Enslaved (12 page)

Already half asleep himself, he cracked open an eye. “Yes, Daisy?”

“About earlier tonight, are we friends still?”

A peaceful smile played about his lips. “Yes, Daisy, we’re friends.”

“The more pity, that fools may not speak
wisely what wise men do foolishly.”
—W
ILLIAM
S
HAKESPEARE
, Touchstone,
As You Like It

h
e day of Daisy’s audition at Drury Lane was upon her before she knew it. The first half of the agreed-upon month with Gavin had sped by. Never before in her life had time passed so swiftly.

Standing on the theater steps amidst a fine spring drizzle, she waved to the hansom cab carrying Gavin away. Seeing the conveyance turn the corner and disappear, her heart dropped. Perhaps she should have relented and let him come in with her as he offered to do, but then she would have risked shocking him yet again. Granted, she wasn’t averse to doing her utmost to bring out his blushes in the privacy of his flat, but she also was sensible to the fact that the glittering world she was about to enter belonged to him. If anyone was to wither with disappointment or die of shame, let it be her.

Her greatest fear wasn’t that she would fail to win a part but that failure would mean disappointing Gavin. Over the past two weeks, he’d made her dream his. While it was comforting to have a partner in her venture, she worried about letting him down.

Keeping her cloak wrapped snugly about her, she took a deep breath and stepped inside the colonnaded entrance. Inside the theater lobby, she followed the signs to the auditorium. Standing beneath the vaulted ceiling hung with crystal cut electric chandeliers and facing the raised stage, the theater seemed enormous to her, much bigger than she would have supposed from the outside. Gavin had told her Drury Lane seated more than three thousand, but until now she hadn’t pictured just how big that must be. Even the Moulin Rouge, the most prestigious house she ever played, seemed small in comparison.

The stage manager who turned her away weeks before walked up to her. Expression harried, he didn’t seem to recognize her, which was all to the good. Clipboard in hand, he gestured to the clutch of a dozen or so women congregating in the corner near the stage steps. “Stand over there with the others and be quick about it. We’re running behind.”

Daisy did as she was told. The chatter stopped when she approached and a tall, elegant blonde heading up the queue broke off conversation with her line mate and turned to Daisy.

“Nice cloak,” she said in a carrying voice, her deepset dark eyes sliding over Daisy from head to toe. “It reminds me of one I passed on to my maid just last month.” A collective chuckle rose up and every woman in line turned to stare.

Daisy felt stinging heat settle into her cheeks, but rather than shrink into her cloak and try to make herself as small as possible, she forced her shoulders back and her chin up. “Why, thank you. And might I return the compliment by remarking on what a fine-looking frock you’re wearing. Surely I’ve never before seen a woman your age carry off a youthful fashion half so well.”

Color flooded the blonde’s face, confirming Daisy’s guess she must be thirty or perhaps past it. After that, she turned about and gave Daisy her back, which suited Daisy well enough. At least the byplay had distracted her from her nervousness. By the time the call came to queue up, she was feeling almost her old self.

The stage manager offered an upside down hat from which each woman was to reach inside the crown and draw out a number. Daisy reached inside and pulled out a folded slip. Hoping she would either be last or first—coming in the middle of anything was never good—she unfolded the paper and looked down—and felt her blood turn to ice. Theater folk tended to be a superstitious lot, but other than one or two rituals she observed prior to a performance, Daisy prided herself on being free of most of the silliness—until now. Thirteen was a deucedly unlucky number, one associated with all manner of ill omens.

“Ladies, when we call your number, walk to the center of the stage, state your name and then wait for your cue to begin. You each have three minutes after which you are to make your bow and exit stage left.”

The stage manager took his seat in the front row. Beside him were two other men, including a smartly dressed man of forty-odd whom Daisy suspected was the theater manager, Sir Augustus. Though she had never before met him, Gavin’s description of the acclaimed actor, impresario, and dramatist fit the seated gentleman to a T.

