Leading Lady (46 page)

“No, you definitely weren’t meant to teach piano. You’re still concerned over wasting my money. May I be frank with you, Mr. Russell?”

“Please, Lady Holt.”

“Thanks to shrewd investments my late husband made, there is more in my account than I can spend in a lifetime. I do not say this with any pride, mind you, for I did nothing to earn it. I don’t know a stock certificate from a bill of sale. So even if the lessons turn out to be a waste of money, it won’t cause a hardship. And I would have afforded Gladys some pleasure.”

He sat silent, chewing a bite of pigeon pie, digesting her little speech. “What’s it like?” he asked at length. Cautiously, as if against his better judgment.

“What’s what like?” she asked, though she knew.

“Having more money than you can spend.”

Her eyes locked with his. “It’s quite nice, Mr. Russell. I can afford to be charitable to people like Gladys. And it allows me to give gifts to people I admire.”

****

Muriel lingered at her dressing table that evening at the Royal Court. Jewel knocked and stuck her head into the room. “Good, you’re still here. I had to explain to a reporter that after a show isn’t a convenient time to be pressing for an
interview. I just wanted to congratulate you on another excellent performance.”

“Thank you,” Muriel said, turning again to her mirror to wipe rouge from her cheek. “But I don’t mind giving an interview.”

Not tonight, when she needed an excuse to linger.

Her cousin stepped on inside and closed the door. “He actually was asking for Mr. Carey. Because he only played that one performance, most reporters haven’t
seen
his face, so it’s useless to hover about the stage door at night. Especially when he avoids them.”

“Oh,” Muriel said flatly. It was not too long ago that
she
was the biggest novelty at the Royal Court.

The mirror revealed the uneasiness in Jewel’s reflected face. “They’re intrigued about his being an earl and the like. I’m sure the attention will temper off soon.”

“No doubt the publicity is good for you. Why does Mr. Carey avoid reporters?”

Muriel asked the question simply to mask her feeling of disappointment, not because she gave a whit about “His Smugness.” She would
never
address him as Lord Danby, she thought, even though an earl was only outranked by a duke and a marquise on the peerage scale, and Sidney’s title as baron fell at the very bottom.
He may outrank you,
she said to herself,
but you don’t live in a crumbling lodging house or lurk about the greenroom hoping someone falls ill so you can act.

“He wants to be judged by his talent,” Jewel said. “Not some melodrama they’ve cooked up about his background.”

“Hard to do when you rarely walk out onstage,” Muriel said flippantly.

****

She halfway expected to see Mr. Russell outside the stage door, but she was not surprised when he was not among the half dozen people seeking to have their playbills inscribed. There were those who would recognize his face.

Can you see me now, Douglas?
she thought as the coach clattered down fog-shrouded streets.
Will you rest easier after she has paid?

Whether he would or not, she had no way of knowing. As for herself, untroubled sleep was becoming a thing of the past. She felt as if she were walking downhill, taking bigger and bigger steps to stay balanced, unable to stop. A little part of her said that only letting go of her obsession with Bethia Rayborn’s crime would bring her peace. But having already stepped out onstage, she had to play her part.

She was glad Georgiana was up in Sheffield. The idea of her being under the same roof, albeit a different floor, was disturbing. A warning sting came to her eyes. She blinked and tried to comfort herself by allowing her mind to travel back across the highlights of this evening’s performance. The audience had loved her, as usual. Their goodwill flowed up onstage like a serene river, sustaining her. If only she could find a way to bottle that goodwill, she thought, she would have it for the low times.

Mr. Russell was seated on the top step of her house, a fog-blurred form eerily illuminated by the light over the door.

“Shall I see you to the door, m’Lady?” Ham asked after helping her to the pavement, eyeing the figure, who was now standing.

Muriel could see the violin case through the fog. She had paid a courier boy to deliver it to the flat above the saddle shop on Bond Street at five so that Mr. Russell would not have the opportunity to come out here until the Royal Opera and the Royal Court let out. “No. I’m fine,” she replied.

“I can wait.”

“No.”

