Leading Lady (48 page)

He turned to her. The whites of his eyes were pink, making the irises seem even bluer. “We’ve fallen in love.”

“Guy . . .” Tears stung her own eyes. “Muriel is leading you on out of revenge toward me. Can’t you see that?”

“She said you would say that. There’s a side to her that few people know, Bethia. It’s as if we’re soul mates, if that makes any sense.”

“It makes no sense at all. I love you. For years, you’ve said you love me.”

I
still
love you, Bethia,” he said thickly.

She shook her head. “But you love her more.”

He looked away again.

“After knowing her for how long?” Bethia asked. The tears clinging to her jaw turned cold and dropped upon the front of her coat. “Five weeks? Six?”

“How can I explain how she makes me feel?” He wiped his cheeks with his coat sleeve. “This is so awful, Bethia. You’re such a good person. I would rather
die
than hurt you.”

“And yet you still live,” she said with dark dryness. “Why couldn’t you do this out at the house? I never knew you to be a coward.”

He winced as if she had slapped him. “You’re so protective of your parents. I just assumed you would rather . . .”

“I can’t believe you don’t see how Muriel’s using you.”

“You’re wrong, Bethia.” The coach rocked to a gentle stop across the Square from the theatre. Pathetic earnestness filled Guy’s expression. “She feels as bad about this as I do, if that’s any consolation.”

He’s serious,
she thought, staring at the face she had thought she knew so well. Serious, and deluded. Every hollow space inside her face felt impacted with concrete. She pulled a handkerchief from her handbag, wiped her eyes and cheeks and blew her nose, then reached for the door handle.

“Very well, Guy. Have a good life.”

“Wait . . .” Finally he touched her, a restraining hand upon the sleeve of her coat. “Don’t go like that, Bethia. Please. We have to talk.”

She shook his hand away. “What more is there to say? You’ve taken leave of your senses. And I don’t want to be with anyone who doesn’t want to be with me.”

Pain caused her to hurl that at him. But if he would speak her name with any tenderness and regret in his voice, take back his dreadful words, she knew that she would throw herself into his arms. When he only sat rubbing his forehead, she was glad for what she had said. She would not beg him to love her. He did not have a monopoly on pride.

“Please, Bethia,” he said from inside as she stepped to the pavement.

Pedestrians and traffic seemed to be moving behind the gauze curtain used for nightmare scenes at the Royal Court. Irrationally, she was stung by the coldness of the milieu, that people could continue with their usual routines without heed to the devastation of a human being in their vicinity.
You can’t go to work like this,
she thought. Nor take the underground home. She could tell from the heat in her skin that her face was splotched, and her stinging eyes were already beginning to swell. Not that she gave a whit about her appearance, but she could not abide the curious and even sympathetic stares of strangers.

She turned and almost collided with Guy, exiting the coach.

“You don’t need this any more,” she said, moving aside so he could pass without their touching. When he was out of the way, she stepped back inside. “Give the driver my address.”

“Yes, of course,” he said from the door opening. His face was anxious. Whether he was anxious for her or anxious to get over to Muriel and say that the deed was done—or both—did not really matter anymore. “And I’ll pay him.”

Bethia drew in a breath. “Don’t you
dare.
”

While the wheels rolled she was grateful for curtains to draw over the windows. She wept and allowed Guy’s words to run though her mind again and again, as if by dissecting them she would be able somehow to make sense of the situation.

At length her mind paused at his statement about her parents. She indeed wished to shield them from this. They would not be able to bear seeing her this way. But how would she explain coming home? And how could she
not
go home, when it seemed the coach could not reach Hampstead soon enough?

She forced her grief-dulled mind to plot. She would signal the coachman to stop just before the carriage drive, and then she’d go around the back of the house. If she met Jack, the gardener, on the way to the terrace door, she would simply explain that she felt a little ill. Which she did. Ill at heart. By the time word spread to other servants and then her family, she would hopefully have had at least a couple of hours of privacy in her room.

