Leading Lady (29 page)

The pencil began moving again, stopped. “Yet you never gave serious thought to auditioning until only months ago. Why is that, Lady Holt?”

Staring off dreamily into the space just above the reporter’s shoulder, Muriel mustered a melancholy little smile. “I married young and put my aside my dream to devote my life to my late husband. And then I had an infant child to tend.”
She straightened in her chair. “But I have no regrets for any of that, Mr. Fines.”

“No, of course not.” When Mr. Fines’s pencil ceased moving, he looked up and said, after a brief hesitation, “The interaction between you and Mr. Whitmore onstage is quite remarkable and, as I’m sure you’re aware, has sparked rumors of romance. Would there be any truth . . . ?”

“Absolutely not,” Muriel replied stiffly. How many times must she hear that question?

“Forgive me, Lady Holt, but I’m compelled to ask.”

“Yes, I understand,” she said, voice softening. It would not behoove her to offend a writer for the
Chronicle.
“It’s just that I still miss my husband.”

Now it was Mr. Fine’s voice that softened. “Do you?”

Muriel closed her eyes for a second, opened them. “Every time I step out onstage, Mr. Fines, I imagine Lord Holt is there in the front row, smiling, encouraging me on. It’s for him that I perform.”

The reporter was staring at her as if caught up in the same vision. He cleared his throat, scribbled some more marks on the page, and smiled. “May I take a photograph, Lady Holt? You with your daughter, perhaps?”

“But of course.” Muriel had anticipated this request and had instructed Prescott to give Georgiana her after-lunch nap earlier so that she would be awake. She rather liked it that most reporters relished the poignancy of her situation—beautiful young widow balancing a stage career and motherhood. She nodded at Joyce, who stood just inside the door in case she was needed, and the servant left. While they waited, Mr. Fines explored the room for the best lighting angle, finally asking permission to close a curtain. Muriel had just settled into the chair he had positioned in front of the curtain when Prescott and Georgiana came through the doorway.

“Mummy,” the child said, letting go of her nanny’s hand and hurrying over to Muriel with only a passing glance at Mr. Fines. She looked like an angel in the white lawn-and-lace
dress, chosen by Muriel earlier so that there would be well-defined contrast between it and her own sage-green gown in the sepia tones of a magazine photograph.

“Good afternoon, Georgiana,” Muriel said, lifting her daughter. “Did Mother’s girl have a good nap?”

Georgiana wrinkled her little nose. “I not like nap. I want to go Laplan. Mummy go to Laplan?”

“Not now, darling.” She held her daughter by the waist and turned her to sit facing away from her. “Let’s be a good girl and look at the nice gentleman.”

Mr. Fines was smiling as he opened up a tripod and camera. “Laplan? Is that from a storybook?”

“She actually refers to Belgrave Square. That’s where we take our daily stroll.”

Muriel glanced at Prescott, standing now where Joyce had stood. The fact that the nursemaid was so obviously trying to keep judgment from her expression irritated her. So she had spoken before thinking;
anyone
could stumble momentarily in the presence of a reporter who would be putting her words into newsprint before the week was out. Unfortunately, it was too late to amend her words to
weekly
stroll.

Even weekly would be an exaggeration, Muriel realized with a little pang as Mr. Fines stepped forward to position her chin. How long had it been? Rehearsals for
The Ticket-of-Leave Man
consumed early afternoons, and then she had to squeeze in a nap. And as far as tucking Georgiana in at night, how could she manage that when she had to be at the theatre six nights weekly?

You’re going to have to spend more time with her,
she admonished herself. She’d start tomorrow, for the interview and photographs were taking up this afternoon, and she had to have an early supper before leaving for the theatre to have her makeup applied and hair arranged. Tomorrow she would shorten her nap by a half hour and go up to the nursery and play with Georgiana, or perhaps she’d take the walk with her in the Square.

“Now, let’s smile pretty, shall we?” Mr. Fines said from behind his cloth, more to Georgiana than to Muriel.

“Smile, Georgiana,” Muriel said through stretched lips.

After a meal of stewed veal sweetbreads with mushrooms and boiled asparagus—enough to ensure against her stomach growling onstage yet not enough to induce lethargy—she went upstairs to brush her teeth and collect her handbag.

