Nine Buck's Row (3 page)

“I suppose I have. Sometimes, though, I wish—I wish life didn't have to be so ugly.”

“It's not like it is in those books you're always reading. Moonlight and gardenia blossoms and soft whispers. Hell! Men and women—they're not like that. A woman has to be crafty to interest a man. She has to scheme and stay one step ahead. She has to use all the tricks—” She finished with the brush and put it aside, opening a pot of rouge. “You'd better forget all that nonsense you've been reading and face facts, dearie. No good-looking gallant is going to sweep you off your feet, not unless you give him a few prods.”

Marietta laughed and tossed her long golden tresses. She was wearing a thin white cambric chemise, row upon row of ruffles covering the skirt. The bodice was tight at the waist and cut extremely low, her magnificently formed breasts, straining against the frail cloth. Marietta was a gorgeous creature. A century earlier she would have captivated kings and caused revolutions. It was a shame, really, that she had had the misfortune to be born in our Victorian era.

She twirled around on the stool to look at me, her eyes narrowing.

“Don't let anything Andrew said give you any ideas,” she snapped.

“What do you mean?”

“You
are
a pretty girl, Susannah. Almost—not quite—beautiful, in fact. That golden-brown hair, those sculptured cheekbones and deep blue eyes—yes, quite fetching. You're too thin, of course, but your figure is—well, for an eighteen-year-old girl—”

She paused, frowning. I was embarrassed by her scrutiny.

“Watch your step,” she said crossly. “I don't have any illusions about myself, about my way of life, but you—you're my niece, Susannah. I want you to have something better. It was rough on you, being brought up the way you were and then being transplanted here in the middle of this—” She made an impatient gesture, indicating the music hall and all that lay around it. “You've got education and breeding. Those don't amount to much around here, but someday they'll pay off.”

I looked away. This wasn't like Marietta.

“You wouldn't have to settle for something like Andrew Crothers,” she continued. “You could get a real toff, a duke, an earl, someone important. I want you to remember that. I want you to—oh, hell! Don't settle for anything second-rate, like I did!”

Now it was time for Marietta to look embarrassed. She scowled, irritated with herself for having stepped out of character. Although she had always seen that I had enough of everything, Marietta had never shown any genuine concern about my welfare. Women like Marietta rarely show concern about anything but themselves. There had never been any affection between us, just mutual toleration. I tolerated her untidiness and her sulky moods, and she tolerated my presence. It was hard for me to really think of her as an aunt. Fate had thrown us together, and we had tried to make the best of it.

“Don't stand there like a silly goose!” she cried. “Hand me my dress, the green one—hanging there behind the door, you ninny! That beastly little hussy who helps me dress walked out tonight. The gall! She said that I was impossible to work for! Stupid creature, always fumbling with the hooks and tearing the laces. She'll probably end up in a sweatshop. Or on the streets, more likely!”

I was almost relieved to have the old Marietta back, the tempestuous, shrewish Marietta I was familiar with. The other—the one who made noises about my welfare—was a stranger, and yet I knew that people were never of one piece. Marietta was vain and selfish and hard, but she must have had dreams once. Once she must have been full of hope and eager to savor all the joys of life. It must have taken a lot of pain and a great many disappointments to form that hard shell around her.

“Tighter!” she screamed as I endeavored to lace up the dress. “I must have an eighteen-inch waist. Ouch! Careful, you fool! There. Thank God that's over with! You're worse than
she
was.”

The dress was dazzling, emerald green satin, the low bodice edged with black velvet bows, shimmering black spangles scattered over the full skirt that ended several inches above her ankles. Marietta perched on the stool, kicked off her shoes and began pulling on the black net stockings she wore with the costume. I watched her smoothing them over the long, shapely legs and remembered what Widow Jameson had said. It wasn't right for Marietta to show herself the way she did in her numbers, and yet, on the other hand, it would be a shame for so much beauty to perish in a parlor, unseen. Women had displayed themselves in other, less decorous times, so perhaps what she did really wasn't so wicked after all.