“Are you sure you want out in the road like this, Miss?” the coachman, bearded and stocky, said as she dropped a sovereign into his hand on Cannonhall Road. It was far more than the fare warranted, but she did not possess the energy even to care.

Bethia averted her burning eyes from his compassionate ones. “Yes, thank you.”

He tsked his tongue, shook his head. “Men are such rakes.”

She did not believe that. But it felt good to hear it anyway.

Her plan worked. The only sign of Jack was the metallic sound of some garden implement being sharpened in the
potting shed. And she didn’t meet anyone on the servants’ staircase in the back of the house. As she eased her bedchamber door shut, she was grateful that the bed was made, which meant Susan had already cleaned.

For at least an hour, perhaps two, she lay sideways with the pillow shoved under her neck, stirring only whenever the handkerchief needed to be put to use.

Why, Father?

She swallowed. The stuffiness of her face caused her ears to pop.

I haven’t been perfect, but I’ve tried to do the things that would please you.

It was not always easy, either. She had loved Guy for so long. His kisses, his embraces left her so lightheaded that it had sometimes been tempting to rationalize going further.

Sounds of movement came from the bedchamber on the west side. William would still be at work for hours, and the bedrooms on this side had apparently been cleaned for the day. She took a chance that the person was Sarah and got up. She slipped through the neighboring doorway without knocking.

Her sister stood at her chest rumbling through a drawer and muttering to herself.

“I
know
it’s here.”

“Sarah?”

Sarah jumped, then smiled, exhaling, just as Bethia had done earlier. “Oh, Beth . . .” The smile froze. “What’s the matter?”

With throat raw, Bethia told her. Her sister held her while she wept some more.

“That’s why he stopped coming around,” Sarah said, rubbing Bethia’s back. “I could just strangle him!”

Bethia did not believe that either, but again, it felt good to hear it. She stepped back to wipe her eyes again. “Do you know where Mother and Father are?”

“They’re out for a walk on the Heath.”

That meant the parlour was free and clear, at least of
parents. “Will you ring Jewel for me? I’m afraid she’ll call here, if she hasn’t already.”

“Certainly.” Her sister’s lips pressed together. “Shall I inform her of what their
star
has done?”

Bethia rested a hand upon Sarah’s arm. As comforting as it was to have her older sister want to fight her battles, she could not allow blame where it did not belong. “This isn’t Jewel’s fault, Sarah.”

Sarah gave a reluctant sigh. “I suppose not.”

“Just say that I don’t feel well.”

Which was again the truth, if an understatement.

“And please don’t mention Muriel to Mother and Father,” Bethia went on. “I don’t want them to know the sordid details.”

“Very well.” Sarah gave her an understanding look. “But you may not be able to hide that from them forever.”

“At least I can try.”

“They’re stronger than you think,” Sarah pressed. “I think it makes them feel small when we shield them from our problems.”

“Please,” Bethia said, barely capable of managing the
immediate
situation. “Will you just keep that part to yourself, for now?”

Sarah embraced her again. “But of course. Poor baby.”

****

She washed her face and came down at lunch to break the news, which turned out to be the worst possible time, because Trudy’s fried whitings lay on the dishes practically untouched. The reason she gave was that Guy no longer loved her, which was certainly accurate, despite what he had said to the contrary. Her swollen eyes made it impossible to convince them that she was weathering this just fine. But fortunately, her tear ducts had somehow decided independently that they needed rest, so at least she wasn’t dripping all over the tablecloth.

****

Bethia could not drag herself out of bed when the long night finally grayed into dawn. Having the opening of
The Bells
delayed meant that all costumes were fitted and ready, save some minor nips and tucks and loose buttons that the seamstresses could take care of without her. During one of her half-asleep, half-waking moments she wondered if she should ring Jewel. The thought of having to rise and go to the parlour settled the matter. She would stay here, wrapped in a cocoon of anguish. Jewel would just have to assume she still did not feel well.

Thankfully, family and servants did not disturb her, though she sometimes heard whispering in the corridor.

