Leading Lady (20 page)

Bethia smiled, and for the fraction of a second they could have been any two good friends. But then polite aloofness resumed itself on Muriel’s face, and she held out an arm.

“This cuff binds my wrist. The button should be moved.”

****

Bethia joined Jewel and Grady for a late lunch at Giovanni’s, where they talked each other into trying a new item penned at the bottom of the menu. The pizza pie, a dish of cheeses, tomatoes, and meat baked upon bread, was delicious, if messy, for the cheese pulled apart in elastic strings.

“How is Muriel behaving toward you?” Jewel asked as her knife sawed the tip from a wedge upon her plate.

“Or should we say . . .
is
Muriel behaving toward you?” Grady asked.

“Muriel and I get on fine, so don’t worry.” While the warmth of those few short seconds in the wardrobe room would be nice to have on a consistent basis, she could live with polite civility.

She smiled at the relief in both expressions. They were taking a huge gamble, casting a novice in a lead part. Their positions were probably on the line, as well as the fate of the company. As unnatural as it felt to hope that Muriel would be a great success, Bethia sent up a silent prayer for that very thing while Jewel and Grady complimented Mr. Giovanni on his new dish.

****

On the evening of the second of April, Muriel stepped out in front of the toughest audience in the world, London theatregoers. While she had a sense that the theatre was filled to capacity, she did not allow her eyes to dwell on any particular section for affirmation. She was Lady Audley, and Lady Audley’s sight was reserved for the characters who made up her own world. Indeed, she so effectively blocked out those in the seats that when the cast was called out for final bows, minor characters first, it was only then that she became intimidated.

“I’m shaking,” she confessed to Richard Whitmore as they stood in the wings.

“You’ll do fine,” he said over another round of applause.

He took her hand when it was their turn. They hastened out together as the cast divided to make room for them. They bowed, and the audience roared approval. People began rising from their seats. They bowed again, then Mr. Whitmore let go of her hand and took a step backward. Muriel found herself standing out there in front of everyone, drinking in the adulation, the shouts of “bravo!”

The shaking ceased. This was better than her dream.

“Thank you for helping me through it,” she said to Mr. Whitmore during the opening night party afterward.

His face lit up pathetically, like a pup praised for fetching a stick. “I could give you more tips over lunch tomorrow.”

“No, thank you,” Muriel said. “I’ll be busy.”

****

“Read it to me again,” Muriel’s mother said over the telephone one week later.

Gladly Muriel complied, holding out the ninth of April’s
Saturday Review
in front of her. She probably could have quoted Mr. Shaw’s column by now, but every word was a feast for her eyes.

“The surprise of the season is neophyte Lady Holt’s portrayal of the infamous Lady Audley at Royal Court. Deftly and gracefully she weaves her web of lies, schemes, and manipulations, while we sit in horror until we remind ourselves with a rush of relief that this is theatre and those same characters whose lives she destroys will be safely in their beds tonight and up and treading the boards again tomorrow evening.”

She had to read it again for her father, and when her mother took the telephone again, she asked Muriel to send them a copy and one for Bernard as well.

“I just wish I felt well enough to travel down there and watch you.”

Uh-oh.
Muriel recognized the little tremor in her mother’s voice. She would not allow anyone, even her own mother, to make her sad today. Agree and divert, that was the tactic. Breezily she said, “Next time I’m up, I’ll put on your very own show. You should see the flowers people have been sending, Mother. Roses. They were crowding my dressing room so we sent most here.”

But her mother was not to be diverted this time. “I suppose we’ll see you even less now.”

“Nonsense, Mother. This is just a hobby. I expect I’ll tire
of it after playing Lady Audley. And remember, when Georgiana’s old enough, we’ll come up once a month or so.”

“That would be nice,” Mother said wistfully but with just enough disbelief in her voice to annoy Muriel.

“We’ll make absolute pests of ourselves,” Muriel went on. “Oh dear, I hear the doorbell. Just some of the neighborhood ladies, I’m sure, trying to persuade me again to join their literature discussion group. As if I have the time!”

After hurried farewells Muriel put down the telephone and rang for Joyce.