“Good evening, Mrs. Beckingham!” she called breezily on her way from her front door to the waiting coach.

Her neighbor, climbing her steps with a parcel-bearing maid following, turned her head just enough to send Muriel a sour look. The maid did likewise. Muriel smiled and waved, delighted to have scored two hits with one arrow and secure in the knowledge that her reception at the Royal Court would be much warmer.

Actors and actresses, attendants and musicians ceased gossiping in corridors to smile and send her admiring looks; Grady grinned and waved a receipt ledger at her; Dorothy, the makeup girl, said it was a shame that stage lighting made it necessary to cover such fine skin with greasepaint; Jewel brought a jar of peppermints to her dressing room; Gillian, the hairdresser, wished that every actress’s hair was as naturally curly, and Mrs. Allgood, the women’s dresser, wished that for just one day in her life she could have as feminine a figure; Amanda Hill, understudy for the roles of Lady Audley and Alice Audley, asked for advice on how to laugh naturally in the scene with Robert Audley.

But the reception that really mattered, which made all others pale by comparison, still awaited her. It was for that one she prepared, while others in the greenroom chatted softly or, in Mr. Whitmore’s case, sent her wistful glances. She fixed her eyes upon the door, practicing the deep-breathing exercises Charlotte Steel had taught her.

Presently Lewis, the callboy, stuck his blonde head into the room.

“Lady Audley and Sir Michael!”

“Well, shall we?” Mr. Whitmore said, rising and crooking his elbow. He wore a blue velveteen coat, flowered waistcoat, cord breeches, and gaiters. His hair was frosted completely gray. Muriel smiled and extended her hand. She could bestow upon him the attention he craved, for he was now the wealthy and gullible Sir Michael, and she his young wife, Lady Audley.

They were met with roaring applause as they strolled arm in arm from the wings onto a set constructed to resemble a lime-tree walk with an ancient hall in the distance.

“Come along, come along, my dear Sir Michael, you shall have no rest today,” Muriel said, quoting her lines, drinking in the applause but not allowing it to penetrate the identity she was to wear for the next two hours. “I’ll take you all over the park and grounds, to see all the festivities I’ve arranged in honor of my dear husband, my pet—my treasure, my only joy!”

Richard Whitmore smiled as she reached up to pat his cheek. “Bless you, my dear, bless you! What a happy old man you make me!”

Only after the last bows were taken and the final curtain closed did she allow herself to become Muriel Holt again.

“Please do something with these,” she said to the cleaning staff of the bouquets of roses that were beginning to crowd her dressing room.

“No, thank you,” she said to Richard Whitmore’s suggestion of a late supper in a café open for theatre staff until the wee hours.

“Certainly,” she said to the dozen or so tenacious members of the audience waiting at the stage door, asking to have their playbills inscribed.

“Sorry,” she said to the beggar holding out a battered hat as Ham escorted her to the coach.

Traces of clear starry sky were visible between tree boughs of Sloan Square and the rooftops of King’s Road. Muriel stared out the coach windows and wondered what grand or
noble thing she had done that God would favor her so. If only Douglas were home, her life would be perfect.

And it seemed that God had heard that thought and decided to grant it as well, for Mrs. Burles met her at the door and said, “Master Pearce is waiting in the parlour, your Ladyship.”

“My brother?” Muriel said with hand over her racing heart.

“Yes, your Ladyship.”

Muriel hurried into the room. But it was Bernard rising from the sofa. She could tell them apart even when they were children, and it was easier now, with Bernard a bit stouter. His expression was grim, and his hazel eyes, so like Douglas’s, looked weary.

“Mother?” Muriel said as a knot formed in her throat. “Father?”

He shook his head. “They received a letter from a Bishop Bompas yesterday. He’s the administrator for an Anglican mission and hospital in a mining town called Caribou Crossing. Douglas passed on there five weeks ago.”

“H-how?”

Her brother came to her, opened up his arms. “Pneumonia.”

They wept together, Bernard quietly and Muriel leaning against his chest while one sob after another tore from the pit of her stomach until her weakened limbs could no longer support her weight. At length Bernard led her to a chair and knelt beside her.

