Vital Secrets (9 page)

“Thea will play Juliet tomorrow night, if she's well enough,” Mrs. Thedford said.

“You
could
let her take the role of Beatrice,” Merriwether said, staring straight back at her with his intimidating, black gaze.

Mrs. Thedford smiled cryptically. “Meaning that I myself am somewhat too advanced in years to play the part?”

“Not at all, my dear. You'll be acting Beatrice and Cleopatra when you're eighty, should you wish to. What I'm suggesting is that, outside of the farce, there are not, in the makeup of our current program, any roles now suited to the peculiar talents of our Miss Clarkson. That is all.”

“I would be more than happy to let Thea play Beatrice, Jason, but then it would be incumbent upon us to find a Benedick young enough to be credible.”

“I wouldn't think of it—” Clarence Beasley said, looking abashed at both the director and the proprietor.

“But I'm ready to play Juliet! I
am
!” There was no sweetness in the ingenue's statement of fact, only the petulance of a child
approaching tantrum. Tessa's pretty features were suddenly contorted, and flushed with an unbecoming rush of crimson pique.

“If you carry on like that, missy, we'll have to put you in the Punch-and-Judy show with a slapstick.” Mrs. Thedford spoke in the way a mother might in gently reproving a much-doted-on daughter. “Be content with Cordelia, for the time being.”

Rick Hilliard stirred beside Marc, who put a restraining hand upon his friend's arm and one finger to his lips. It was obvious that the actors, in the intensity of this interplay, had forgotten they were being observed, and Marc was thoroughly enjoying his invisibility.

Tessa's face lit up instantly, and all traces of tantrum vanished in the unrepressed joy of her response. “Oh, Annie, you are such a dear! I could hug you to death!”

When she threatened to do so, Mrs. Thedford held up a hand and said, “Save that ardour for Cordelia and Miranda tomorrow night.” She turned to Merriwether. “Get on with the scene, then, Jason dear. I'll just go and see how Thea's getting on. We'll need her for the farce tonight.”

“We'll need
everybody,
” Merriwether said, glaring at Dawson Armstrong, who had taken advantage of the diversion to squat on his haunches and drift into a doze.

Mrs. Thedford left, and the director clapped his hands for attention, as if he were orchestrating a cast of hundreds. “All right, Dawson, you know the routine. Tessa, my sweet, while
you have no lines for this particular scene—we'll rehearse your other scene later—it is vitally important that you lie absolutely limp in the old man's arms. I suggest that you let the arm facing the audience droop—like this—and your head should be tilted back so your beautiful, long tresses hang down to almost touch the floor, and you can let one slipper dangle from your toes, and contrive to let it fall just as Lear moves from his ‘howls' to his speech.”

“Must I wear Thea's costume?”

“I think not. We'll try something gauzier that will let your figure show through—in a modest way, of course. Thea's figure, alas, has to be disguised wherever possible: that was the point about her age I was attempting to make.”

“I do hope Thea won't be too upset. She's a very nice woman.”

“Dawson! Wake up and take your place!”

Armstrong glared at Merriwether's knees, got up, and strode manfully back into the shadows upstage. Tessa padded after him. Clarence Beasley came and stood as close to Merriwether as he dared, anticipating the action to come. A moment later, Lear began his escalating sequence of howls.

Marc felt a chill down his spine. Lear's cri de coeur was heart-wrenching: a deep animal howl bred in the flesh and bone of love and loss. Armstrong might be old, but he was not past his prime as a tragedian. Slowly the howls came nearer and the ruined old king staggered forward with the hanged Cordelia in his arms and floating, it appeared, on the cloak. Tessa looked
lifeless, one arm adroop, the body arched but limp, the hair lifting and falling with the cadence of Lear's step, as if something of her was yet living and not ready to die. Marc was moved deeply, and braced himself for the speech he knew by heart.

It was at this critical point, and just as Cordelia's slipper struck the floor like a severed appendage, that Dawson Armstrong staggered, careened, and toppled sideways. Then, in a pathetic effort to maintain his balance, he dropped Cordelia upon the boards with an ugly thump.

