Leading Lady (39 page)

“I’m actually glad it doesn’t,” Jewel said with a feigned shudder. The hums and drones of conversations just outside the door reminded her that she needed to be out in the corridor chatting with patrons, congratulating other members of the cast. “Now that you mention management, I really must be—”

“Wait!” He gave her a pleading look. “I don’t quite know how to ask this, but will you hint around to Lady Holt, find out what it is I’m doing that repels her?”

“I’m sure you don’t repel her, Mr. Whitmore.”

“But I don’t attract her either. She’s completely indifferent toward me. If I could just know what I’m doing wrong, that would be a tremendous help.”

“Well, you realize she’s been in mourning for almost two months.”

He nodded soberly, ran a hand through his dyed hair. “Yes, of course. And I’m deeply sorry over her brother. But she’s paid me scant notice from her first day here. I don’t think that has anything to do with it.”

“You feel
that
strongly for her?”

She had to ask, even though the word that he was smitten with Muriel
had
reached management’s two sets of ears. Over the years she had witnessed a succession of admiring ladies upon the actor’s arm, and she had doubts to his staying power in any relationship. The fact that she was Muriel’s cousin gave her the responsibility for questioning his motives.

“I love her, Mrs. McGuire,” he said earnestly.

The tremor in his voice was touching. Then again, Muriel said to herself, he
was
an actor. Not that Mr. Whitmore, for all his faults, would deliberately attempt to deceive her. But self-deception was the most powerful of deceptions. Actors spent years stepping back and forth over the line separating fantasy from reality, and sometimes that line became blurred in the mind.

“Are you quite sure, Mr. Whitmore? Or could it be that her indifference presents a challenge?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything. You’ll help me, won’t you Mrs. McGuire? Drop a hint? Be my detective?”

She gave it some thought while he stared at her with love-sick eyes. At length she had to shake her head regretfully. “It wouldn’t be right, Mr. Whitmore . . . going behind her back. We aren’t children on the grammar school playground. The only way I can oblige you is to ask her directly, admitting that I’m inquiring upon your behalf.”

His eyes widened with panic. “No, please—”

“Then you could do it yourself. She doesn’t bite.”

At least not since she was a tot. According to Mother, she and Aunt Phyllis once did not speak to each other for weeks over some teeth marks. Jewel automatically rubbed her arm, even though she had no memory of the event.

Mr. Whitmore was shaking his head, expression crestfallen. “I just can’t. Not yet, anyway.”

“I’m sorry I can’t help you. But may I offer some advice?”

“What is it?” he asked with pathetic eagerness.

She had to take a second to decide how to phrase this without slandering her cousin. “Lady Holt is quite used to having men admire her. You might try cooling your ardor.”

“And you think that would work?”

“I’m afraid I can offer you no guarantee,” she admitted.

****

From the corner of her eye Jewel noticed the usual stares, nods of recognition, murmured conferences that Muriel drew as they followed the maître d’ in the Savoy’s vast dining hall. No doubt many recognized her from the stage, which would explain the sympathy in many expressions, for Mr. Shaw’s column had praised the beautiful young actress
“whose dedication to London theatre patrons and to her fellow cast members inspires her to trade mourning gown for May Edward’s rustic costume.”

Thankfully those mourning clothes seemed to inhibit any autograph seekers, so they were able to study the menus in peace.

“Grady is considering holding over
The Ticket-of-Leave Man,
” Jewel said after the server left with their orders—Jewel’s, lamb cutlets and French beans; Muriel’s, curried grouse and bread sauce.

Muriel raised the netting from over most of her face to secure it to the crown of her hat with a pin. “I promised Mother a visit when it closes, but I suppose she can wait a little longer.”

She gave Jewel a guilty look. “I’m actually a bit relieved. It’s so gloomy up there. Mother hasn’t work to distract her,
as I have. And with her physical limitations, she has long days just to sit and think.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Her cousin shrugged. “Well, I’m glad she has Bernard and Agatha close by, and your mother still calls on her regularly. Let’s change the subject, shall we? I lose my appetite when I’m sad.”