One by one, the other actresses were called up, starting with the tall blonde. She’d chosen a bit from
Othello
where Desdemona pleads with her jealous husband to see reason. Though Daisy thought her rendition was a touch overdone, her bearing and stage voice obviously bespoke of experience and formal training. Watching the others file on one by one, she admitted they were all quite good in varying degrees and obviously at their ease in a theater of this magnitude.

Number twelve filed offstage, and it was Daisy’s turn. Blood from her pounding heart rushed her temples and she felt as if an ocean were crashing about inside her ears. Perspiration broke out on her forehead and under her arms and her hands, which had warmed since she’d come inside, felt like cakes of ice.

Scowling, the stage manager lifted his bull horn and called out again, “Number thirteen—that’s you, Miss Lake.”

She hadn’t had an attack of stage fright in years, and she’d come close to forgetting what a miserable and incapacitating state it was. Aware every eye in the auditorium was trained on her, Daisy mounted the stage steps, also aware that breathing suddenly had become an activity she had to think about rather than do naturally.

She stepped off the last step and walked to the center of the stage, feeling as if her legs had turned to jelly.
Breathe, Daisy, just breathe.

From the front seats below, one of the men barked, “Do get on with it, Miss Lake. We haven’t all day.”

She summoned a mental picture of Gavin’s face as he looked when he’d fallen to sleep the week before, peaceful and nightmare free. She willed her racing heart to slow and her hitched breathing to relax. Smiling, she looked out onto the stage and directly into Sir Augustus’s mildly curious eyes.

“Daisy Lake.”

She stepped up to the front of the stage and slowly, very slowly, unfastened the front of her cloak. Holding the men’s gazes, Sir Augustus’s especially, she gave a shimmy of her shoulders, sending the garment sliding off to the floor. A collective gasp echoed through the small audience.

Drinking in the power of it, Daisy took a deep breath and began, “All the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players …”

The Garrick was fast filling up when that afternoon Gavin walked up the steps leading to the club’s Italianate façade. Standing in the crowded foyer amidst his fellow members, he waited a full five minutes before one of the circulating porters materialized to take his hat and coat. Saturdays were popular club days for any number of reasons. The unabashedly masculine environment provided a sanctuary for husbands seeking refuge from house guests and sundry social obligations imposed by the feminine world.

He found Hadrian in the smoking room. Seated in a faded wingchair by the window, he looked up from the front page of
The Times
when Gavin approached.

“Sorry I’m late. I dropped Daisy off at Drury Lane on my way. Today is her audition.”

Taking his seat in a leather armchair that had seen better days, Gavin flagged a waiter and ordered coffee for them both.

“No worries. As always, I made myself at home as you can see.” Grinning, Hadrian indicated the glass of whiskey he’d been sipping.

The two men shared a chuckle. Though the Garrick was likely the least stuffy of the London gentlemen’s clubs, the bylaws mandated that members abide by a certain code of conduct. As in other clubs, the old black balling system operated in full force. Whether he styled himself as Hadrian or went by his real name, Harry, his friend had created quite a scandal the year before by publicly announcing he was the bastard of an East End prostitute. That he sacrificed himself to expose the villainous Member of Parliament who hired him to take a damning photograph of Callie, then the president of the London Women’s Suffrage Society, and thereby ensure the defeat of the suffrage bill coming before Parliament, was considered to be a tertiary point. Regardless of the nobility of his motive, sons of whores were quite simply not “clubbable.” Though Gavin held a seat on the board of directors, it wasn’t in his power to alter the membership bylaws to admit his friend. Even so, he wasn’t above using his legal mind to find the means to get around them. In the present case, it meant inviting Hadrian to join him as his guest every bloody chance he got. Except for voting rights, the photographer enjoyed all the privileges of club membership without having to pay the exorbitant fee.

Hadrian folded the newspaper and replaced it on the leather-top table. “How are you and Daisy getting on?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The acting lessons, do you fancy she’s showing improvement?”

