Leading Lady (17 page)

“Oh.” The expression in her gray eyes faded a bit. “Yes, I expect not, m’Lady.”

Muriel joined Nanny Prescott and Georgiana on their afternoon walk and had as lovely a time as yesterday, though she had to work a little harder to keep her thoughts in the moment and not onstage at the Royal Court.

This is ridiculous,
she said to herself in the morning room after lunch, when she could not even concentrate fully on the pages of
War of the Worlds.

“I beg your pardon, m’Lady,” Joyce said at the door. “Telephone for you. It’s Mrs. Pearce.”

Muriel closed her book, went to the parlour, and picked up the body of the candlestick telephone with one hand, the earpiece with the other. “Hello, Mother?” she said, sinking into the cushions of the sofa. “How good to hear from you. How are you keeping?”

“The same” came her mother’s peevish voice. “Did Georgiana’s dress arrive?”

Muriel winced. She had intended to telephone her mother
to thank her for the lovely royal blue velvet and lace dress and put Georgiana on the line to do the same.

“I’m sorry, Mother. I meant to call, but I’ve been quite busy these past two days, with the party and everything. . . .”

“Too busy to spare your mother two minutes? I devoted my whole life to my children, and you hardly ever come up to see us, and Douglas went traipsing off to Canada. Bernard is the only one who appreciates me.”

That stung. Ever since Bernard chose the ministry and requested a parish near where their parents resided, he had become the perfect son. How easy it was for Mother to forget such things as his setting his bed on fire while sneaking Father’s pipe upstairs for a smoke or causing Douglas to break an arm by daring him to jump from a tree limb with an open umbrella.

Don’t argue or you’ll never get off the telephone,
Muriel thought. “The dress is lovely. Georgiana looks like a princess in it.” Or at least she would when Muriel’s dressmaker took up the seams a bit. “How is Father?”

“Spending too many hours at the office, as usual,” Mother replied, still peevish. “Agatha and Sally spent yesterday with me.”

Muriel breathed a quiet sigh. Agatha was perfect Bernard’s perfect wife. But at least she took some of the pressure off Muriel to travel up to Sheffield every other week.

“Agatha’s doctor confirmed she’s going to have another baby,” Mother continued. “Heaven knows how she’ll manage two so close in age.”

“Indeed?” At least Muriel smiled, for she loved her brother in spite of his irritating goodness and knew how much he doted upon Sally. “Do congratulate them for me.”

“Oh dear,” Mother fretted. “Bernard wanted to be the one to give you the news.”

“What news?” Muriel said. “I can’t recall a word of what you were just saying.”

They shared a rare laugh, and then Muriel promised to
bring Georgiana up for Easter. She had no sooner replaced the telephone onto the table when it rang again. Thinking it was her mother, Muriel did not wait for one of the servants to hasten in.

“Mother?” she said into the mouthpiece.

It was Bernard, almost giddy. “I’ve the most marvelous news!”

“You won at the horses?” Muriel feigned a guess.

“As if!” he chuckled. “We’re going to have another baby!”

She said she was happy for him and asked how Agatha was feeling. He replied that she was hale and healthy, which did not surprise Muriel, for in keeping with her perfection, Bernard’s wife had sailed through her first pregnancy with none of the nausea that had kept Muriel practically bedridden for nine months.

“I pray she continues feeling as well as last time,” he said as if reading her thoughts. His voice became tender. “Poor Muriel. You had such a difficult time of it, and so soon after Sidney . . .”

“All that’s over. I’m fine now,” Muriel said, and because the compassion in his voice touched her and made her feel closer to him than she had in a long time, she added, “I’d like to ask your advice.”

“But of course.”

“I’ve this notion. . . .” She waved a hand as if he could see her. “Silly, actually, to audition for a part in a play at Jewel’s theatre. I can’t stop thinking of it.”

After a pause, he replied, “I was hoping you were going to ask me to help you choose a church.”

“Georgiana is too young to sit through a service,” she replied, already beginning to regret bringing up the subject. “We’ll go when she’s older.”

“I hope you mean that.”

“Yes, absolutely. But about auditioning . . . ?”

