Leading Lady (42 page)

“Do you think she’s bright, then?”

Smiling, the nursemaid replied, “I know she’s bright, m’Lady.”

The surge of pleasure Muriel felt from hearing those words was attached to an equally strong surge of guilt. Rehearsals for
The Bells
were to begin tomorrow, and she had spent every spare minute of Monday and today going over her lines.

“After
The Bells
runs, I’m thinking of taking some time off,” she said impulsively, for the thought had not entered her mind until that very minute. And the very second it left her lips, she knew she would not do so. She could not afford to have some understudy or, worse, a known actress, replace her and possibly become even more popular. Even six weeks without the approval of an audience was unthinkable.

“Very good, m’Lady.”

Muriel pretended to concentrate upon her daughter again. She did not care to see the awareness in Leah Prescott’s small brown eyes. She was relieved when Joyce came out to the terrace to announce a telephone call from Gleadless.

“A boy?” Muriel said when Bernard finally stopped enthusing long enough to allow her to react. “How is Agatha?”

Her brother’s voice calmed. “I’m afraid she had a tough go of it this time. She’s quite weak.”

“I’m sorry. Is there any danger. . . .” She could not finish, even though she was not particularly fond of Bernard’s wife. Death had done enough damage during its first visit to the family.

“Not if she stays in bed until the doctor says she’s well enough to move about. I’m spooning beef tea into her on the hour. And she’s—” his voice broke—“she’s
radiant,
Muriel. I’m so proud of her.”

“But of course. What will you name him?”

He chuckled. “Probably Norman. We’d like to wait a bit and see if he grows into it. He doesn’t look like a Norman.”

“What does a Norman look like?”

“Well . . . like Father.”

Muriel had to smile. “Why not name him Douglas?”

The pause that followed was long enough for her to have an answer.

Sharp anger tweaked in her chest. “Or better yet, why don’t you forget we ever had a brother? He’ll never have a son to carry his name, you know.”

“That’s not my son’s fault,” Bernard said tightly. “And
I’ll not brand him with a family tragedy. I loved our brother just as much as you did, Muriel. He was my best playfellow most of my life. But it’s time you stopped making a martyr of yourself.”

“Don’t you mean a martyr of Douglas?” she seethed.

“No, of yourself. I think you relish playing the suffering sister. Don’t you get enough attention onstage?”

“That’s absurd, Bernard.”

“Is it?” he said. “It looks that way to me.”

“Well, just because you’re a vicar doesn’t make you all-wise.”

“I’ll be the first to admit that.” A sigh came over the line, and then his voice again, softer. “I just want you to have a good life, Muriel. And you can’t do that as long as you wear the past like a hair shirt. Don’t you see?”

“Yes,” she replied, just to bring an end to the conversation.

A pause, then, “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.” Her chest still burned, but she managed to inject enough calm into her voice to congratulate him and to ask him to give Agatha her best wishes. When she replaced the receiver, she sank down into the sofa cushions and rested her cheek against the arm. She almost envied Bernard his ability to put aside all that happened to their brother and concentrate upon his profession and family. She simply could not do likewise, for that would be the ultimate betrayal. But after she made Bethia Rayborn truly sorry, perhaps it would be easier.

****

“I’m going out for some lunch,” Bethia said in the open office doorway on Wednesday afternoon. “May I bring you anything?”

“What happened to your sandwich?” Jewel asked.

“Well, Lewis happened to it.” Rehearsal was as intense for the callboy as for any of the cast and crew, for he had to become familiar enough with the timing of the script to have
the actors ready for their appearances with no delays and yet not too early as to cause congestion in the wings.

“The boy knows you for a soft touch,” Grady said.

Bethia smiled and nodded. “I’m going to ask Trudy to pack two from now on. I should have thought of it months ago.”

“We’ve not had lunch yet,” Grady said, pushing his chair back from the desk. “Let’s all go to Giovanni’s.”

“Yes, let’s.” Jewel got to her feet as well. “Before rehearsal’s over and the seats are all taken with
theatre
people.”

****

Mrs. Giovanni took their orders—pizza pies for Jewel and Bethia, ravioli for Grady. They sat at a round table in the center. The café was doing a brisk business, with conversation humming all about them.

