Somewhere I'll Find You (2 page)

Immediately Julia shook her head and let her hands drop. His hold hadn't been painful in the least, but his touch had seemed to linger even after he had let go.

There was a long pause after that, while the members of the company continued to stare at Julia, and Scott pinned her with a speculative look. Was he pleased, disappointed, uncertain? Did he think she had any merit as an actress? Julia was driven to break the silence. “Shall I try another scene?” she murmured. “Something from a different play?”

“That won't be necessary.” Suddenly he seemed impatient, glancing about the room like a leopard in a cage. One of his elegant hands lifted in a gesture for Julia to leave with him. “Come, Mrs. Wentworth. I'll give you a tour of the theater.”

None of the others seemed to find that surprising. The portly older man in the corner gave Julia an encouraging smile as she passed. A pretty young girl with curly brown hair and vivid sea-green eyes approached her at the doorway. “That was the best Mathilda I've ever seen,” the girl said.

Julia smiled in thanks, heartened by the remark. But Logan Scott's opinion was the one that meant life and death, and so far he hadn't volunteered a single word.

“You've had little, if any training,” he remarked, taking her through a maze of administrative offices.

“No,” Julia said quietly.

“And not much experience.”

“I've done some touring around the provinces with a traveling company. Most recently I've worked at the Daly Theatre in the Strand.”

“The Daly,” he repeated, sounding far from impressed. “You deserve better than that.”

“I hope I do, sir.”

He paused and showed her the theater library, filled with shelves of books on costume, scenery, and acting technique, as well as innumerable copies of different plays. Pausing at one stack of paper, he selected a worn edition of
Much Ado About Nothing
, and handed it to her. Clutching the copy tightly, Julia followed him from the room.

“What I ask from the actors in my company is that they strive for the most naturalistic style possible,” Scott remarked. “I can't abide the posturing and studied manners I've seen in the majority of London theaters. Most actors are overtrained fools who substitute extravagant gestures and pauses for real acting.”

Filled with an admiration that bordered on awe, Julia nodded in agreement. “They say you've revolutionized the stage in England and Europe—” she began, but he interrupted her sardonically.

“I don't like to be flattered, Mrs. Wentworth. It only serves to inflate my opinion of myself, and that's a dangerous thing. I'm already too arrogant by far.”

A surprised laugh escaped her. “I'm sure that's not true.”

“Wait until you know me better.”

A bubble of hope rose in her chest. “Will I?” she dared to ask, and he smiled. Strange, how a man could smile and seem so warm, and yet there was still something unreachable about him.

“Perhaps,” he replied. “You have great potential as an actress, Mrs. Wentworth. You wouldn't be a bad addition to the company.”

They reached the theater, walking past the rear drop and side wings. Julia accompanied Scott to the footlights at the edge of the stage, and stared out at the auditorium. It was dim and handsome, seating approximately fifteen hundred people, with tiers of side boxes that rose to dizzying heights. Julia had never been inside the place before. It was a gorgeous theater, painted white, salmon, and forest-green. The walls were lined with columns that were covered in gold and inlaid with green glass, while the interiors of the boxes were lined with rich flowered paper.

The stage itself was built on a slant, so that the actors in back were elevated a few inches higher than the ones in front. Standing on the scarred floor, Julia could almost imagine what it was like to play to an assembly of a thousand people or more.

“There are matters that need to be discussed,” Scott remarked abruptly. “Your salary, the number of performances required, the demands I make of the players…rehearsals, for example. I insist that all actors and actresses be present for every rehearsal, no matter how well they know their parts. You may run your personal life in any manner you wish, but if anyone misses a rehearsal or a performance, they take the risk of being fined or even dismissed. The same goes for drunkenness, tardiness, pregnancy, affairs with the other players, or anything else that interferes with the theater schedule.”

“I understand,” Julia said, a faint blush rising in her cheeks.

“I have a particular system for managing the company,” he continued. “If you have a grievance, there is a proper time and place for airing it—you'll be informed of the particular channels later. I never receive calls at my home concerning theater business. I place a high value on my privacy.”

