Leading Lady (26 page)

“Well, I guess it’s time to tell you, old friend,” Noah murmured and went to his writing desk. He did not write the reason for the broken engagement, just that he and Olivia had gone their separate ways. He had no qualms against complaining to his best friend about the settlement, but later, in person, when they could talk long hours as before.

“Why don’t you visit Jude when his play opens?” his mother suggested in the parlour after supper, when Uncle Bertram and Aunt May and Ronald had retired to their chambers. “It would do you a world of good.”

It would do him more than a world of good, Noah thought. It would do him a universe of good. He dared not admit how near broke he was to her, for she would insist upon giving him money. However, a weekend and theatre ticket he could afford, with the forty-three pounds he had remaining.

****

Mid-June was the time for shearing, a chore Noah had lent assistance with since age twelve. The seventeenth began as a fine day, with sweet heather-laden breezes wafting in from the north. Sheep bleated in the pen and the male workers challenged each other over who would produce the most fleeces while the women gossiped outside the wool room, where fleeces were graded and packed.

The older sheep usually submitted peacefully, but the younger had to have their legs tied. That job fell to Noah. He was teamed with Mr. Anders, who was, at age fifty, one of the fastest workers. The process went along smoothly, Noah holding steady the animal, Mr. Anders’s experienced fingers feeling close to the skin where the fleece was finest, then the clippers plowing through the wool as if powered by steam.

“Hold her steady, now!” Mr. Anders barked when a young ewe kicked loose of its restraint.

“Yes, sir!” Noah replied, grabbing the animal’s leg. He may have been lord of the estate, but during shearing time, the shearers were the kings.

By sunset every joint in Noah’s body ached, though he dared not share this information with Uncle Bertram, Mr. Anders, and the other older workers who complained about having to quit just as they hit their strides. After supper he took a good long soak in the bathtub, until the water chilled too much for comfort. He pulled on the clean nightshirt Rhodes had left on his bed and was stretched out across the mattress, propped on his elbows reading
The Drama: Addresses by Henry Irving,
when a knock sounded at his door.

“Come in.”

His mother entered, still in the blue poplin gown she had worn to supper. Noah noted the page number, closed the book, and sat up.

She smiled. “Tired?”

“Not as tired as the sheep are, I imagine. But I’ll wager I’m more sore.”

“Let’s have a chat, shall we?”

“But of course.” He got up and pulled on his dressing gown and shoved his feet into his slippers while she went over to the upholstered chair near his window. Noah took the chair from his writing desk and joined her.

“Am I in trouble?” he said jokingly, for once he became too old for bedtime stories, she almost never entered his room.

“Well, yes you are,” she replied with a mock severe look. “Why didn’t you tell me about the settlement?”

Heat spread in Noah’s cheeks. “Mr. Gates . . . ?”

“You forget that your account and the estate’s are in the same bank. And some bank clerks are more chatty than others.”

“Well, I’m certainly going to . . .” he began, and realized there would be no point in changing banks. He could expect no income until rehearsals began in October, and even that would barely cover his hotel bill and expenses in the city. It
was the love of acting, not high wages, that attracted local talent to provincial theatre.

“ . . . write a letter of complaint,” he finished lamely.

His mother shook her head. “You’ll do no such thing, dear. I’ll not have someone sacked because of my inquisitiveness.”

He had to allow that to soak in for a moment. “You mean you asked about my finances?”

“Let’s just say I dropped some broad hints. I knew Mr. Gates would not have come all the way out here looking so grim if he was only collecting for a wedding gown.”

“And so you interrogated our banker.”

She gave him a sheepish look. “Well, yes. It was unforgivable of me. But do hear me out.”

“Have I any choice?” he snapped and instantly regretted it. He could not sustain any anger at his mother for more than a few seconds. He blew out a long breath. “Sorry, Mother.”

“I had it coming,” she said with a little smile and sat back against the cushions, one elbow propped upon a chair arm. “Did you and Olivia ever discuss having children, Noah?”

