Perdita (4 page)

I sunk lower in my seat, disliking to be alone, but I must say no one paid any heed to me. I remained totally unmolested. The other females in the audience were much more interesting. The city bucks had removed across the aisle to set up a flirtation with two local belles, who were much inclined to honor their attentions. The delay between the ballad opera and the songs was longer than seemed necessary. The reason for it was to allow the hawkers to sell their wares. The Tom and Jerry from London bought an entire basket of oranges and nuts, and proceeded to make a great display of tossing them round to the audience.

At last, Mr. Daugherty came through the curtain to announce the songs and singers. My sense of disaster had improved since leaving the inn. I had a premonition, when he started puffing off a new girl, that my third calamity had come, with a vengeance. The new girl was Perdita. The only saving grace was that he had the wits to call her by another name. In honour of the season, he called her Miss April Spring. Really!

She was got up in an outfit that was surely designed for wear in a bordello. It consisted of about two yards of transparent red gauze, sprinkled strategically with white flowers. There was a lamp shining behind her, lest any hard-of-seeing gentleman be deprived of her outline. Her blond hair had been stirred up with a spoon, to sit in beguiling disorder above her painted face. She carried a large fan of white ostrich feathers, which I wished she would hold in front of her body to hide her shame, but she did not. She perched it over her left shoulder, as she began to sing a travesty of a ballad. “Woeful Heart with Grief Oppressed” was her first rendition. It was perfectly
wretched.
The private dramatic academy had not taught song, only overacting. Her voice was small, high, light and off-key. She was nervous too, which added an air of discomfort to the performance. I hardly knew whether to laugh, cry or hang my head in shame. But as I considered, I thought it might be a good lesson for her if the audience gave her a sound boohing.

Hah! Boohing indeed! They
loved
her. It was not the voice that was under inspection, but the body. The applause at the song’s end would deafen an auctioneer. It was led by the city bucks, who stood up to give her a standing ovation, while they urged, nay—commanded, the others to do likewise, meanwhile bellowing “More! More!,” as if their lives depended on it. She did not disappoint them. After a hurried and amateurish discussion with the man who beat the piano, she informed her fans she would sing for them “Deare, if You Change,” followed by “Faire, Sweet, Cruel.” The singing did not improve but got noticeably worse as her voice creaked; then at one point broke under the strain of singing louder and longer than she was used to. She became emboldened as she went along. She began mincing about the stage, batting her fan at the audience, playing with them, rolling her eyes, tossing her head, doing everything but lift her skirts to show them her knees.

It was too much provocation for the city bucks. They could not retain their seats. They edged closer and closer to the stage, creeping down the aisle, till at the last verse of “Faire, Sweet, Cruel” they had their elbows leaning on it. As she made her final bow, the taller of the two bounded up on the stage and followed her off, while the audience roared their appreciation of this piece of lechery. I waited no longer, but bolted out to find my way backstage. I wasn’t a minute too soon. He already had his arms around her, trying to pull her head into line for an attack. I thought she would be frightened, weeping, hysterical. There were rather wild sounds issuing from her lips, but as I got closer, I saw she was laughing, and saw as well that the lecher was tickling her. He was not such a young man, either. I doubt he was a day under thirty, but of course he was as drunk as a wheelbarrow. His face was flushed, his voice slurred, his legs unsteady, his manner positively insulting.

"My little pocket Venus!” he crooned, as he tried to focus his rolling eyes on her face.

“Come, at once!” I decreed, pulling her hand and trying to disengage her.

"Not poaching, ma’am,” he assured me, with a foolish smile. "Want to buy her fair and square. Name your price.”

I lifted my reticule and swotted the side of his head, causing him to fall back against the wall, where he shook himself to rights, trying to stand up straight. His condition made it impossible for him to follow when I pulled Perdita off into a room and slammed the door. I leaned my full weight against it, then lit into her, castigating her as everything from a fool to a lightskirt, with the morals of an alley cat. She smiled serenely, and informed me I was jealous, as she preened her mop of tangles with her fingers, and shook out her fan.