“What the fuck are you doing, you goddamn moron, you drunken pig, you stinking excuse for an actor!”

Marc leaned forward in alarm, as did Rick and Jenkin.

But having spewed this venom at the toppled Lear, who lay semi-comatose where he had fallen, Merriwether dashed to Tessa's side, almost colliding with Clarence Beasley.

“I'm fine, I'm fine,” Tessa said, whipping her dress down over her prettily exposed knees and scrambling to her feet. “I fell on my derriere.” She giggled, and gave that part of her anatomy a reconnoitring rub. “An' there's nothin' much to hurt down there!”

Beasley insisted on taking her hand, as if she were still on the floor, and giving it a gentlemanly tug.

Tessa rewarded the effort with a dazzling smile. “What'll we do now?” she asked Merriwether.

“First, I'll drag this intoxicated sot into the wings, where he can sleep it off. Then you and I will do this scene properly.”

“I'll see to Dawson,” Beasley said. He went over to the old
man, spoke softly into his ear, then helped him over to the wings on the left, where he collapsed peacefully.

“We better wait for Annie,” Tessa said nervously.

“I'm the director, love.”

Just then Mrs. Thedford returned. “Well, Jason, you were right. He's found a bottle somewhere and downed it. I've searched his room, but when he sleeps this off, we'll have to watch him every minute until the show opens at eight-thirty.”

“He'll never make it,” Merriwether said.

“Now, you know he's an old pro. If he's awake and no more than half drunk, he can outact any of us.”

“Jason says he's going to play Lear tomorrow night,” Tessa said with just a hint of little-girl mischief in her voice.

“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now I'm more concerned with Dorothea's health. She's taken a tisane to help her sleep. She insists she'll be ready for the farce tonight. And I believe her. She made no objection when I told her Tess was going to play Cordelia—to lessen the load on her till she's feeling herself again.”

“Oh, thank you, Annie. Thank you!”

“So, whether Dawson does Lear tomorrow night or you, Jason, Tess needs a couple of run-throughs right now. Clarence and I will observe.”

“Just remember what I told you a few minutes ago and you'll be fine, sweetie,” Merriwether said to Tessa as they walked back into the shadows, Merriwether looking very Promethean beside the slight, five-foot figure of the girl-woman.

“They've edited out the other parts, so there's just Lear and Cordelia,” Hilliard whispered. But Marc's attention was riveted on the stage.

There was a collective intake of breath in expectation of the five howls. Out of Jason Merriwether's mouth they came, but this time they were more bellowed than uttered, more impressing than impressive. From the upstage shadows emerged this other octogenarian with the rag doll of his daughter draped across his outstretched arms. Merriwether was nothing if not the consummate actor, for, despite his height and imperial bearing, he looked now the bowed and broken monarch, his every wearied step a defeated trudge. Moreover, his hunched bulk rendered the slender, unbreathing Cordelia that much more vulnerable and pitiable. And when he laid her down and began his great speech of self-insight and contrition, there was no anomalous thump, only the cadence of the bard's pentameter. But, scarcely noticed except by the quickest eye, the old king's left hand, as it slipped Cordelia's lower half stageward, lingered a split second more than necessary on the curved clef of her buttocks and, just possibly, gave them an impertinent squeeze. The girl herself gave no sign, not even a blink.

Marc heard the rasp of Rick's breath and felt him rising from his chair. With well-coordinated movements, Marc pressed him back down with one hand and placed the other over his mouth in time to throttle the cry of outrage there.

“They're only acting,” he hissed, and Rick reluctantly sank back.

Someone else had noticed the king's incestuous touch, for Marc saw Mrs. Thedford's eyes widen in disbelief, then fix upon the girl while Merriwether completed his series of lamentations over her prostrate form, and made a fine, rhetorical demise. Beasley began applauding, but Tessa turned her newly opened eyes upon Mrs. Thedford and smiled—knowingly, Marc thought. Owen Jenkin began to clap as well, and when Tessa rose to take her bow beside Merriwether, Rick joined him lustily. Marc felt obliged to clap politely, but Annemarie Thedford did not.