“You'll have to stay here and help me dress after the show,” she said. “I have an engagement later on. That's why it was so important I have the cloak. It matches the dress I plan to wear.”

“It'll be almost midnight when you're finished here!” I protested.

“So?”

“How will I get home?”

“You can take my cab. Clark's always waiting for me out front at midnight.”

“I don't like being out so late—”

“Nonsense! Peters will help you into the cab, and Clark will go upstairs with you after you arrive. You'll be quite safe.”

“I don't suppose you could dress yourself,” I said irritably.

“Not tonight, pet. This engagement is
very
important. The gentleman is—I can't tell you who he is.”

“Why not?”

A strange expression came over Marietta's face. She suddenly looked very serious, almost afraid. Frowning, she sat down at the mirror and began to arrange coils of golden hair on top of her head, fastening them with long pins.

“He's someone extremely important,” she said over her shoulder. “When I got his card—well, I simply couldn't believe it at first! Then he sent flowers and this—” Reaching in the drawer, she pulled out a glittering bracelet, tossing it to me. The carefully set gems seemed to burn with a thousand blue and violet fires.

“These are real!” I cried.

She nodded. “My first diamonds. They've been a long time coming.”

I stared at the gems, amazed. Marietta stood up and took the bracelet from me, fastening it on her wrist. “His carriage will be waiting for me at midnight, on the side street. It's imperative that we're not seen together.”

“Who
is
he?”

“I can't reveal that. Not yet. But if things work out, Susannah, if he likes me—everything will be different. I'll give up this job. We'll move out of the East End. We'll have money, lots of it, and you'll have a chance to meet real gentry and—but I've said enough. I've said too much already.”

“That's not fair, Marietta. The way you carry on, one would think you had a secret rendezvous with the Prince of Wales.”

Marietta gave me a curious little smile and turned away to dig her hat out of the closet.

There was a loud rap on the door. The stage manager stuck his head in to announce that Marietta had five minutes left. She waved him out and continued to search for the hat, finally locating it at the back of a shelf. It had a wide black velvet brim, long black and green plumes spilling over the side. She set it on top of her head at a jaunty angle, securing it with long black pins.

We left the dressing room and moved backstage. The comedian was doing his act on stage, lurching around drunkenly and juggling three red balls as the men in the pit played a circus tune. Beyond the footlights, I could see part of the audience sitting at their tables, obviously bored. Waiters in red jackets scurried about with trays of drinks. The noise of the audience almost drowned out the band. Marietta stood beside me, tapping her foot impatiently. When the comedian finally took his bow there was only a feeble scattering of applause. He staggered off-stage, an angry expression on his face.

“They're cold as ice tonight!” he muttered to Marietta.

“Don't worry, sweetie,” she retorted, “I'll warm 'em up.”

He scowled and moved on toward the iron staircase.

The band started a lively cancan melody. The audience was immediately attentive, sitting up, nudging one another. Six chorus girls shuffled onto the stage from the other side, all in scarlet and black, lifting their skirts and waving their legs. There was a burst of spontaneous applause as they did their dance, legs kicking higher and higher. Marietta watched with a bored expression. The girls finally pranced off-stage, but the music continued, a bit slower now, less frantic.

Marietta sauntered across the stage, skirts swaying, her expression more bored than ever.

I went back to the dressing room. Marietta did four shows a night, the last one at eleven. Supper would be sent in to us later on. I stood before the mirror, remembering the things Marietta had said about my looks. I also remembered the way Andrew Crothers had looked at me. Was I really attractive? Andrew had thought so. Would other men? I certainly had no desire to parade my beauty as Marietta did, yet it would be nice to believe men found me desirable.

I longed to be home where I could read a new novel or gossip with Millie. Millie's mother had died several years ago, and her father worked at the docks at odd hours, frequently leaving her alone in the small apartment below ours. She was exactly my own age, eighteen, a vivacious, mischievous sprite with coppery red curls and saucy brown eyes. Wishing she were here with me now to relieve the tedium, I prowled around the dressing room looking for something to read, eventually locating a stack of magazines at the bottom of the wardrobe. Most of them were fashion brochures featuring the latest styles in bonnets and gowns, but there was also a recent issue of the
Strand Magazine
. I sat down to read it.