“Send Ham out for three more copies of
Saturday Review,
” she said to the parlourmaid. She would save a copy for Douglas as well.

“Very well, m—”

“Wait . . . four copies. Have him leave one at Mrs. Beckingham’s door.”

“Her door, m’Lady?”

“I don’t recall stuttering.”

The parlourmaid lowered her head. “Sorry, m’Lady.”

Muriel let out a sigh, reminding herself that patience was a virtue and that a great leading actress could afford to be gracious. And so she explained, “It’s little thoughtful gestures that make for good neighbors.”

Fifteen

Two hundred miles north of London, in the city of York, two men stood facing each other on the seventh of May. One was tall and dark, the other fair and of medium height. The only physical characteristic they shared beyond the obvious two arms, two legs, and so forth, was the hatred in their expressions.

“If you have courage enough to fight me, I’ll meet you in any country!” Noah Carey, the taller man challenged. “I’ll fight you here in London . . . or, if you’re afraid of that, I’ll go over to France, or to America, if that will suit you better!”

Jude Nicholls’ hands curled into fists at his sides. “Nothing of the kind will suit me at all. I want nothing to do with you.”

“Then you’re a coward!”

“Perhaps I am! But your saying so will not make me one!”

“You’re a coward, and a liar, and a blackguard!” Noah withdrew the pistol from his pocket, eliciting some satisfying gasps from out in the darkness. The actors of York Theatre Royal held the audience in the palms of their hands this evening—most gratifying for the closing performance of Anthony Trollope’s
Can You Forgive Her?

Jude, cast in the role of John Grey, took a step backward. “Does that mean you’re going to . . . murder me?”

“I mean that you should not leave this room alive,” Noah replied, face twisted as if the fictitious George Vavasor’s tormented thoughts ran through his own mind, “unless you promise to meet me and fight it out!”

****

“Is there any more beautiful sight than a standing ovation?” Jude, still very much alive, asked in the dressing closet they shared a half hour later.

“I can think of one, offhand,” Noah replied, wiping away
the charcoal shadings from beneath his eyes with a damp face flannel.

“I stand corrected.” Jude paused from unfastening the buttons to the costume shirt, his head angled thoughtfully. “But then again . . . Olivia
was
out there as well.”

“Very well then,” Noah conceded. “There is no more beautiful sight than a standing ovation—provided Olivia is in the front row.”

Dropping the flannel back into the washbowl, he picked up his white shirt from the back of the chair and gave Jude a sidelong smile. They had been fast friends since their early preparatory school days at age nine. “Truthfully, I thought my heart would burst out of my chest. But I’m happier for you. A fitting birthday gift, yes?”

“Absolutely!”

Their mutual love for theatre began ten years ago at Oxford, when they dared each other to audition for roles in Corpus Christi College’s production of Sophocles’
Philoctetes.
After University the acting experiences were limited, as the majority of productions booked for York’s Theatre Royal were from touring companies. For years they had spoken of making a go of it in London, the crown jewel of acting, with its thirty-six major theatres.

But certain ties bound them both to Yorkshire. Whether or not Olivia could be persuaded to uproot once they were wed, Noah could not leave his mother. Five years ago the ninth Earl of Danby had died of a high fever after being caught out on his horse during a sudden winter rainstorm. As his mother’s only child to have survived infancy, he could not bear to heap more loss upon her shoulders.

The ties that bound Jude were woven more with strands of guilt than responsibility, more the pity. Jude seemed better suited to be a bank clerk or schoolmaster, with his hair the color of dust and features perfectly proportioned to his oval face so that none stood out as remarkable. His bland
appearance served him well onstage, for he was a chameleon, who molded himself to suit every setting.

Unfortunately, Sir Thaddeus Nicholls maintained that acting was frivolous foolishness and barely tolerated the few weeks a year his son spent on the York stage. Jude’s father was the proudest man Noah had ever met. He was proud of his name, of his race, of his pedigree, proud of his unstained honor, his large fortune, and his devout Presbyterianism—the result of a great-great-grandfather’s marriage to a Scottish woman. As the river Esk gathered force and strength from every tributary, so Sir Thaddeus made every gift that God and his ancestry had bestowed upon him tributary to his pride.