What this had to do with the subject of chatty bankers he had not a clue but assumed she would meander her way back to it eventually. “Of course,” he replied.

“Do you still want children one day?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why do I want children?” He had never really asked himself that question, just knew he would like very much to be a father one day. But the answers came easily. “To watch them grow. Play games with them. Teach them the good things I’ve learned and hopefully to avoid the mistakes I’ve made.”

Her green eyes glistened a bit in the lamplight. “I pray you experience all that. A parent never loses those feelings, son. You’re just as much a delight to me as you were as a child.”

“Thank you, Mother,” he said, touched.

“
And
nothing would give me greater pleasure than seeing you achieve your dream. I want you to go to London now.”

He shook his head. “I can wait until August. I would probably be in Jude’s way now anyway.”

“I’m not speaking of visiting Jude. I’m speaking of living there. Trying out for theatre. It’s time, Noah.”

When he could speak past the lump in his throat, he said, “I’ll not leave you, Mother.”

Whether he had spending money or not was a moot point. If the situation were different, Father still here for mother, he would walk to London if that was what it took. Sleep in doorways and, as Jude had once said, sweep streets until he landed a part.

“Then you’ll break my heart,” she said.

“That’s unfair, Mother. I’ll break your heart if I leave you here alone.”

“But I’m
not
alone, Noah. This has been my home for fifty-three years. I have friends, family. And you’ll come back for visits, unless you get so famous that you forget your roots.”

“Never,” he said. “Do you really mean this, Mother?”

“With all my heart.”

Immediately Noah’s mind started racing. His forty-three pounds would cover his railway fare and at least a couple of month’s lodging and meals, perhaps even three. He would have to learn to economize, pinch pennies, but the notion of doing so loomed out in front of him as an adventure. How much more rewarding it would be, were he to gain success on the London stage, to be able to look back and know that he had paid his own dues. What a story he would have for fireside chats with his grandchildren!

And as for
The Importance of Being Earnest,
the Theatre Royal would have plenty of time to replace him before rehearsals. There would be no hard feelings there, for almost everyone in the company shared the same London dream.

“ . . . enough to start?”

Noah’s mind rushed back to the present. “Forgive me, Mother. What were you saying?”

“I asked how much I should transfer into your account initially. Five hundred? A thousand?”

He rose from his chair and knelt by the side of hers so that he could take her soft hand and press it to his cheek. “Not one penny.”

“But you—”

“I know it’s available to me should I truly need it. But for the time being, I’d like to see if there is more to me than being a spoiled, rich brat.”

She frowned miserably. “You’ll starve. I just know it.”

He shook his head. “I’m not
that
noble.”

“Promise?”

“Absolutely,” he replied. “And by the way, thank you for letting me go. I realize what a sacrifice this is for you.”

“What sacrifice?” She smiled at him, tears still lingering in her eyes. “You’ve not exactly been a ray of sunshine lately.”

Nineteen

On the eighteenth of June, threatening dark clouds necessitated arranging chairs into rows in Girton College’s Stanley Library for the commencement ceremony. The address was delivered by 1893 alumna Grace Chisholm Young, who had continued her education in mathematics in Germany and became, two years later, the first woman to receive a doctorate in any field in that country.

Guy’s commencement from University of Bologna was held the same day, the address delivered by Bologna native Guglielmo Marconi, inventor of wireless telegraphy.

Both speakers stressed that education is a lifelong process and should not cease with the completion of formal schooling—so Bethia and Guy discovered when they compared experiences four evenings later in Hampstead. Inspiring speeches, and yet what the two remembered most of that momentous day was how each had wished the other there.

“We’re pathetic,” Guy said, arm around her waist as they stood on the terrace looking out at a sliver of moon.

“Pathetic,” Bethia agreed.

“How about another kiss?”

Bethia looked over her shoulder toward the house, where their families were engaged in after-dinner chat in the parlour. She smiled at Guy. “They’re probably beginning to wonder.”