Well, well, Marc thought, the acting business hasn't changed much since I dipped my toes into its roiling waters five years ago.

T
HE NEXT HOUR AND A HALF
unfolded less contentiously. The company showed a predilection for death scenes, with the demise of Antony, Cleopatra, Romeo, and Juliet being added to that of Lear. All of this gloom was leavened only by the razor-keen repartee of Annemarie and Jason as Beatrice and Benedick from
Much Ado About Nothing
. As far as Rick Hilliard was concerned, and he made his concern quite vocal, Tessa as Juliet (standing in, for today only, in place of Thea Clarkson) was the show-stopper, despite a less-than-satisfactory Romeo (Clarence Beasley), whose Yankee twang nearly ruined the balcony scene and certainly depreciated the glowing iambics of the beloved above him. And while all of the actors essayed some sort of
approximate English stage-accent, Marc detected a trace of genuine English dialect in Mrs. Thedford's speech, even when she wasn't in character. Her performances as Gertrude and Lady Macbeth, opposite Merriwether's Claudius and Macbeth, were the highlights of the afternoon.

The various bits and pieces usually taken by Armstrong or Thea Clarkson were merely read by one of the other players, and Mrs. Thedford agreed with the director's suggestion that the scenes from
The Tempest
be dropped from the bill due to the comatose condition of Prospero. Rick groaned at the patent unfairness of a decision that would deprive him of seeing Tessa play Miranda, the quintessential ingenue. Miranda herself seemed blithely unconcerned.

Just as they were finishing, Thea Clarkson made a dramatic entrance, pale and fevered, and insisted on taking her part as Juliet, even though this set had already been run through twice with clear success.

“How nice of you to make an appearance, love,” Merriwether said acidly. “You look more like Lady Capulet or the Nurse than a fifteen-year-old virgin.”

Thea seemed about to burst into tears. Illness or not, she no longer gave the illusion of a woman in first bloom, for though she had a pretty, moon-pale face and striking almond eyes, she had put on weight that did not sit on her bones attractively. Moreover, her expression was that of one whose confidence has been shaken by the discovery of some knowledge still too daunting to admit.

“There's no need for gratuitous cruelty,” Mrs. Thedford said to Merriwether. “Thea, dear, you and Clarence can rehearse the
Romeo and Juliet
scenes tomorrow afternoon. You need to rest now so you'll be fresh for the farce tonight. After all, it is
you
who must carry the piece.”

Thea beamed her a bright smile, then began to weep quietly.

At this point in the proceedings, Dawson Armstrong woke up. “Where in hell did my Cordelia go?”

“Don't you just love theatre people?” Rick exclaimed.

“T
essa has offered to give us a tour of the facility,” Rick called down to Marc and Jenkin, who were standing by the potbellied stove warming their hands. “And Mrs. Thedford has invited us to stay for the supper the Franks are laying on for the company in the hotel dining-room.”

“We'll take the tour,” Marc said, “but this is my night to have supper with Aunt Catherine at the shop.”

“Speak for yourself, young fellow.” Jenkin laughed. He winked at Marc: “That Thedford woman's a fine specimen of her sex.”

Rick hopped down, and they followed him through a curtained doorway to the left of the stage and into the gloomy space beside it, where the actors could rest between entrances.
Tessa was waiting for them, her blond hair shimmering in the near-dark. She led them down a long, narrow hallway, on either side of which were several cubicles that Tessa, still leading the parade, referred to as dressing-chambers. Rick insisted on exploring the one assigned to Tessa and Thea Clarkson, professing his amazement at the drawerful of makeup paints and glues, the wig-stand, and the bedraggled mannequin with the evening's costume in place upon it. Marc peered into Merriwether's carrel, where several playbills caught his attention. One of them, an advertisement for
Hamlet
at the Park Theatre in New York, featured a sketch of a younger Merriwether as Claudius, with a wig of curly black hair, bushy brows, and a trim Vandyke of similar hue—looking very much the smiling villain of the piece. Having exhausted the wonders of the airless, windowless dressing-rooms, they retreated as they had come in, and Tessa pointed up the steps to the stage itself, indicating that they were to cross to the other side.