Oh, that. Paranoia must be getting the better of him because for a moment Gavin felt like a guilty person working to cover for himself on the trial stand.

The coffee arrived. Gavin took a sip of the strong black brew before answering, “She ran through her audition monologue with me the other night, and she really is quite good.”

“I never doubted it. I still remember her crack rendition of Puss-in-Boots, after all.”

Hadrian grinned and Gavin joined him though in truth he felt as nervous as if he were the one auditioning before the theater manager and director of Drury Lane. For the past two decades, serious drama had fallen out of fashion, prompting one former lease holder to exclaim, “Shakespeare spells ruin, and Byron bankruptcy.” Fortunately,
As You Like It
was one of the best loved of the Shakespearean comedies. Given Daisy’s background in burlesque, Gavin reasoned the farcical play with its layers of innuendo and myriad mistaken identities should allow her to showcase her strengths. His main worry was that stage fright might get the better of her. When he dropped her off at the theater entrance, she looked to be on tenterhooks.

Hadrian added a second lump of sugar to his coffee and stirred the spoon. “What do you make of her chances for a part?”

“She has a fine sense of comic timing and her enunciation is vastly improved since working with the acting coach.” The latter, a retired actress from Bath, had been nothing short of a godsend. “Wishful thinking aside, I’d say she has a real chance at winning the part of Audrey.”

“Audrey? I’d ask you to refresh my memory but as I’ve never read Shakespeare, or much else beyond photography books and newspapers, you’ll have to explain.”

“As You Like It
is a comedy. The majority of scenes take place in the pastoral setting of The Forest of Arden. Audrey is the female rustic clown of the piece. It’s a small role but a speaking part. She might also make a fine Phebe, the proud shepherdess who falls in love with Rosalind when she’s disguised as a boy—Ganymede.”

“Rosalind?”

Gavin took another sip of his coffee and then clarified, “The female lead.”

“What about Daisy as Rosalind?”

Gavin almost choked on the strong brew. “Rosalind carries the play. The director will surely go with an established actress.”

“You don’t think Daisy has a shot at least?”

It was a reasonable enough question and yet Gavin didn’t entirely care for his friend’s tone. “She still has a lot to learn about how things are done in a proper playhouse. Drury Lane is no dance hall after all.”

Hadrian opened his mouth as if to say more, but the waiter returned with the silver coffee pot and a tray of biscuits.

Gavin waited for him to top off their cups before broaching the subject that had been weighing on his mind. “Daisy mentioned your dropping by the other week. I’m sorry I missed you.”

“Actually, I came to see her. I thought we two needed a catch-up chat. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind, why should I?” Gavin asked and yet for whatever reason, perhaps none at all, he felt himself bristling. “May I ask what you two spoke about or is it private?”

Hadrian looked him squarely in the eye and admitted, “I told her if she was looking for a light-o'-love only, you weren’t the man, but if she were willing to entertain something more, something deeper, she couldn’t find a finer fellow than you. Was I mistaken?”

Gavin shook his head. “I suppose I should thank you for the ringing endorsement, but Daisy and I are just friends. My helping her is no different than my helping you when you first came to London.” What a whopper of a lie that was.

Hadrian didn’t hesitate to call him on it. “The hell it is. You’re in love with her.”

Gavin sat his cup and saucer down with a bang. Was he truly that transparent? “If I was in love with her, and I’m not saying I am, I wouldn’t know which woman that might be. At times I see glimpses of the girl we all remember but at other times she insists she’s Delilah, not Daisy. It’s as if she relishes the role of the hard-bitten tart, not to mention seizing on every opportunity she can to shock me.”

Hadrian sent him a sage smile. “Harboring a dual identity is a means of hiding. I can say so from experience. You tell yourself you’re hiding from others, from the world, but the truth is the only person you’re hiding from is yourself. Give her time, Gavin. This is all new to her. Even though she’s used to living in a large city, London can be a very daunting place. In time she may come around.”