He climbed back into the driver’s seat. Hooves clattered down the street on their way to the mews. Muriel walked toward the door.

“Lady Holt,” her visitor said. He was still dressed in white
tie and tails. The violin case rested in the crook of one arm. The top hat was still perched upon a step behind him.

“Good evening, Mr. Russell.” Even though she was an actress, it would have been silly to pretend surprise. “How was the opera?”

“You know that I cannot accept this.”

They stood only three feet apart. Close enough for her to see the confusion in the young man’s face, even though darkness hooded his eyes.

“Then you’ll disappoint me,” she said, taking a step closer.

Hesitation, then, “I love Bethia.”

Softly, Muriel said, “Of course you do.”

For you, Douglas.

“But you
like
me. Isn’t that so, Mr. Russell?”

Thirty-Four

“What say you to a couple of steaks, now that we have a little more pocket money?” Jude said as he and Noah walked away from St. Andrew’s on Sunday the ninth of October.

Their finances were a bit healthier now that Jude had a minor speaking role and Noah was rehearsing for one. But Noah had to pass, regretfully. “I’m saving for another suit. I’d like to give back the clothes I borrowed from wardrobe as soon as possible. But you go.”

His friend shook his head. “We would be foolish to pass up the only non-soup day at the lodging house anyway. But when we’ve claimed our success we’ll have steak every day.”

“Except the days we have lobster,” Noah said, absently kicking a small stone.

“And pheasant.” Jude kicked it next.

The sun overhead pleasantly warmed an afternoon as crisp as a fall apple. A fine day for being out-of-doors, Noah thought. “Why don’t we walk out to the embankment later? All I plan to do is write home sometime today.”

“Don’t you have to study?”

Noah tapped his temple. “I have it all down.”

Not only his forty-two words, but Mr. Whitmore’s lines as well. Having already acted
The Ticket-of-Leave Man
in York meant Noah had only to read over the playscript now and again to refresh his memory, giving him ample time to study ahead for
The Bells.

“How is Miss Rayborn?” Jude asked. They had caught up with an older man and woman strolling at a leisurely pace, and so to file past them meant leaving the stone in its new habitation.

Noah scowled at him. “Engaged. As if you didn’t know.”

“All’s fair in love and war, you know,” Jude persisted, like a gnat that refused to be fanned away from his ear.

“Why do you come out with these things?” Noah asked. “Two months ago you were quoting poetry about guarding my heart.”

“You obviously didn’t listen. So now I have to help you win her. Besides, I rather liked her. She thought I was witty. I could tell.”

They had reached the lodging house. Noah opened the door and paused. “I appreciate your looking out for me, but do pay me the favor of letting this drop, will you? It’s a lost cause.”

Jude shrugged, but with understanding in his dun-colored eyes. “Whatever you wish, big fellow.”

****

Bethia raised the lid of the rosewood davenport in the parlour that was shared by all members of the family, even though each bedchamber had a writing table. Danny had only been away two-and-a-half weeks, but by the time a letter reached him, another week would have passed. She knew from experience how welcome was news from home. And in the parlour, she had family input.

“Tell him John has Mr. Lamb for calculus,” Sarah said.

Sarah says that John has Mr. Lamb for calculus,
Bethia wrote.

“The macaroons,” Mother reminded, crochet needle spearing and looping white yarn through a half-completed baby blanket, a gift for a neighbor up the road who was expected to deliver by Christmas.

Mother and Trudy made macaroons for you Friday. They will take longer to reach you than this letter, so expect them any day.

“And the pens.” This from William, at the chess table with Father.

“What brand were they?” Bethia asked, her own pen to the side over the blotter. After he replied, she wrote
William enclosed two Jointless Lucky Curve pens.

She looked to her father, who lifted his eyes from the chess board. “Remind him that we love him.”

Bethia smiled. She admired her father for so many things. His thirst for knowledge. His faithfulness toward Mother. His wry humor. His godliness. Integrity.

But his sweetness she appreciated most. It was a shame that the adjective was used primarily for the praise of little girls with curly hair and lace dresses, for it was just as endearing in the soft lines of an aged face.