At length, Daugherty came, knocked, announced himself, and was allowed to enter.

“His friend has taken him away,” he said apologetically. “We are bothered by these city fellows as we get close to London. They come out to look over the girls, you know, and make nuisances of themselves.”

“Just what are you running here, Mr. Daugherty, a theatrical group or a ring of prostitution?” I demanded angrily. I had never uttered such words before, but from having been associated with the army in my youth, I had learned them at a young age.

"I don’t encourage the fellows. They walk off with my prettiest wenches. Honey attracts flies, ma'am. Always has, always will. The honey is happy enough to find a profitable comb, if it comes to that.”

“And what got into
you
to climb up on that stage and make a scandal of yourself?” I asked, turning to vent my fury on Perdita. I spoke more sharply, knowing it was nine-tenths my own fault. I had made it possible, when my job was to prevent it.

“You said you wanted to stay overnight.
Naturally
we must pay our way. Everyone in the group has to. Daugherty does not allow any freeloaders, and we don’t have any money. It was very kind of him to let me work it off,” she said, with a smirk that was intended for a smile in his direction.

“You have turned into a wanton in the space of twenty-four hours!”

“This one is a natural-born performer,” Daugherty told me, in that pious manner of one explaining the Lord’s will to a nonbeliever. “It is best for you to slip her out to the carriage before the fellow sobers up and starts looking for her. He fell asleep in a corner. He is in no position to close tonight.” I did not understand his last sentence, but took it for a piece of theater jargon.

"Will we be safe?”

“Certainly you will. They won’t know you are there. How should they?”

“Why I thought perhaps you used the carriages as dens of vice, when you were not traveling!” I answered sharply.

I spoke in angry jest, but the conscious look that descended on his face hinted I had hit upon the truth. “I won’t let anyone near you,” he promised. “You can have the blue dormeuse to yourselves. Phoebe will have my hair out by the roots, but I’ll palm her off with some story.”

"Come along, then,” I said, taking Perdita by the hand.

“My clothes!” she reminded me. I had not the courage to ask where she had changed them.

Daugherty was obliging enough to go for her gown, and hand it to us, while the monkey was given her petticoat to carry. The monkey too earned its keep. It had some small part in the night’s farce. He was doing his best for us, and really it was not Daugherty’s fault we had fallen into such a nasty pickle, so before leaving, I thanked him very civilly. I could not but wonder, as we entered to make our preparations for bed in a carriage, why he was being so kind. The unhappy thought would intrude that he hoped to have my charge appear again onstage, as she had been such a resounding success. We might count ourselves fortunate if he did not blazon her name and likeness on the broadbills handed out in the village before a performance.

It was dark in the carriage, but the pulling out of the seats to make a bed had already been taken care of. Decadent satin pillows and sheets awaited Phoebe’s pleasure. I had an uneasy inkling we were doing Daugherty as well out of a bed for the night. There was a smell of Macassar hair oil on my pillow that I could not explain otherwise. I did not complain of it to Perdita; she had had enough of licentiousness for one night. We shucked off our gowns, folded them as carefully as possible to lessen the wrinkles, and climbed into the uncomfortable, lumpy bed. Sleep, despite my fatigue, was the farthest thing from my mind. I had my reticule ready to fight off the advance of any rake who stuck his head in at the door, fully expecting it would happen.

I badgered Perdita for a while about her outrageous behavior, but could not give her the raking down she deserved, as it was coming to seem I must allow her to repeat the songs, if we were to have even this minimal comfort tomorrow night. There was no money to return to Chippenham. I could hardly show my face at the inn either, after having left my bill unpaid. Must we wear the clothes on our backs till we could contact Aunt Maude?

“The Altons are in London
for sure,
are they, Perdita?” I asked.

"Yes, it might be best if we go that far with Mr. Daugherty, then contact them. They will take us to Maude. What do
you
think?”

“I think it is an abominable plan, but I cannot think of a better one. I wish we had gone back home.”

“Well I do not! I never had such fun in my life. Did you hear the applause?”

“I am not quite deaf. I heard it. I heard that drunken libertine try to buy you too. My God, why did you not beat him?”