For over three hundred years, since Henry VIII rewarded an ancestor with buildings and six hundred acres seized from a monastery outside Stockton, ten miles northeast of York, the Nicholls, like the Careys, had lived off the labors of their tenant sheep farmers. It mattered not one whit that Jude stood to inherit the estate only if all four elder brothers were to meet with fatalities. The church or the army were the only options acceptable for any younger brother not content with the life of an idle gentleman. Jude could discern no calling from God for the former and was too infatuated with acting to consider the latter.

The old man could at least come watch a performance before he passes judgment,
Noah thought grimly as he unfastened shirt buttons.

“ . . . only regret it, if I don’t.”

Noah raised his chin. “Sorry . . . regret what?”

Jude drew a breath, as if his words had been so weighty that he had to draw upon some reserve fuel to repeat them. “I’ve decided to go to London.”

“London? When?”

“Perhaps the day after tomorrow.”

“For how long?”

“However long it takes.”

Surprise, concern, and even envy tugged at Noah’s insides. “When did you decide this?”

Jude gave him a sheepish smile. “During the ovation.”

“During the . . ?” Noah shook his head. “You can’t make such an important decision just because of an emotional moment, Jude.”

“You of all people should know that it wasn’t a notion that flew into my head from nowhere. We’re twenty-seven years old, Noah. Time is running out.”

The sentiment could have come from Noah’s own mind. Still, someone had to ask the difficult questions, for Jude’s sake. Sir Thaddeus was not a man to be crossed. He would be sure to cut off Jude’s allowance and possibly even strike him from his will.

“How will you support yourself?”

Jude lifted his white shirt from the back of a chair and shrugged into it. A casual movement, but his jaw was tense. “I’ve been saving a bit here and there against the day I’d have the nerve. If I run out of money, I’ll sweep streets, clean chimneys—whatever it takes, until I start getting parts.”

The conviction in his friend’s voice brought a lump to Noah’s throat. He busied himself with pulling on his own shirt, turning his head to blink away the threatening tears.

“Noah?”

Noah turned again, met Jude’s searching look.

“I would have thought you of all people would be happy for me,” Jude said.

“I’m happy for you. I just don’t want you to be disappointed.”

“But don’t you see? If I don’t even give it a try, the disappointment will come when I’m old and it’s too late to do anything about it. This way, at least there’s a chance that I
won’t
be disappointed.”

Put that way, it made perfect sense. Wouldn’t he do the same in Jude’s position?

Jude gave him a sad smile. “I just wish you were coming with me, big fellow.”

Crossing the tiny room in three steps, Noah clapped a hand upon his shoulder. “I’ll revel in your successes from up here. At least one of us will be keeping the dream alive.”

“Thank you, Noah.”

“When will you inform your family?”

“In the morning,” Jude replied with a feigned shudder.

“Would you like me to go with you?” Oddly enough, Sir Thaddeus was somewhat fond of Noah, or at least respected his title and that the acreage surrounding Carey Park was half again the size of the Nicholls estate.

Jude shook his head. “Thank you. But I have to do this myself.”

A banging and rattling of hinges brought the conversation to a halt. The door swung open and Cole Siddons, who played the part of Mr. Cheesacre, thrust his bearded head inside. Sending Noah a glance laden with meaning, he said, “Can you two schoolboys possibly finish preening yourselves within this century? The party started hours ago!”

The door thundered shut, and Noah and Jude exchanged grins. “Hours ago,” Jude said.

“No doubt it seemed like hours to him. Patience isn’t Cole’s forte.” Hastening to fasten the remaining shirt buttons, Noah gave himself a mental kick for dawdling. But then, what was he to do when his friend dropped such news? Continue on as if he had commented upon the weather? He looped his silk cravat about his collar. “Guess we should hurry before he has an apoplexy.”

“I think I’ll pass on the party and get on home. I’ll need a good night’s sleep behind me when I face Father.”

Don’t overreact,
Noah thought. “Well, at least stop in for a minute. This may be the last time you see everyone together.”