“The letter says Douglas made his peace with God during his final days,” Bernard said gently. “That gives me great comfort, Muriel.”

“I’d rather have Douglas than comfort,” Muriel rasped.

****

The soles of Bethia’s ankle boots barely met the pavement of Duke Street. She would have whistled if women were not frowned upon for doing so in public.

In her experience of designing costumes for the Royal Court, she had never procured the complete range of fabrics needed without shopping all over London. But she had caught Spencer, Turner & Boldero just as the shelves had been restocked and found everything she needed. She could not wait to inform Jewel and the seamstresses. And Grady, who cared little for costumes, would be pleased to learn that the establishment had offered a ten percent discount in the hopes that Bethia would visit them first the next time.

She turned left onto Oxford Street, toward Oxford Circus Underground Station, and was still so deep in happy thoughts that she nearly collided with a gentleman stepping out from a shop.

“I beg your—” she began, her portfolio jostled from beneath her arm.

“My fault,” the gentleman said gallantly, dropping to one knee to retrieve the sketches fanning out onto the pavement. When he looked up at her, Bethia’s heart leapt to her throat.

“You’re back!” Not only had he returned safely from the gold fields, but apparently the trek had been beneficial to him, for his face had fleshed out somewhat.

Bethia had not realized how heavy the weight of guilt had rested upon her shoulders until that instant, when it was lifted. She would have embraced Douglas but for the fear of re-igniting his infatuation with her.

The hazel eyes were completely devoid of recognition as he handed over her sketches. “I beg your pardon?”

It was only then that Bethia noticed the clerical collar. She had not seen Bernard Pearce since she was a young child, but Jewel had informed her that he was a vicar near Sheffield. He was staring at her, and she was compelled to explain herself, as the weight of guilt again settled upon her shoulders.

“I thought you were Douglas Pearce. But you’re his brother, aren’t you?”

“And you are . . . ?” he said taking her extended hand.

“Bethia Rayborn. Catherine and Jewel’s—”

“Cousin,” Reverend Pearce finished, nodding. If it were possible, he seemed older than his twin, for his face was haggard, with shadows beneath his eyes. He still held Bethia’s hand, as if not realizing he was doing so. “I’m afraid Douglas has passed on, Miss Rayborn. I was just turning in the obituary for the newspapers.”

Her wits abandoning her, Bethia looked at the door Bernard had come through just before their paths met.
Jay’s Mourning Warehouse, est. 1841
was stenciled in dignified block letters upon the door glass. She had known of such establishments that catered to the needs of the bereaved, for Mother and Sarah had accompanied Claire Duffy to such a place to help her make arrangements when Mr. Duffy passed on.

The street noises, colors, snatches of conversation of people streaming past, Mr. Pearce mouthing something, his Douglas-like face washed with concern for
her,
her knees buckling. The next thing of which she was aware was an arm about her shoulders, leading her through the door she had noticed a second ago. Inside the establishment, lamps set about on tables and stands, rolls and rolls of black and gray cloth created a somber, almost ethereal atmosphere. She was led to a dark green velvet settee; Reverend Pearce sat beside her while another gentleman in a black frock coat brought over a steaming cup.

“There, there now,” Reverend Pearce was saying, pressing the cup into her hands, helping her hold it. “Drink this. It will make you feel better.”

She took a sip. The tea was too heavily sugared, but the warmth helped bring her back to reality.

Enough to realize the horror of the situation. The man beside her had lost a brother, and here he was comforting her. Tears burned her eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “He went there because of me.”

Reverend Pearce took the cup from her hands and handed
it to the frock-coated man, thanking him. The man nodded, went over to sit at a small desk and picked up a pen. Apparently, tears were not unusual in Jay’s, for the patrons and other shop assistants hardly looked their way. Bethia fished a handkerchief from her bag, blew her nose, and turned her face toward Reverend Pearce again.

He ceased mopping his face with his own handkerchief and looked at her. “I loved my brother, Miss Rayborn. But he acted against the counsel of everyone in our family.”

“You don’t understand.” Bethia sniffed. “I sent him a horrible letter.”

“I know of the letter.”

But of course, Muriel would have informed him. Bethia squeezed her eyes shut, rocking herself slightly. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Pearce. So sorry.”