“Very well,” Jewel said and ceased folding the napkin in her lap into triangles to try to think of a subject that would not give away the reason she had asked Muriel to lunch. But impatience got the best of her, and she blurted, “You’re having a tea Thursday?”

“Why, yes,” Muriel replied, clearly not taken aback, almost as if she had anticipated the question.

So much for subtlety,
Jewel thought. “I see.”

“I hope you understand why I didn’t invite you,” Muriel said. “It’s for a few of the ladies on the Square. I thought it would be nice to become better acquainted with them before we plunge back into rehearsals. How did you find out?”

“Bethia’s delighted over your having hired Guy Russell to play. But . . . you’ve never done anything like this before.”

“I beg to differ. I tried to have a party for Georgiana, remember?”

“And what makes you think the same thing won’t happen?” Jewel said carefully.

“I wasn’t famous then,” Muriel said with a dry smile. “But to give my neighbors credit, some showed their support after Douglas passed on. I’d like to repay them.”

Now Jewel was confused. For the past three weeks, ever since Muriel’s first peace offering to Bethia, a vague, nebulous suspicion had anchored itself to Jewel’s mind. But when she discussed as much with Grady, he reasoned that the death of a loved one often prompted a person to reflect upon his own philosophy of life.

“Why not give her credit for wanting to change, until you have reason to suspect otherwise?” he had said.

The fact that she was
Muriel
was reason enough to suspect otherwise. Jewel had not said this to Grady, however, but decided to wait for the other shoe to drop.

But was this the shoe? Or did the shoe even exist? Could Grady possibly be right?

She cleared her throat. “Grady and I appreciate how pleasant you’ve been toward Bethia lately. More than you can know. But why Guy Russell, of all people?”

“Of all people?” Her cousin blinked at her. “You speak as if he plays for pennies on street corners. You’ve said he’s gifted, and I can afford quality.”

“Yes, but . . . are you quite sure you’ve
completely
forgiven Bethia?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Because if you haven’t, I wouldn’t want her to get hurt.”

“And how would my hiring Mr. Russell hurt her, pray tell?” Muriel asked, folding her arms.

Jewel shifted her weight in her chair, glanced away.

“Well . . . ?”

Please don’t make me spell it out,
Jewel begged silently.

Her cousin gaped at her, shook her head. “I can’t believe this, Jewel. You’re afraid I’ll try to steal him away from her for spite? And a man I’ve never met?”

Lamely Jewel said, “Well, it could happen in spite of you. Men fall in love with you all the time.”

“And this is why you asked me to lunch.” Muriel’s tone was flat.

Jewel drew in a breath and held it, saving it for carrying out just the right reply. When none rose in her mind, she attached to it the feeble words, “
One
of the reasons, yes. But it’s just as true that I wanted to spend time with you and Georgiana.”

Muriel’s stare was so piercing, so wounded, that Jewel steeled herself for an outburst. To her utter surprise, her cousin lowered her eyes to stare at her gloved hands clasped upon the cloth.

“I suppose I deserve that.”

“Now, I didn’t intend to dredge up old—”

Her cousin shook her head. “Father once said there is never quite enough glue to repair a shattered reputation completely. Mother and I mocked him behind his back, but I understand now what he meant.”

This isn’t going as well as I’d hoped,
Jewel thought. If only they were at the Royal Court instead of the Savoy; Mr. Webb could shake his head and say “Once again, and this time read the
correct
lines!”

They would start over, chatting of the cool early-September breezes outside, or of how quickly Georgiana was growing, or of how nice it was to have the theatre full again. Instead, she had blundered, practically accused Muriel of some nefarious plot for which she had no evidence.

She broke up a marriage,
rose defensively in Jewel’s mind. Muriel would have to answer to God for that. But the liability did not rest solely upon her shoulders. An indulged and naïve fifteen-year-old could not have inflicted such damage without Lord Holt’s willing participation.

And Guy Russell and the late Lord Holt were as different as Whigs and Tories. He would play his violin and place his wages toward the terrace house in Kensington. And Muriel would impress her neighbors, who would recommend Guy to their circles of acquaintance, thereby leading to more engagements and more money put aside for the marriage nest egg.