“I thought he was rather sweet. Phoebe was jealous as a cat. She thought he was planning to have her.”

“Have her what?”

"You
know.”

“Yes,
I
know, and I should like to discover how
you
know.”

“We had some very interesting talks in the carriage yesterday.”

"Pray do not feel obliged to repeat them for my edification.”

“Angie says every girl in the group hopes to find a patron when they get to London. Imagine, and
I
found one the first night.”

“You did not find a patron, miss. You had the poor luck to attract the attention of a drunken rake, who planned to have his way with you. You may be thankful I got here in time."

"I wonder who he is. Phoebe will be sure to find out. She will meet him in the Green Room. There really is no Green Room at Reimer’s Hall, but Angie says wherever they have their party after the show is called the Green Room, like at the Lane or the Garden. Angie is the pretty blonde who plays Polly. I told her you thought at Chippenham she was the leading lady. She was so pleased. She is very nice. She hates Phoebe.”

"She sounds charming.”

The performance in the hall finished at that point. Other singers had followed April Spring. There was suddenly a great commotion as the audience came out, but our carriage was parked at the side of the hall, so that we were a little out of the way of the traffic. We gave up trying to sleep, and peeped out from behind the curtains. The dormeuse had curtains that were drawn across for the night.

“I don’t see him,” Perdita said, referring to her would-be purchaser.

“Good. I hope Phoebe attaches him."

Still I was uneasy till I saw him and his friend leave. I kept taking an occasional look out the window. There was enough merriment and carousing from the Green Room within that sleep was impossible in any case. Half an hour elapsed in this tiring fashion before the two black jackets and white triangles were seen coming out the door. They did not leave at once, but stood, looking around, finally sauntering towards the trail of carriages, of which we made up a part.

“Where the hell could she have gotten to?” the pursuer asked, in vexed accents. His speech was clearer than before. Time or the fresh air was working on his condition.

“Somebody beat you to her, Storn,” his friend roasted him.

“I’ll cut out his heart and make him eat it. God, did you ever see such a piece of woman? Grrr.” He made some low, animal sound in his throat, difficult to put into letters, but its essence was pure lust.

"'Tis pity she’s a whore,” his friend answered.

"Au contraire.
A whore, a whore, my kingdom for a whore! Tell me now, was I dead drunk, or was she something out of the ordinary?”

“Get into bed, Perdita,” I urged, shoving her down.

“Top of the trees,” his friend agreed.

“Built like a . . . and the
bosoms,
like two ripe melons.”

“Get into bed and cover your ears!” I said, trying to draw a satin sheet up over her head.

“Just a minute. They are talking about
me,”
she said, hopping back up.

“No, they are obviously talking about Phoebe.”

“Not much of a voice,” the darker, heavier man said.

“Voice? Did she have a voice? I didn’t notice. That Venus is going to be in my pocket before she gets to London.”

“Don’t open that curtain!” I shrieked, but in a low voice, twitching it back into place. Perdita tittered, but contented herself to lay her ear against the window inside the curtain.

"I could learn to love that wench,” the first admirer said rather wistfully. “I may not offer for Dulcinea after all.” He was already practically engaged to some lady, you see, and talking so broad about Perdita.

The dark man laughed. “By God, you better keep the girl under close wraps then. Where will you take her?”

“To Birdland. Where else would I take a bird of such rare plumage? You don’t suppose that damned harpy with her would expect to accompany us?”

The damned harpy felt an angry thudding in her breast.

“You can buy her off. Mind you’ll have to come down heavy. You know how these abbesses are when they get a young chick like April.”

“She’s worth it. This is the one, Staff. This is the one I've been waiting for. Who would have thought I’d flush her out of cover in Marlborough?
Marlborough,
imagine! Nowhere.”

“How will you get hold of her?”

"Through Daugherty, maybe. Maybe the bawd. We shall have to see who owns her.”

“Nobody owns me!” Perdita said, shocked at last.

“These men are dangerous,” I cautioned.

“Old Phoebe was pretty well stuffed, too,” the darker man said in an approving way.