Her thoughts this morning were no clearer than yesterday’s, except for one issue. She forced her mind to see reason, even though her heart would rather attach blame. God had not caused this. He did not make sport with his children’s lives as if they were chessmen, granting affection here, withdrawing it there. This was Guy’s doing. Muriel’s doing.

Close to noon she could no longer ignore the hunger pangs that somehow traveled up to her brain through the great ache in her chest. She dressed, washed her face, and went down to lunch. Mother and Father were solicitous, worried. Even William had chosen to stay home. Everyone walked about as if there had been a death in the family.

But she was able to eat, a little. The vegetable marrow soup warmed her aching insides.

“Jewel rang,” Mother said quietly. “She said you should take the rest of the week off, that the seamstresses are managing fine. And she reminds you that the theatre’s closed next week until Friday’s dress rehearsal, so you’ll have opportunity for a good rest.”

Bethia lowered her spoon and caught Sarah’s eye. Her sister nodded back, a silent message that, yes, Mother had informed their cousin of the breakup.

“Will you resign?” Sarah asked in her room later.

“No,” Bethia replied, though she would have said otherwise
yesterday. “Muriel’s already taken Guy. I won’t hand my job over to her. She’s not going to win everything.”

“But that means you’ll have to see her.”

“Then I’ll see her. I won’t be the first person to have to work with a disagreeable person.”

Sarah folded her arms. “
Disagreeable,
Bethia?”

She was right, Bethia thought. So ingrained was the habit of trying to say the charitable thing that it was the first adjective that rose to her lips. A more appropriate one came to mind right away. “Very well then . . .
evil.
”

****

One of the many last-minute tasks that Jewel had to attend to was arranging for Mr. Whitmore’s farewell party after Saturday night’s closing performance of
The Ticket-of-Leave Man.
She was glad to have something to occupy her mind besides Muriel’s treachery and Guy Russell’s inconceivable stupidity.

Or at least to
attempt
to occupy her mind, for anger seeped into even thoughts so unrelated as the wording on the cake.

“Madame?” said the proprietor of Capucine’s.

Jewel blinked at him. “I beg your pardon. I’d like
Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow
written beneath the name.”

“And the name is Richard Whitmore?”

“Yes,” Jewel said. “And if you can manage, include
From Your Friends at Royal Court.
”

The fact that Aunt Naomi did not mention Muriel over the telephone this morning was not surprising. But no one had to draw Jewel a picture. She walked back to the theatre encompassed by a storm cloud of fury. Passersby could have all worn clown suits for all the notice she took of them.

New contracts tomorrow,
she thought. Then she would tell Muriel exactly what she thought of her. She could hardly wait. She would spend all evening thinking of choice words, perhaps even writing them down, lest she forget. And surely Grady, given his rough upbringing, could supply some she had never even heard of.

Her steps slowed. But was raging at Muriel the best action to take?

Mentally she traveled back through the years to their childhoods, when even strangers would stop Aunt Phyllis to comment on Muriel’s beauty. As she grew into young womanhood, her cousin carried the hearts of what seemed like all of Sheffield’s young men on a string. All that attention, and yet it never seemed enough. In fact, she never seemed happier than when she had stirred up a row, between herself and her parents, brothers, cousins, servants, strangers—it did not matter, just as long as she occupied the center of that maelstrom.

Had Muriel ever outgrown that? Was
that
really why she chose to stay in Belgravia, even when most of her neighbors snubbed her? Because now and again it brought on a confrontation? Was that why she encouraged the attentions of Lord Holt, a married man, because she knew most of her family would be outraged?

The fact that Muriel had loved Douglas was beyond question. But Jewel began to wonder if her obsessive drive to punish Bethia had less to do with revenge and more to do with needing to be once again in the center of outrageous attention.

“But she gets standing ovations every night,” Grady said when she voiced her theory back in the office.

“And she loves that,” Jewel said. “But I don’t think that’s enough for her. There is no turmoil in having strangers rise and applaud, and she knows the vast majority will return to their own lives with little or no thought of her until some later performance. Muriel was weaned on chaos. It’s what she’s used to.”