Sometime later, I put the magazine aside and strolled over to the window. Holding the drapery back, I peered out, seeing nothing but thick swirling fog, grayish white, one lone gaslight burning at the corner. It looked sinister, and I shuddered, remembering the murders. Somewhere out there a killer lurked in the shadows, lying in wait for his next victim. Was he a vicious thuggee from India come to seek revenge against the white man, as some claimed, or was he one of the Polish immigrants who crowded this section of London? There were many theories about his nationality, but everyone seemed to agree that he wasn't English. As Widow Jameson had pointed out, no Englishman could commit such foul deeds. I wondered if we weren't fooling ourselves about that.

Folding my arms around my waist, I let the drapery fall back in place and wandered around the room. This horrible fog seemed to close everything in, making even a room like this seem isolated and cut off from the rest of the world. I could hear the clatter of hooves as carriages passed by on the street outside, and the noise seemed far, far away, strangely threatening. Nonsense, I scolded myself. There was an atmosphere of panic in the city, a kind of silent hysteria in the air, and it would be so easy to succumb to it. Perhaps there wouldn't even be another murder. Perhaps the police had already apprehended the criminal without knowing who he was. It was utterly foolish to dwell on the subject like this.

I was asleep on the sofa when Marietta came in after doing the last show. She shook me awake and started barking orders, telling me to fetch this and bring that and check something else. She removed her costume and sat down to take off her stage make-up while I took out shoes and stockings and the gown she intended to wear. I handed her a face towel and hunted for the beaded jet reticule she was certain she'd brought. A stage hand came in with an enormous bouquet of roses, petals like shiny red velvet. She yelled at the poor man and tossed the flowers aside, issuing a stern order that no one was to be allowed into her dressing room tonight.

“These stage door Johnnies!” she cried. “They drive me wild!”

“Marietta! They were such lovely flowers. They may have been from the gentleman you're seeing tonight—”

“He hates roses. Says they remind him of blood. He always sends calla lilies.”

“You've been out with him before?”

“Perhaps,” she snapped. “Don't pry, Susannah! I've told you I can't talk about him. Did you find the reticule?”

“It was under the sofa.”

“I seem to have lost my eye shadow. Find it for me! It's in a tiny pink jar—”

“It's right in front of you, Marietta.”

“You needn't be so smug about it! Oh, damn! I've spilled the powder again! What's
wrong
with me?”

I had never seen her in such a state. Although she flared up at the least provocation, Marietta was calm and collected when it came to dealing with men, always completely sure of herself. Tonight, however, she was like a nervous schoolgirl preparing for her first dance. It wasn't like Marietta, not at all. I was consumed with curiosity, but after the last tongue-lashing I didn't dare ask any more questions.

She eventually calmed down enough to put on her make-up. It was much more subdued and subtle than what she had worn for the stage: the lipstick a pale coral, the eye shadow a light brown, only a touch of paste on the lashes. Despite the make-up, her face seemed a little pale, and her dark blue eyes looked worried as she arranged her hair in an elegant coiffure.

“I
am
beautiful, Susannah,” she said quietly, as though she doubted it.

“Of course you are,” I assured her.

“It's very important. Tonight, it's very important—”

“I don't see why you won't tell—”

“Enough!” she cried. “Help me into the dress.”

The dress had come from Paris, as had the cloak that matched it. It was a magnificent creation of honey-colored satin with long sleeves, an extremely low-cut bodice and a full skirt that fell in glossy folds. The bodice and cuffs were edged with black fox fur and a row of fur ran around the hem. Marietta turned this way and that, examining herself in the mirror. She took hold of the bodice and pulled it a bit lower, revealing even more of her rosy-white bosom. She looked regal, rather like a depraved countess on her way to meet a handsome stable boy.