Father says to remind you that we love you.

The tears that would bring to Danny’s eyes would last only for a few seconds, and then he would blink them away and go about his studies with the usual quiet confidence that came from knowing his moorings were secured firmly in the harbor of loving family. She knew that from receiving such letters herself.

Included with her own words was the news about Mr. Carey’s being an earl. Danny would never admit it, but he enjoyed hearing what was going on backstage. She addressed and stamped the envelope, but left it and the letter on the open desktop. Guy would want to add something, if only a greeting.

She returned to share the sofa with Sarah, who was reading a copy of Henry James’s
What Maisie Knew.
A second later the telephone rang from the lamp table. Her half sister reached for it.

“Oh, good afternoon, Guy.” She smiled at Bethia. “Yes, she’s right here.”

They had to trade places, for the cord only reached so far. Settling in her corner of the sofa, Bethia positioned the earpiece and spoke into the mouthpiece. “Hello . . . Guy?”

“Hello, Bethia. I’m afraid I’ll not be able to see you today after all.”

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Fine, Lil—” he began, but cut off the endearment and said with hurried voice, “I haven’t quite committed this . . .
this Shamus O’Brien piece to memory. I’m going to have to spend some time on it before tomorrow’s practice.”

“Guy . . .” Deflated, she sank back into the sofa. With his and her busy schedules, she so looked forward to their Sunday afternoons. But at least he seemed to be recovered from the bad cold that kept him away last week. Wise of him to stay indoors out of the rain, lest it develop into pneumonia.

“I know. I’m disappointed too. But I’m the newest violinist, remember? I have to pull my weight.”

“They didn’t teach it at University?” she asked, for it was not like Guy to admit unfamiliarity with any piece of music.

“Teach an opera by an English composer?” The chuckle that came through the earpiece seemed a trifle forced. “There would have been riots in Bologna.”

“Is everything all right?” Mother asked as Bethia stood the telephone back on its table.

“He has to practice,” Bethia replied and smiled, for both parents studied her with concern in their expressions. Sometimes it was as if her forehead were made of glass, allowing them to read her thoughts. Or most accurately, her worries.

Guy has never lied to you,
she reminded herself. If his voice sounded a little odd, it was probably from frustration with the piece of music he was learning.

That, and from the disappointment of not being able to see her, of course.

****

“Please, Mr. Whitmore,” Jewel said on Wednesday the twelfth of October, two hours before another rehearsal for
The Bells
was to commence. “Please . . . you can’t
seriously
think of leaving.”

The actor gave her a regretful look from the chair facing Grady’s desk. As soon as he broke the news, Jewel and Grady had abandoned their own chairs to flank either side of him.

“Don’t think I enjoy the thought of leaving, Mrs. McGuire.
You’re like family. But it’s time I moved on. Drury Lane Theatre has offered me
Hamlet.
”

Grady passed a hand over his face. “
The Bells
opens in seventeen days. You signed a contract.”

“Which is no longer binding, since you set back the date.”

“We’ve never had to draw up new contracts after holdovers before.”

“But you should, according to my attorney. Once the opening date changes, the contract has to be renegotiated.”

That was correct, Jewel realized. With Royal Court being smaller than the Strand theatres, and with so many cast and crew staying on year after year, they had made the mistake of taking for granted that it would always be so. Of treating the business as if it were a small family concern.

Messrs. Cumberland and Fry would not be happy. She and Grady would most certainly lose their positions. Grady groaned, his mind clearly having reached that same conclusion. “We’ll be ruined.”

“That’s simply not so.” Mr. Whitmore shifted in his chair. “Look how you weathered Mrs. Steel’s leaving. You have Mr. Carey. He’s quite good, you know.”

“He’s not
you,
” Jewel said.

“
I
wasn’t me when I first came here. Everyone has to start somewhere. And look at the publicity he’s already generated. Think of how it will look on posters and playbills.” He made corners in the air with thumbs and fingers, as if forming a poster. “
Lady Holt and Lord Danby
at Royal Court. Drury Lane can’t even boast
one
peer, much less two.”