Leading Lady (44 page)

“Do you understand I’ve offered Mr. Russell thirty pounds weekly?
Thirty pounds!
”

“That’s very generous of m’Lady,” Mrs. Abbot said reprovingly from the stove.

At having two now against her, Gladys put her hands to her cheeks. She was a plain girl, with dull-looking dark blonde hair and crooked gray teeth. Between sniffs, she whimpered, “Begging m’Lady’s pardon, but my Sunday school teacher once tried to give me piano lessons and it was hopeless. All those sharps and flats. . . . Please, m’Lady.”

Muriel’s patience evaporated. But maintaining control of her voice, she said, “I’m sure violin is easier. It’s smaller. You may have an hour to rethink this, Gladys. If I were kindly offered the choice of learning music instead of slaving in a kitchen three hours a week, I believe I would have sense enough to accept.”

And Gladys would accept, Muriel knew as she left the kitchen. It was all written out in the playscript in her mind.

Thirty-Two

“Please allow me, Miss Rayborn,” Noah said when he happened upon her at the foot of the backstage stairs Monday.

She was wearing a Gibson Girl white blouse with puffed sleeves that tightened from elbow to wrist, a wide brown leather belt, and blue skirt. “Thank you, Mr. Carey,” she said, handing him the tray holding a pink Minton teapot with steam rising from a chipped spout, and four mismatched cups. “And congratulations on your performance Saturday. I wish I would have been here to see it.”

“That’s very kind of you to say.”

She smiled and turned, one hand upon the banister. He waited until there were four steps between them and followed, so as not to crowd her. Her honey-colored hair was caught in a green ribbon at her collar, and the ends curled and bounced against her white blouse. A little lump caught in his throat. He imagined Jude shaking his head.

“Were you nervous?” she asked, turning her chin to speak over her shoulder.

“Not as much as I would have been had I more warning,” he replied. “But it helped that I’ve played the part before.”

“I would imagine.”

“How are fittings progressing?” he asked.

She turned briefly again to give him a frustrated little smile. “We’ve misplaced a shirt, somehow. But I’m sure we’ll find it shoved out of place in one of the costume-room racks. And rehearsals?”

“Very well. I enjoy watching what started out as chaos, shape up into a fluid piece of work.”

“You sound like my cousin.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said.

Again, the smile over the shoulder. They had to squeeze to the side when a couple of prop men descended, one carrying
a floor lamp, the other a crate of some sort. After trading greetings with the two, Noah and Miss Rayborn were silent until they neared the wardrobe room’s open door.

“I’ll take it from here, thank you,” she said, reaching for the tray. “You had best get along to rehearsal. Oh, Lady Holt sent us up some pastries. Would you care for one to bring along?”

“No, thank you.” He thought of jokingly cautioning her about poison but discarded the impulse before embarrassing her and himself. “And I hope you find the shirt.”

“While Noah Carey’s portrayal of Robert Brierly did not measure up to the mark set by such icons of the stage as the late Sir Henry Irving and Richard Whitmore, the understudy performed quite admirably, considering that the role was thrust upon him only seconds before curtain, due to Mr. Whitmore’s sudden illness.”

Mr. Birch looked up from Mr. Gatcomb’s column in the Thursday issue of
Illustrated London News.
“He was drunk as Zeus.”

“Mr. Birch, please watch what you say,” Bethia admonished. Final fittings were being conducted as planned, meaning someone could walk through the door at any minute. The last person she wanted to hurt was Mr. Whitmore, for whom the denizens of the wardrobe room felt a particular fondness. He was treading the boards again after that one absence, his performances as fine as ever, but his personality backstage more subdued than she had ever seen it.

I would give anything to have him play the pillow trick again,
she thought.

The head attendant nodded somberly and continued reading aloud.

“My word!” Miss Lidstone exclaimed with hand to her bosom.

“And we thought he was poor, ha-ha-ha!” said Mrs. Hamby.

“Mrs. Hamby . . .” Bethia warned.

“Titles do not always mean money,” Mr. Birch said. The three were like a trio of dogs reluctant to give up a choice bone before picking all the meat from it. “You’ve heard the saying ‘land-rich, purse-poor,’ haven’t you?”

“Is there more, Mr. Birch?” asked Miss Lidstone.

“Quite so.” The newspaper rustled as the white-haired man brought it back into his line of vision.

“Wait.” Bethia went to the door and peered out. No one lurked. She closed the door and had the wry thought that there were actually
four
dogs in the room. “Do lower your voice, Mr. Birch.”

“Poor Mr. Carey,” Bethia said.

“I’ll wager she broke it off because she realized he had no more money,” Miss Lidstone said. “The little opportunist.”

“How do you think he lost it, ha-ha-ha,” said Mrs. Hamby, but with no mirth.

“He doesn’t strike me as a gambler,” Mr. Birch said. “That’s how most of the titled lose their fortunes. Gambling and high living.”

“That’s none of our business,” Bethia reminded them but in the following breath said, “Please do go on, Mr. Birch.”

Mr. Birch cleared his throat.

“Naturally we were stunned,” Jewel said in Kensington Sunday afternoon, as she and Grady, Bethia and Guy passed around dishes of roast rib of beef with horseradish sauce, French beans, boiled potatoes, and baked apple pudding from the Red Lion Inn.