This was a
good
thing. Muriel was indeed paying Bethia a favor.

You’ve been reading too many playscripts,
Jewel said to herself. She leaned forward to take Muriel’s hand. “I’m wrong, Muriel. So wrong. Please forgive me?”

Her cousin squeezed her hand and waved away her apology with the other. Tears shimmered in her eyes. “There is nothing to forgive.”

“But there is. You’re doing a good deed, and I go and practically accuse you. I’m so ashamed.”

“Then I forgive you, if it makes you feel better,” Muriel
said, averting her eyes. “And you’ll forgive
me
if I say this conversation is beginning to bore me. Now, may we talk of something else?”

Twenty-Nine

A perfect setting,
Muriel said to herself, picking up a petit four from a tray on the table and popping it into her mouth. Cottonlike clouds suspended in a Wedgwood-blue sky, the garden awash in color with frothy pink and white gypsophila, canary yellow aster, delicate lilac buddleia, and velvety red clematis. The garden had not suffered under the sole attention of Mr. Watterson, she had to admit.

The servants were all starched and ready, with Joyce standing unobtrusively just outside the back door waiting for the signal to bring out the tea, and Mrs. Burles inside watching the front door. They were actors in her playscript, playing their parts without even being aware of doing so.

But the thought of having Georgiana here this afternoon had disturbed her, for reasons she could not quite fathom; hence, she had sent her with Prescott to the Zoological Gardens. A pang of regret had struck her as she watched Ham hold open the coach door for them. Georgiana had had to be prompted by her nanny to cease babbling over the animals she expected to see long enough to turn her little cheek up dutifully for a farewell kiss.

You can always stop this foolishness and go with them,
a little voice had prodded. She could leave payment for Mr. Russell’s trouble with Mrs. Burles. The wavering had lasted only a second. The zoo would always be there, and she had put too many plans into motion to back out now.

Besides, it was far from foolish to avenge poor Douglas’s death. She had but to imagine him trembling and coughing up sputum on a cot in a mission hospital, tended by strangers, and her resolve was strengthened. No one had the right to treat any Pearce the way Bethia Rayborn had treated her brother.

Muriel congratulated herself for her restraint. She certainly
could inflict a lot more pain, should she desire. But she would not go so far as to
keep
this Mr. Russell once she had snatched him away. As if she wanted him! She would allow him to go whimpering back to Bethia once her point had been made.

Her only regret was that Jewel would be livid, especially after being assured that she had no plans for revenge. Her cousin had to bear some of the blame, Muriel reminded herself, for refusing to discharge Bethia from the theatre.

She had no fear of being sacked herself. Not with a full house every performance! And besides, if the scenario she had orchestrated moved along as planned, her fingerprints would not be evident upon the playscript. Just a simple transference of affection. It happened all the time.

“Lady Holt?”

Joyce’s voice. Muriel turned and met the blue eyes of the young man who had dashed out into the rain from the steps of the Royal Court. He was dressed formally, in black tailcoat and trousers, white waistcoat cut low over pleated white shirt, a white bow tie at the collar, white gloves. Short brown hair sprouted from his head in all directions like picta grass, and a faint ridge plowed the sides from the top hat he carried. Untidy as his hair was, it gave him a rather endearing look, as that of a small boy who has to be pinned down by a nanny to be groomed.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Russell,” Muriel said, taking three steps forward. “Thank you for agreeing to play.”

“Thank you for asking, Lady Holt.” His right hand held the violin case. He did not tuck the top hat under his left arm to be prepared in case she should she offer her hand. Indeed, there was something very akin to mistrust behind the polite expression. Muriel smiled to herself. Not since auditioning for the role of Lady Audley had she come across any sort of challenge. This would almost be amusing.

The violin case he held prompted a memory.

“So that’s what you were carrying,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Forgive me . . . I was thinking out loud. The day of dress rehearsal, when you left the Royal Court you were shielding something from the rain with your coat.”

“I had to dash to my own rehearsal,” he said, hefting the case a bit.