at her, turned again, and put a hand to his mouth. “MISTER CAAA-REEE!”

“Jimmy!” the woman with him scolded, jerking his hand as people turned to look.

But it worked, for Mr. Carey was one of those who stopped and looked back at the boy with puzzled expression. Then he raised his eyes higher to meet Bethia’s.

“Thank you!” Bethia said. The boy was apparently enjoying his spot in the center of attention too much to hear her, but the woman looked over her shoulder and, despite crimson cheeks, nodded.

Mr. Carey shifted to the banister on his left and began climbing the steps.

Thank God for little boys,
Bethia thought.

****

What did you forget?
Noah asked himself, trying to
decipher the message in Miss Rayborn’s expression. Had he not gotten the point across that he was quitting? Was she about to insist he come back and complete the fitting?

“Are you Mr. Carey?” the boy who had shouted asked as Noah drew near.

“Jimmy . . .” the woman holding the boy’s hand said.

Despite the crushing disappointment, as well as the discomfort of having morris dancing ants frolicking beneath his clothes, Noah nodded and gave the boy an ironic smile. He had finally gained
some
recognition in London. Or at least
below
London.

The wardrobe mistress had returned to the top of the stairs and waited off to the side in the booking hall with hands clasped together.

“Miss Rayborn?” Noah said, joining her.

“Forgive me for calling you back,” she said. “But I’ve some information that you may find helpful.”

“If you’re referring to an audition elsewhere . . .”

“No, of course not.” She motioned toward a space less congested, between a letter box and sign reminding passengers to carry all parcels when departing the trains. “If you please?”

He supposed he had nothing to lose. Slipping hands into his trouser pockets, he said, “What is it, Miss Rayborn?”

“I’ve a book at home that I consult now and again,” she replied. “
Textiles and Weaves.
There is a section that mentions an intolerance to wool, which causes one’s skin to break out in rashes. And your
suit
is obviously wool.”

He appreciated how she got immediately to the point. Even if the point was incorrect. “Wool isn’t the problem, Miss Rayborn. I’ve been surrounded by sheep all my life. In fact, I sheered dozens just before I came down here, with no ill effect.”

“The book says a person can develop the intolerance suddenly, and at any time in his life.”

That rang too familiar to Noah’s ears. “A chemist said the same of soap.”

She did not look surprised, which surprised
him
until he remembered she was part of the theatre. Even the Royal Court’s mice probably had learned of his supposed soap intolerance.

“I believed him and changed brands,” Noah went on. “The only place I’ve seen any improvement at all is on my hands.” But the bloody whelps on the backs were still healing, so he continued allowing them to rest in his pockets rather than repulse her.

“Do you wash your face and hair with soap?” Miss Rayborn asked. “Shave?”

“Well, yes.”

She peered up at his cheeks, forehead. “Miss Lidstone’s right. No trace of a rash there, Mr. Carey. Does your face itch?”

“Not at all.” He thought a second. “It never has, actually.”

“Your scalp?”

He shook his head.

“Then, how can it be soap?”

That sounded reasonable. And the rash all over his feet could be attributed to woolen stockings. Noah thought of his hands again. Why had they only broken out shortly
after
his visiting the doctor?

The answer came in a flash.

“Miss Rayborn, I think you may have something there.”

“Yes?”

“My hands were fine until a doctor recommended rubbing lanolin into my skin. Naturally I got it all over my hands.”

As her expression faded, Noah could almost hear the wheels of her mind turning, trying to make a connection. He smiled. “Lanolin is made from wool. Or rather, the oil in the follicle.”

She was nodding now, eyes bright. “Yes, I’ve heard that, now that you mention it—probably from my brother-in-law. He—” She stopped and gave her head an abrupt shake. “But that doesn’t matter, does it? Mr. Carey, it stands to reason that if you stop wearing wool, you’ll recover, yes?”

His hopes had climbed that same staircase twice, only to tumble to the bottom. Yet, perhaps because of the belief in her blue eyes, he wanted to believe as well.

And that posed another problem. He passed a hand over his face, realized what he was doing, and shoved it back into his pocket. “How does a man go about avoiding wool, Miss Rayborn? I know next to nothing of cloth. My shirts are probably linen or silk. But coats, trousers . . . are they not always wool?”

After all, he was from Yorkshire.
Houses
would have been made of wool if it were practical.

Miss Rayborn shook her head. “There are some fabrics that serve just as well. Henrietta cloth, for example.”

“Henry . . .”

“It’s almost identical to fine cashmere, but it’s made of silk. And Strasburg cloth, from cotton. We use them all the time up in wardrobe. They keep their shape better and are more comfortable under the lights.”

Doubts began tugging at Noah’s mind. How much money dared he invest to test her theory? London tailors were probably more expensive than those in York. What if he had a couple of suits made and nothing changed?

But what if she was the sign he had prayed for just minutes ago? What had he expected . . . writing in the sky?

“Miss Rayborn, do you know of a reasonably priced tailor?” he asked. “One who would make me a suit or two from one of the types of cloth you mentioned?”

She leaned her head thoughtfully. “A friend of my family owns a shop on Saville Row. But it would be a shame to go to that expense and discover that wool isn’t the culprit after all, wouldn’t it?”