Grady was saying how they would definitely postpone opening night for
The Bells
until the end of October, when the corner of Bethia’s eye registered movement. She automatically glanced to the table at her right. Mr. Carey was pulling out a chair across from a another young man.

“Have you been waiting long?” Mr. Carey was saying.

“Only ten minutes or so,” the other gentleman replied.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Carey,” Jewel said.

Mr. Carey looked over at all of them and smiled. He stepped over to offer his hand to Grady. “Good afternoon. Mrs. McGuire, Miss Rayborn, Mr. McGuire. May I introduce my good friend Jude Nicholls?”

That prompted Mr. Nicholls to rise from his chair and another round of greetings and handshakes. Grady nodded toward the empty chair between himself and Bethia and started pushing his own closer to Jewel. “Why don’t you pull up another and join us? That table’s no bigger than a postage stamp.”

“Thank you. But we wouldn’t wish to impose.”

“Nonsense,” said Jewel. “This is a special occasion. We’ve never seen you in here.”

“We’re celebrating.” Mr. Nicholls pulled his chair over
and settled in between Bethia and Jewel. “And you never see Noah in here because he’s too poor to eat anything but lodging-house soup.”

“Jude . . .” Mr. Carey scolded, but his frown was such that Bethia would wear while admonishing Danny or John. Disapproval of the words spoken, but genuine affection for the speaker.

It had little effect upon Mr. Nicholls. In fact, he winked at Bethia. This intimacy from a stranger would normally have unsettled her. Instead, she surprised herself by smiling.

“What are you celebrating, Mr. Carey?” Jewel asked.

“My first rehearsal for my first speaking part, Mrs. McGuire.”

“First speaking part in
London,
” his friend corrected. “And I’ve just concluded rehearsing my first speaking part . . . in London. We open in two nights at Daly’s.”

“Ah,
East Lynne.
” Grady folded his arms over his thick chest. “Well, I hope it’s a bomb, naturally.”

Bethia and Jewel chided him, but all three men chuckled. Mrs. Giovanni came to take Mr. Carey’s and Mr. Nicholls’s orders.

“You simply
must
try the pizza pie, Mr. Carey,” Jewel said.

He nodded. “That’s why we’re here. I’ve heard so much about it.”

“Are you from Yorkshire as well, Mr. Nicholls?” Bethia asked after he had ordered.

“I am, Miss Rayborn. Does my accent give me away?”

“Actually, you haven’t much of an accent.” She looked at Mr. Carey. “Neither have you.”

“My mother’s family moved from Bristol when she was thirteen,” he explained. “She never really picked up the accent, and hence, neither did I.”

“I lost my accent when we were in theatre at Oxford,” said Mr. Nicholls. “I had to have the audience understand what I was saying.”

“As well as professors,” Mr. Carey reminded him.

“You both went to Oxford?” Bethia hoped her surprise was not too obvious. Oxford was for the sons of the wealthy, or at least comfortable middle class. But William had worked his way through as a servant, so anything was possible.

“We graduated from Corpus Christi College, in fact.” said Mr. Nicholls. “Noah with honors, me by the skin of my teeth.”

“Jude is actually brighter than I am,” Mr. Carey said, “but he would freeze up for examinations.”

Mr. Nicholls nodded.

Grady leaned forward, elbows upon table. “You know, before I left Ireland, I assumed all Englishmen sounded alike. I know that to be far from true now, but I confess I’m not sure that I would recognize a Yorkshire accent.”

A spark lit Mr. Nicholls’s eyes. In a singsong voice, he said, “Wherst tha bin last neet?”

“I beg your pardon?” Grady said.

“I said, where have you been last night?”

“And we’ve words you won’t hear down here,” Mr. Carey said. “Such as, well,
gloppened.
”

“Which means . . . ?” Bethia asked.

“Surprised.” He smiled at her. “I was
gloppened
to notice you beside us.”

“And you invited us to share your
mickle
table,” said Mr. Nicholls, “because ours was so small.”

Even though everyone was smiling, a sheepish look stole over Mr. Carey’s face.

“Do forgive our rambling on,” he said. “We couldn’t wait to leave Yorkshire, but we do get homesick at times, as is obvious.”

“No apology is necessary,” Jewel said. “It was quite entertaining. Do you hear from your families often?”