He sighed. “You’re right.”

“You give in too easily,” Bethia said, closing her eyes and raising her chin.

****

Within nine days Guy had secured a seat in the Royal Opera House. During gaps between performances and rehearsals he planned to work in his father’s shop as well as hire out to soirées, balls, and the like. Anything to better himself financially.

The whole time he was in Italy, Bethia had simply looked
forward to his permanent return to London, not taking into account that he would have to spend most of his waking hours at work of one sort or another. But at least they would have Sunday afternoons together, after attending church with their families—Bethia’s at Christ Church just down Cannonhall Road, and Guy’s at St. Thomas’s on Regent Street.

On the third of July, Bethia took the underground railway to meet Guy in Kensington for lunch at Jewel and Grady’s. The McGuire apartment was one of six sharing the second storey of Shepherd’s Gardens, a wide terra-cotta brick building on Albert Place. With the two practically living at the Royal Court and with no children romping through the apartment, Jewel and Grady employed a maid to clean twice weekly and deliver their laundry to and from the laundress. Any meals they took at home were ordered from the Red Lion Inn, such as today’s boiled brisket of beef, with turnips and carrots and suet dumplings.

As Bethia helped Jewel wash up the dishes, the men delivered the serving tins back to the inn and returned with a chocolate cake. They sat in the den with tea and cake, and Grady read aloud the earliest accounts of a battle fought between the Americans and Spanish on San Juan Hill near Santiago, Cuba.

Though Jewel did mention that Mrs. Steel had delivered a healthy boy she and her husband named Michael, there was no further discussion of anything having to do with the Royal Court. Bethia knew that her cousin and Grady loved their jobs even more than she loved hers, but with such an intensity of their commitment, it was a relief to forget them for a few hours and discuss even such a morbid subject as war.

“Would you care for a little stroll?” Guy asked Bethia outside the apartment at ten of four.

“Certainly,” Bethia said, slipping her hand through the crook of his arm. The light in his eyes compelled her to ask, “Where?”

“Some houses a customer mentioned to Father.” He took
a slip of paper from his pocket, unfolded it with his free fingers. “I haven’t looked them over yet, but I thought we could do that together, if you like. It’s not too early to keep an eye out. . . .”

She nudged his side. “You know I would.”

They walked two blocks, turned and walked another to Abington Road, to a row of charming narrow two-storey, stone-brown stucco terrace houses with slate roofs and tiny front garden plots.

“Primrose Terrace,” he said and stopped in front of one cast-iron railing. “I thought they would be bigger.”

“They’re lovely,” Bethia said, touching the blunt spear of the railing. The Hampstead house was a fine one, but it wasn’t
hers.
She could easily see herself building a life in a dollhouse such as this one with Guy.

“We could plant roses in the garden,” she said. “No . . . flower boxes would have to do, and a few shrubs. The children should have room to play.”

He shook his head. “We wouldn’t be here long enough for that. I’m just thinking of our first year or so. Better than renting a flat that we can’t resell when we move up.”

“Yes, good idea,” she said, knowing how useless it would be to insist that “moving up” was not high on her priority list. Surely he would not be so restless once they had turned it into a home, with their things set about and family portraits upon the wall. “And it would be nice to live so close to Jewel and Grady.”

“Are you sure about this, Bethia?” he asked.

“I’m sure.”

“The land agent—the customer in Father’s shop—says construction is due to start any day on another row across the street, to be finished and put on the market in four or five months. I’ll save every penny I make for a deposit. By Christmas, I ought to have something to show your father.”

Bethia was saving her wages as well but refrained from saying so for the sake of his pride. As close as she and Guy were,
the difference in their family incomes had acquired almost a presence of its own in their relationship. She understood that it was the dream of almost everyone alive to better himself financially, but Guy was driven. It was as if he could not accept himself as a man until he was able to shower her with the fine things that really did not matter to her.