“I believe it’s a healthy thing to push oneself toward new
experiences, as long as they’re morally sound. But, as you said, Georgiana’s still young. She needs you.”

“My child is not lacking for attention,” Muriel said defensively. “In fact, we take strolls in the Square together.”

“She’ll lack attention if you have to devote long hours to the theatre.” A sigh, then, “Muriel, you asked for my advice and here it is. Wait a few years. You don’t appreciate how privileged you are, even as a widow. Many women in my parish have to spend twelve hours a day at factory work and can only dream of being able to rear their own children.”

Muriel blinked salt tears from her eyes, touched by his words and the concern in his voice. “Yes, of course,” she said, and the issue was settled in her mind and she was at peace.

For at least the remainder of the afternoon.

The night was a different story, for again she could picture herself on stage, soaking up adulation from every seat in the theatre.

****

Over toast with quince jam and a cheese omelet the following morning, she decided it couldn’t hurt anything to
read
the play, if only to understand the performance better when it eventually came to the Royal Court.
With an experienced lead actress, of course.

Impulsively she rose from the small table in the morning room, where she customarily took breakfast, to ring the bell cord. She heard footsteps on the service stairs, and Joyce entered the room seconds later.

“You rang, m’Lady?”

“Yes. Send Ham to the bookstore for me.”

“Very well, m’Lady. What is it he should buy?”

Muriel hesitated. Was she imagining amusement in the parlourmaid’s eyes? Had Evelyn, curse her dull soul, mentioned yesterday’s scrap of conversation? She could just imagine the servants in the kitchen, sharing a chuckle over her brief delusion of grandeur.

They’re only servants,
she reminded herself.

But servants talked to other servants, and back-door gossip bounced about the Square like a tennis ball.

Raising her chin, Muriel said, “Never mind. Have him bring the coach around in ten minutes.”

Thirteen

Hatchards, London’s oldest book shop, was located at 187 Piccadilly, in one of the old residential houses converted into businesses. A somber, almost ecclesiastical atmosphere permeated the place, with its oak floors that creaked in certain spots, and nooks and crannies and heaps of shelves all fitted with books. Most of the assistants were very old men with beards or side-whiskers, so dignified and scholarly that they could have been University dons who sold books as a hobby.

“Ah, Lady Holt,” said one of the rare younger assistants, a Mr. Humphreys, who shared her taste for Gothic horror and science fiction. “I’ve saved a copy of
War of the Worlds
for you.”

“Thank you, but I’m already halfway through it,” she said, and when he looked a little disappointed that she had not purchased it from Hatchards, she added, “I sent my coachman in last week. He apparently did not inform you it was for me.”

That lightened his expression. “And are you enjoying it?”

“Yes, but it gives me nightmares,” she confessed.

Mr. Humphreys chuckled, in a dignified way befitting his station. “I’m afraid we’ve nothing new in that category you haven’t read.” He lowered his voice. “Nothing new that is worthy of your attention, I should clarify. Some of these recent ghost stories are no better than penny dreadfuls—with better covers.”

“Hmm. What a shame.” Muriel looked about in all directions, not really seeing the books moving in front of her eyes.

“But if you would care to see some . . .”

“I suppose not. I’ll stop by in another week or so.”

“Very good, Lady Holt,” he said with a small inclination of the head. He accompanied her to the door, but before Muriel reached it she turned, as if struck by afterthought.

“While I’m here . . . have you a copy of
Lady Audley’s Secret?
The play, not the novel.” And because she thought she detected the same amusement in his eyes she had suspected in Joyce’s, she added, “It’s for my cousin. She’s a manager of Royal Court Theatre. With her husband.”

“Ah, a gift,” he said, excused himself, and emerged from one of the dim corners with a booklet in hand. “Shall I wrap it for you?”

“Yes,” Muriel replied. “After all, it is a gift.”

****

Lady Audley was the role any actress would give her last shilling to play, Muriel thought, flipping through the pages in the seclusion of the morning room. For according to Jewel, London audiences loved those Becky Sharps and Heathcliffs they scowled at, more than the Amelia Sedleys and Edgar Lintons for whom they wept. Here on the pages was a beautiful bigamous heroine who deserts her child, murders one husband, and contemplates poisoning another. Of course that plum would go to a lead actress, probably as the result of those negotiations Jewel was so tight-lipped about.