Mr. Nicholls did not reply. Mr. Carey gave him a glance that seemed tinged with some sadness and replied quietly, “My mother and I exchange letters once a week or so.”

Recovering from the melancholy that had briefly descended,
Mr. Nicholls turned to Bethia and smiled. “Noah has always been considerate of his mother. He’ll make some fortunate woman a good
mmph!
”

The latter was blurted with a little jump of the shoulders, as if he were suddenly seized by an attack of dyspepsia. Or as if someone had kicked him beneath the table. The only logical person was Mr. Carey. Bethia glanced at him. The actor’s countenance was as bland as cream.

****

“I understand why you’re so enamored with Miss Rayborn,” Jude said on Sloan Station platform for the underground train that would carry them to Leicester Square. “I’d go after her myself if you weren’t my best friend.”

“Sh-h-h!” Noah hissed, even though they had parted company with the McGuires and Miss Rayborn at the theatre.

“Sorry to disappoint you, old man,” Jude said, lowering his voice. “She didn’t follow you.”

Noah glowered at him. “She has a fiancé, as you know. I didn’t appreciate your hinting like that in front of her.”

“And
I
didn’t appreciate that kick. There is very little cushioning over the shinbone, you know.”

“You had it coming. And I’m not enamored. Can’t a man
like
a woman without romance entering the picture?”

“Of course he can.”

“Are we only allowed friendships with fifty percent of the population?” Noah asked, picking up steam.

“Perish the thought!”

“So,
there.
”

“So, there!” Jude echoed.

They stood in silence on the platform, both sets of hands in pockets, both sets of ears attuned to the faraway whistle, both sets of eyes watching the tunnel. Presently Jude turned to Noah again. “Too bad about the fiancé, though.”

Noah could not help but grin. “Lucky bloke.”

Thirty-One

On Saturday evening Noah wondered why Richard Whitmore had yet to appear, now that orchestra music from the opening theme floated into the greenroom.

A figure stepped through the doorway, but it was only Lewis. Lewis, wearing a worried expression. Beckoning him. “Mr. Carey, if you please?”

“Of course.”

Out in the corridor, Mr. McGuire was hastening in his direction from the stairs. “You’ll be playing lead tonight, Mr. Carey.”

“Is Mr. Whitmore ill?” Noah asked. They had exchanged greetings in the corridor just an hour ago, and the actor had seemed hale and hearty, if a little flush.

“He’s . . . feeling out of sorts.”

Noah glanced at the staircase. “Can you delay the curtain for a little while? Perhaps some broth would—”

Mr. McGuire shook his head. “Won’t help.”

Lady Holt was summoned out into the corridor and took the news stoically. But as Noah escorted her into the wing, she murmured, “Are you quite sure you know your lines completely, Mr. Carey?”

“Yes, Lady Holt.”

“Very good.” She smiled, but the warning in the violet eyes canceled out any warmth in her expression. “See that you pay attention to your cues out there. Because if you embarrass me, I’ll do my best to have you sacked.”

Once he got over the shock, he opened his mouth to inform her that he had played the part of Robert Brierly some forty times on the York stage, could play it blindfolded, in his sleep, juggling, or with whatever handicap she would care to choose.

But then he realized that saying so would only soothe the uncertainty she must surely be feeling over sharing center
stage with an understudy on a Saturday night. After the threat she had just delivered, he rather liked the idea of her being uncertain.

He allowed anxiety to creep into his expression, because he was, after all, an actor. “I’ll try my best, Lady Holt.”

“See that you do,” she said.

“Just remind me . . . what are my cues?”

He left her gaping like a pike, his practiced ear having picked up his very first cue onstage, the voice of the James Dalton character saying, “Ah, here’s my pigeon!”

“Aye! Nobody will say Bob Brierly craned while he could keep’t going,” Noah said, striding out to drop into a chair. The confusion in the audience was almost palatable. Some murmurs reached his ears.

Pretend you’re back in York,
he thought, and his momentary stage fright left him, replaced with the confidence that came from practice.

****

The applause was quite healthy as the tableau curtain closed for intermission, giving Noah hope that mass members of the audience had not slipped out during the first two acts. He wouldn’t have noticed if they had, so much had he absorbed the character of Robert Brierly.