She had put aside her reticence to discuss work while at home, for as she said, “It’s not every day you learn you have an earl working as an understudy.”

“Two more reporters have telephoned since that Thursday edition.” Grady dropped a dollop of horseradish sauce upon his beef. “Another knocked on our office door. Everyone is intrigued.”

“But Mr. Carey doesn’t wish to speak with them,” Jewel said. “Not after that Mr. Gatcomb caught him by surprise.”

“Why not, do you suppose?” asked Guy. “Wouldn’t that sort of—” he held a serving spoon poised over the dish of French beans as he searched for the word—
“
mystique
be good for a stage career?”

“The article also made much of his being poor,” Bethia explained.

Guy winced. “Then I can understand his reluctance. Poor fellow.”

On their way to the underground station again, Bethia asked Guy how the past week’s lessons had gone. She had hoped he would mention them during the walk from Kensington Station, where he had met her. Perhaps he felt as Jewel and Grady did most times—loathe to spoil rare leisure times with discussions of work. And Guy worked longer hours than she, with his various obligations.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hatless dark hair, adding to its natural unruliness only a little less than the September wind was already doing. “It’s too early to judge, but I suspect she has a tin ear. Learning notes and scales isn’t enough. To play strings, you
have
to have that ear for music.”

“Perhaps that will come,” Bethia said.

“I doubt it. You either have it or you don’t.”

“At least she has the desire to learn.”

“I wish she had the desire to practice more.” He frowned. “I confess I got a little frustrated Friday and asked if she was
positive
she wanted to play the violin. She started weeping, begging me not to give up on her. What can you do with that?”

“What does Muriel have to say?” Bethia asked, despising herself for going so low as to hope she would discontinue the lessons so that Guy would not be going to her house thrice a week.

He gave her a sidelong look. “Bethia, I haven’t seen Lady Holt since Sunday past. The housekeeper lets me in and pays me afterward.”

She wished now that she had not asked. The comfort his answer provided was overshadowed by the smallness she felt.

****

On Monday the sounds from the parlour seemed more tortured feline than from any instrument made by man. Muriel opened the door at two minutes until eleven.

“This weekend, I’d like you to practice drawing your bow across each string,” Mr. Russell was saying patiently to Gladys. Patiently, but with a weariness that indicated he had repeated this request before. “Listen closely so that you can tell them apart when I play them.”

“How is she progressing?” Muriel asked, stepping into the room as the long-case clock began chiming the eleventh hour.

Mr. Russell smiled at the scullery maid. Instead of the formal clothing he had worn while performing at her teas, he wore a suit of tan tweed that suited his brown hair. “Quite well, Lady Holt.”

“Very good, Gladys.” Muriel gave her a warm smile. “You may leave now.”

The girl avoided her eyes as she left the room. Muriel closed the door and went over to the sofa, where Mr. Russell was latching his violin case.

“How is she really doing?”

He gave her a worried look. “I feel as if I’m stealing your money, frankly.”

“Hmm. The money is my least concern, Mr. Russell. But why don’t we talk about it over breakfast?” She smiled. “Or early lunch, if you’d rather call it that. It’s all set up.”

“That’s very kind of you, but I have to prepare for rehearsal.”

“I see.” Muriel sent a pointed glance toward the long-case clock, silent again except for the ticking. “So ‘preparing for rehearsal’ doesn’t include having a meal?”

“Well . . . I have . . .” He smiled sheepishly. “I just wouldn’t wish to impose.”

“I’ll be glad for the company,” she said, linking an arm through his. “And we do need to discuss Gladys’s lessons, yes?”

****

“This is my little refuge,” she said as he followed her into the morning room. “I have most of my meals here or in the garden. A dining room seems so vast and formal when one dines alone.”

“Does your daughter not take meals with you?” he asked, looking at the blue plates over the mantelpiece.

“Of course,” she said quickly. “Most times. But with our schedules so different, that’s not always possible. She’s up in Sheffield, by the way, or I would introduce you. My mother is having a difficult time dealing with my brother’s death, and I thought Georgiana would bring her some comfort.”

Her reply was more than his simple question required, but she felt compelled to explain. And then she changed the subject by motioning toward the round table near the window overlooking the garden. “Shall we?”

Not knowing how long it would take to convince Mr. Russell to join her for a meal, nor wishing to have servants bustling about serving, she had instructed Mrs. Abbot to prepare cold foods. A joint of roast beef, two veal-and-ham pies, stewed pears, two small molded cabinet puddings, jam puffs, and slices of smoked Cheshire cheese graced the tablecloth.

“All this for just the two of us?” he asked, pulling her chair from the table.

She sat and smoothed her skirts. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I asked Mrs. Abbot for a bit of everything.”

He was seated across from her now. Puzzlement entered and left his eyes, as if he had entertained the thought of asking how she could have been so certain that he would stay.

Because it’s written in my playscript,
she answered silently.

Her first order of business was to convince him to continue tutoring Gladys. “She’s a shy girl. She may be too nervous in your company to pay attention to the notes properly. Why don’t we give her some time?”