“Naturally,” Julia said, her heart beginning to beat fast with excitement. The way he was talking, it sounded as if he was planning to hire her.

“There is something else that must be made clear,” Scott said. “Beyond any artistic merits it may possess, the Capital is a business enterprise. I make all my decisions according to the need to bring in a profit—and I've made no secret of it. If I decide to hire you, it is because you will bring money to the theater. All of the players, including myself, understand that we're here because of our profitability.”

Julia stiffened, all her hopes draining suddenly. Was he suggesting that he wanted her to become a prostitute to further the good of the theater?

“I have no desire to pimp for anyone,” Scott murmured in amusement, apparently reading her thoughts. “I'm only pointing out that one of your responsibilities—as well as mine and everyone else's—is to attract sponsors for each new season. You can use your talent and charm to accomplish that. There's no need to sleep with anyone…unless you wish to, of course.”

“I don't wish to,” Julia said fervently.

“That's entirely your concern,” he assured her. A frown crossed his broad forehead as he contemplated her. “It occurs to me…I don't recall having arranged an audition for anyone today.”

The question caught her off-guard, and she answered hastily. “I believe it was done with the assistance of one of your managers—”

“No one does anything around here without my permission.”

Julia nodded, her face turning scarlet. “I lied,” she admitted. “I would never have gotten to see you otherwise.”

There was a touch of annoyance in his laugh. “You'll do well for us, I think. Tell me, Mrs. Wentworth…are you actually married?”

Although she had prepared herself for the question, Julia felt herself flush in discomfort. She couldn't tell him the truth, yet she knew he was too talented an actor to accept a lie easily. She wandered aimlessly across the stage, her arms folded over her chest. “Not really,” she said without looking at him. “I thought that posing as a ‘Mrs.’ would give me protection against unwelcome advances.”

“Very well.”

When no further questions seemed forthcoming, Julia glanced at him in surprise. “Aren't you going to ask about my family? My background?”

He shook his head, tugging absentmindedly at a lock of mahogany-red hair. “I assume you're like most people in the theater, who have a past they would like to escape.”

“Even you?” she dared to ask.

Scott nodded. “There are events in my life from which I've run for a long time. But I never seem to get farther than here.” He glanced around the empty stage and seemed to relax. “I never feel entirely comfortable anywhere as I do at the Capital. It's home to me…as I hope it will become home to you, Mrs. Wentworth.”

A smile broke out on her face. “Yes,” she murmured, sensing a little of why he so clearly loved the place. She could easily imagine the thousands of stories and personalities that had filled this stage, the air ringing with music and voices, the audience feeling the players' emotions; fear, hope, love…

In the theater a person could forget who he or she was, at least for a while. Actors could turn themselves into anyone they wished to be. That was what she wanted for herself. She would live as Jessica Wentworth, and bury all traces of Julia Hargate—and the secret that had haunted her all her life.

“I told you so,” Nell Florence said, her wrinkled face breaking into a rare and beautiful smile. “It was the right choice to approach Logan Scott. I admire his work at the Capital. Despite his youth, he's a capable manager. You'll profit far more by joining Scott's acting company than you would have at Drury Lane.” Her frail shoulders moved in a shudder, and she made a face of disdain. “Drury Lane is being ruined by that American impresario Stephen Price and his freakish taste for spectacle. You should have been born a half-century ago and worked for David Garrick—he would have known exactly what to do with a girl of your talents. To think of how you could have played opposite him in
The Wonder
…”

“Then you approve of Mr. Scott?” Julia asked, gently prodding her back to the subject before Mrs. Florence could lapse into one of her long reminiscences.

“Oh, yes. His productions have wonderful style, and his devotion to the art of acting is unquestionable.”

They sat together drinking tea in Mrs. Florence's parlor, with its musty furniture upholstered in rose silk, and walls covered with ancient theater mementos. Julia had met the elderly woman only a few months before, when Mrs. Florence had accepted a small part in a production at the Daly Theatre. Normally an appearance at the Daly would have been beneath such a great actress, who had acted at Drury Lane for more than thirty years. However, Mr. Bickerston had paid Mrs. Florence a fortune, knowing that her name would fill every seat in the theater.