“I see no other options before me. And it’s worth the risk. May I have his name?”

Instead of replying, she said, “Mr. Carey, I believe I have a better idea. Will you walk back to the theatre with me?”

Noah glanced toward the arched doorway that led out to Sloan Square. “I’ve already tendered my resignation.”

She slipped a hand into the crook of his arm, not in a flirtatious manner, but as she might if he were a brother or close acquaintance. “Trust me, the McGuires will be most happy to see you.”

****

“The coat and two pairs of trousers we made for Mr. Hicks for
A Pair of Spectacles
are just sitting up in storage,” Bethia said to Jewel and Grady, while Mr. Carey sat wearing the expression of a man who is not quite certain what is going on about him. “He hardly wore them, and it will be years before you run the play again, if at all.”

“We’ll lend them to Mr. Carey,” said Grady, the first to catch on. He turned to the actor. “Can’t hurt to stay on and wait this out for a few more days, yes?”

A slight glimmer of hope crept into Mr. Carey’s brown eyes. “But what if I damage them . . . spill something . . .”

“We’re not concerned over that,” Jewel replied and winked at Bethia. “Not with our excellent wardrobe staff.”

“In fact,” Grady said, “we would give them to you were they not the property of Messrs. Fry and Cumberland. But as this experiment may save us the trouble of looking for another understudy, they would urge you to give this a try.”

Jewel nodded thoughtfully. “Have you considered blankets?”

“Blankets?” Bethia bit her lip. That had not even entered her mind, what with it being August. But even August night temperatures could dip down into the fifties.

“We have a couple Mother brought back from India when we lived there,” Jewel went on. “We never use them, and they’re nice heavy cotton. I’ll bring them tomorrow.”

Mr. Carey looked overwhelmed. “That’s too much. I can’t accept—”

“Mother would be glad to know they were put to use,” Jewel insisted.

****

“I’m afraid you’re on your own as far as stockings go,” Bethia said as Mr. Carey followed her up the stairs. “I’ll telephone Mr. Somerset—the tailor I mentioned. He’ll know where to find silk ones if he doesn’t stock them himself.”

The footsteps behind her fell silent. Bethia turned, hand upon the banister.

“Miss Rayborn,” he said. “I appreciate your help more than I can say. But my feet will rot before I pull on a pair of women’s stockings.”

“For men, Mr. Carey.”

“Oh.” He gave her a sheepish look. “I forget this is London. I suppose one can buy them made of cheese if one knows where to look.”

“I can ask Mr. Somerset about cheese stockings, if you wish.”

Mr. Carey returned her smile. “Silk will be fine.”

In the wardrobe room, Mrs. Hamby, Miss Lidstone, Mr. Graham, and Mr. Birch ceased chatting to gape at them.

“Mr. Carey has decided to stay after all,” Bethia said. “We suspect an intolerance to wool is causing the problem.”

“Ah,” Mr. Birch said, nodding. “Interesting. Welcome back, Mr. Carey.”

Bethia could have kissed the old man, for the discomfort eased from Mr. Carey’s face. She asked the actor to have a seat so that she could look over Mr. Graham’s newly hemmed trousers. Then while Mr. Birch helped Mr. Graham change behind the screen, Bethia went next door and dug out a Henrietta-cloth coat and two pairs of trousers from the racks.

It so turned out that the coat for
A Pair of Spectacles
fit nicely, if a bit tight in the shoulders. And all the trousers required was taking up two inches in the waist and letting out an inch in the hems. With no more actors to fit for the day, Bethia and the seamstresses were able to devote themselves to the task, while Mr. Carey sat in flannel wrapper and
listened to Mr. Birch’s accounts of his earlier years onstage at the Adelphi.

“I played one of the ruffians conscripted by Macbeth,” the old man said, voice softened with fond memory. “Sarah Woolgar played Lady Macbeth. We utility actors were madly in love with her.”

“Even as Lady Macbeth?” Mr. Carey teased, causing Bethia and Miss Lidstone to trade smiles over their sewing.

Mr. Birch shook a bony finger. “She was an angel backstage, young man.”

“Sorry. Did she marry one of you?”

“No. Can’t recall the fellow’s name. He wasn’t even an actor.”

“I suppose that broke all of your hearts?”

“Not really.” Mr. Birch shrugged. “We knew our hopes were pipe dreams. And when God sent me my own angel, I had no thought for another woman. Nor have I since she passed on after thirty happy years of marriage.”

“That’s so . . . so
sweet,
Mr. Birch, ha-ha,” said Mrs. Hamby, dabbing her eyes with her fingertips.

He gave her a sentimental smile and did not even scold her for the laugh.

Presently Mr. Carey stood before them in the Henrietta-cloth coat and a pair of corded trousers. Miss Lidstone had even found three pairs of men’s cotton stockings in the back of a cupboard drawer.

Twenty-Five

After supper in the parlour Bethia related the events of the day to her family, save Danny, who was up in Edinburgh for summer lectures. Her family shared a keen interest in such things; for years William had been bringing home stories of discoveries made in the laboratory of the Hassall Commission.

“Hard to believe the doctor prescribed lanolin without investigating further,” William said, shaking his head.