The utility parts in the play were those of servants and countrywomen. Many were nonspeaking. Were she to confess to Jewel her growing-by-the-hour desire to audition, it would be one of those parts her cousin would advise—after she picked herself up from the carpet from laughing.

Jewel wouldn’t do that.
Still, it would be harder for her cousin to take her seriously. What was the saying Father used to explain why the insurance agents under his supervision underwrote more policies to people
outside
their own neighborhoods?
Familiarity breeds contempt.

“I need advice,” she muttered. But not from Bernard, not this time.
As if I would neglect my own daughter!
she thought. After mulling the matter over, she had an idea where to find it.

****

“You rang, your Ladyship?” Mrs. Burles asked.

“Yes. Have Ham bring the coach around again.”

The housekeeper stood just inside the doorway, staring at her indecisively.

“Well?” Muriel said.

“Begging your pardon again, your Ladyship, but his half-day began after lunch, and he mentioned going to visit an aunt.”

Muriel was opening her mouth to snap that he could visit his aunt tomorrow just as well as today, when she realized this was all for the best. It was one thing for the servants to know she went to a bookstore, for that was a frequent occurrence. But a call upon Charlotte Steel would set their tongues wagging for certain.

“Would your Ladyship wish me to speak with him?” Mrs. Burles said hesitantly. “Perhaps he could wait . . .”

“Certainly not.” Muriel smiled to herself, enveloped in a rare feeling of confidence that everything would fall into place as it should. “Just telephone for a cab in half an hour. A coach, not a hansom, mind you.”

After lunch she had Evelyn help her into a gown of cinnamon-colored sateen that brought out the gold in her hair. She added a black velvet belt with wide inverted V to accent her tiny waist and full bosom. One look in the mirror and she shed the belt, recalling how when pregnant with Georgiana, she had despised every woman with a figure. Better not to rouse any jealousy in Mrs. Steel.

“Are you familiar with Mayfair?” Muriel asked the cabby, who wore the ubiquitous black frock coat and top hat. “I wish to call upon the actress Mrs. Charlotte Steel.”

“I know where to find the house,” he said, holding open the door. He reined the team to a stop next to a cab stand on Old Bond Street, and through the window Muriel watched him converse with a hansom cabby. Seconds later they were moving again, and eventually they stopped in front of a white-columned stucco house on Grosvenor Street.

“Wait here,” Muriel instructed the coachman—just in case.

The butler who answered Muriel’s ring read her card with
the respect due the title before her name and the hauteur of one who had held many such cards in his hand. “I’m afraid Mrs. Steel is not receiving guests at this time, Lady Holt.”

“Of course, I understand,” she said, careful to maintain dignity in her voice, for as she reminded herself, this was just a whim and she could change her mind at any time. “Will you inform Mrs. Steel that I was introduced to her at the opening night party for
Over the Garden Wall
and that Mrs. McGuire is my cousin? If she could spare me five minutes, I would be most grateful.”

“Very well, Lady Holt,” he said with an elegant little inclination of the head. Still holding her card, he took her coat, led her to a parlour, and asked her to wait. A man her father’s age was repairing the inner workings of a long-case clock, his open leather tool satchel resting upon the back of a chair. After a polite nod he did not look in her direction, but Muriel was glad he was there, for watching him work distracted her from the voice in her head saying she should go home now while she still possessed a shred of dignity.

The butler returned and escorted her up a flight of stairs to a drawing room furnished in the Rococo Revival style, inspired by eighteenth century France with its serpentine backs and curved legs on delicately upholstered walnut sofas and chairs. Charlotte Steel reclined upon a sofa, head propped upon pillows at one end, slipper-clad feet propped upon a pillow at the other. She was still beautiful, in a pale sort of way, with her shining auburn hair draped over one shoulder. If she was showing yet, it was impossible to tell for the loose, faded green plaid flannel dressing gown she wore.

“My husband’s,” Mrs. Steel explained after Muriel reintroduced herself. She raised a sleeve to show a frayed hem. “I won’t allow it to be thrown away. It’s the most comfortable garment in the house, and I need comfort at this time. Do have a seat, Lady Holt.”