After a successful month-long run of the play, Mrs. Florence had left Bickerston and the Daly—but not before she had taken Julia aside and given some well-intentioned advice. “Your gifts are being wasted here,” she had told Julia. “You must find another theater, a reputable one, and get some proper training.”

Julia had been flattered almost to the point of speechlessness. She greatly admired the elderly woman and the success she had made of her life. Born to a large and impoverished family on the east end of London, Nell Florence had profited from her considerable talents on the stage and also from a few discreet love affairs with wealthy men. Although her legendary beauty had faded with age, her rich red hair now streaked with silver, she was still a handsome woman.

Several years ago Mrs. Florence had retired to a London townhouse with a small staff of servants to look after her. If an aspiring actor or actress took her fancy, she would occasionally give acting lessons. Although Julia couldn't afford to pay her high fees, Mrs. Florence had decided to take her under her wing regardless.

“I can afford to teach for pleasure, if I wish to,” she had said. “I believe our association will do us both some good. I will help you to achieve the success you deserve, and you will brighten my days with your visits. Old people must always have young ones around…and you are very much like I was at your age.”

Once a week Julia would visit Mrs. Florence in her cluttered parlor, drinking tea from painted china cups as she paid rapt attention to the elderly woman's instructions. Now that Julia had been hired as a member of the Capital Theatre, Mrs. Florence seemed as pleased by Julia's success as if it were her own.

“I knew Scott wouldn't hesitate to hire you, once he saw you act,” she remarked. “You have a quality, my dear, which he couldn't fail to see. You seem to give everything of yourself when you're onstage…but you withhold just enough to make them want more. Never give everything, Jessica, or you'll be taken for granted.” Settling back in an overstuffed chair, the elderly woman regarded Julia with bright eyes. “Now tell me…how was it to play a scene with an actor of his caliber?”

“Thrilling,” Julia said instantly. “He almost made me believe it was really happening. I've never met anyone who could make a scene from a play seem more real than life.”

“So it is with the great ones,” Mrs. Florence replied reflectively. “But beware, Jessica…after reaching the heights that are possible in the theater, real life can seem rather disappointing. You may awaken one morning to find that your profession has stolen precious years from you. And you'll be no better off than I, surrounded by faded artifacts and portraits, with nothing but memories to sustain you.”

“I would love to be exactly like you,” Julia said fervently. “You've made your mark in the theater, you're respected and comfortable and
independent
…I could hope for nothing better than that.”

For a moment Mrs. Florence's eyes were filled with sadness. “I haven't always made the right choices, child. I've had to live with the consequences for a very long time.”

“Do you mean…” Julia stared at her, perplexed. “Is it that you regret not having married?”

“I only wanted to marry one man in particular,” the elderly woman informed her, with a wry twitch of her lips. “Unfortunately he didn't mix with the theater. He wanted me to leave it entirely, and so…” She spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I let him go. How I envied other women who didn't have to make such a choice!” She stared at Julia in a faintly pitying way, as if it were a certainty that Julia would someday face the same painful dilemma. Julia wished she could tell Mrs. Florence the truth…that she would never need to choose between Jove and her profession…that she was in fact already married, and her husband was no obstacle at all.

Quietly Julia made her way to her mother's bedroom, located in the darkened east wing of Hargate Hall. The luxurious gothic estate was dark and stalwart, with tall chimneys and long, narrow windows. Set in the midst of the chalky Buckinghamshire hills, it was connected to the market town a mile away by old, sunken paths that hadn't changed for decades. Hargate Hall was dim and quiet, with heavy mahogany furniture and ceilings covered with webbed fan vaulting.

Being inside the home she had left two years ago gave Julia an uncomfortable, closed-in feeling. Resolutely she climbed one of the long flanks of stairs leading from the first floor to the second, half-fearing that at any moment she would hear her father's knifelike voice commanding her to get out.