Leading Lady (50 page)

Her cousin shrugged, wiped her face again. “I vacillate between feeling sorry for myself and disgust at my own weakness.”

“You’re anything but weak,” Jewel said. “But I wish you wouldn’t put up such a brave front for your father and mother. It makes them feel helpless.”

“I know,” Bethia sighed. “That’s what Sarah says. But this has broken their hearts as well. I can’t bring myself to add to their misery by wailing on their shoulders.”

“That’s why you kept Muriel’s part in this from them?”

Bethia gave her a tight-lipped nod.

“I hope you realize we would sack her if we could afford to. She has us over a barrel, and she knows it.”

“I realize that, Jewel,” Bethia said somberly. “I don’t blame you and Grady at all.”

Jewel embraced her again, patted her back. “But I’m glad you’re coming back to work. Somehow, she’s not going to win this thing.”

****

Father, help me through this,
Bethia prayed under her breath as the family coach rocked gently to a halt on Saturday evening. If this were not Richard Whitmore’s final performance at the Royal Court, she would just as soon pass.

William, dressed in tails and top hat, hopped out and turned to offer his arm. “Ready, ladies?”

Sarah, closest to the door, stepped out first. The claret red
velvet gown she was wearing was striking against her fair complexion, like red roses mixed with white. Bethia wore sea-green silk enlivened with strands of gold and had allowed Avis to fashion her honey-brown hair into ringlets after very little persuasion on Sarah’s part. In the back of her mind was the thought that Guy would be here, at least at the party afterward. By looking her best, she would cause him to regret his action, perhaps even ask to return to her. She did not linger over that hope for too long, however, for one devastation was as much as she could manage for now. Foolish to invite another one.

Her parents had declined to come along, even though Jewel had sent enough tickets to the house for the whole family. She had not pressured them. If Guy did attend the party, it would be difficult enough to hold her head high without having two sets of parental eyes sadly and helplessly focused upon her.

“Why don’t you go first?” Sarah said to William in the aisle of the orchestra section, nudging her husband down their row of seats so that she could sit on Bethia’s left. Bethia soon realized why. When Muriel walked out onstage, Sarah scooped up Bethia’s hand and held it tight. She forced herself to endure by focusing on Mr. Whitmore’s performance, recalling his antics in the wardrobe room, his ready smile in the corridors. How such an endearing man could love Muriel was a mystery, but at least he had the sense to get away from her.

You’ll make a fine Hamlet,
she thought.

Thirty-Seven

The afterglow from the standing ovation had disintegrated into uneasiness before Muriel even reached her dressing room. She had acted her heart out, and yet the only recognition she received within the company were the obligatory polite congratulations from Jewel and Grady. Even Mr. Whitmore had been distant, and she had the uncomfortable feeling that it was not some ruse to win her heart this time.

And the pleasant working relationship she had envisioned between herself and Mr. Carey was not likely to happen. Stony silence was his only response when she asked, in the greenroom, if he had started
The Time Machine.

Back propped against the door, she listened to the hum of conversation, the clicks of heels and rustles of skirts in the corridor. When the theatre was cleared, everyone would drift over to the rehearsal room for the farewell party. Suddenly she was glad that Guy Russell had refused to meet her here after the Opera House let out, despite her pleading and tears and even empty promise to reconsider his marriage proposal. She could no more walk into the rehearsal room with him at her arm than fly. She could no more walk into the room
alone
than fly.

Eight or nine bouquets of roses made the dressing room heady with scents. Glass covering the favorable reviews cut from magazines and newspapers reflected light from the electric bulb. All this time she had convinced herself that approval from audiences and critics mattered far more than that of the cast and crew. But the audience and critics would be in their beds within a couple of hours, while cast and crew were still soaking up goodwill and friendship from each other.

The revenge she had so longed for was as bile rising in her mouth. Yes, she had succeeded in paying Bethia Rayborn back. But at what cost to herself? Bethia was probably at Mr.
Whitmore’s party this very minute, being coddled by Jewel and Grady and others who knew—and Muriel had to assume everyone knew by now, judging by all the cold shoulders and openly hostile looks this evening. And meanwhile, she was trapped in her dressing room. Trapped by her own stupidity. Why could she not have been content with quiet hatred? Why spin such an elaborate and obvious plot, which only served to make a martyr of the person she despised?

Finally the corridor quieted. She changed into her black gown without removing her stage makeup. She was glad she would be leaving for Sheffield tomorrow, and not just because of Georgiana. She needed to get away from London, from the whole theatre environment. To think. Or still better,
not
to think. It was thinking that had brought on all this misery.

Someone knocked at her door just as she was picking up her handbag from her dressing table. So, Guy had decided to come after all, she thought. She was not surprised. He was pathetically anxious to please her. She turned the doorknob with a sardonic smile, picturing the relief that would come to his face when she informed him she did not care to attend the party after all.

“I thought you weren’t—”

For a disorienting fraction of a second she gaped up at the tall figure in the doorway.

“I spoke with your young Galahad,” Mr. Carey said, brown eyes cold upon her. “He decided to leave.”

There was no point in asking of whom he spoke. “You’ve never even met him.”

“No, I had not had that pleasure,” he said cynically. “Someone pointed him out to me in the lobby.”

She could just picture Mr. Birch whispering in Mr. Carey’s ear, or perhaps even the seamstress duo whispering in both ears. If only he would stand aside! The corridor seemed empty. Dare she try to push past? Surely he would not lay a hand upon her.

“What did you do, threaten violence against him?” she said,
feigning a bravado worthy of the stage. She regretted that she had offered to lend him books, and especially regretted having thought he had nice eyes. “We can have you arrested, you know.”

“I simply invited him to leave. He didn’t seem keen on the idea of staying anyway.”

He was clearly not intimidated by her. To Muriel this was quite unsettling. In fact, she felt small under his unrelenting stare.

You don’t have to justify yourself to him!
she thought. And yet she found herself saying, “I’ll have you know I changed my mind about attending the party before you even knocked.”

His expression did not soften. “A wise choice, Lady Holt. You would not have been well received.”

It was crushing to hear it spoken aloud, even though the same thought had passed through her mind minutes ago. The hollows of her face began stinging, a warning of tears soon to come. Still, she was compelled ask, “Why do you take it upon yourself to insinuate yourself in my business?”

“Because I can’t sit by and watch a good person be mistreated by the likes of you,” he replied.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry!
she ordered herself. It did no good, for her eyes brimmed.

If he was moved at all by her tears, it did not show upon his granitelike face.

Muriel swallowed. “I thought we were going to be friends.”

Finally he stood aside to allow her to pass. Voice flat, he said, “I would sooner be friends with the devil.”

****

Muriel’s heels clicked upon the steps. She held her skirt gathered in one hand for faster flight, her handbag in the other.

He loves her
dawned upon her halfway down the stairs.

Mr. Carey was nothing to
her,
she reminded herself. But it only served to prove her morose thoughts in the dressing room. Bethia, Miss Pure-as-the-Driven-Snow, would come
out of this on top, whether or not Guy became part of her future again.

Lewis stood at the stage door, idly tossing and catching a ring of keys.

“Do you need an escort to your coach, Lady Holt?” he asked. Even
his
expression was one of polite disinterest, though surely he noticed her tears. “There are a couple of reporters milling about.”

“No,” she replied. “Just unlock the door.”

****

The only signs of life in the street were horses, tethered to a queue of carriages and coaches, and standing like statues in the semi-darkness. She heard laughter from the right. A half dozen or so men in livery clothes were visiting near a streetlamp halfway down the block.

I’ll dock him a day’s pay for this,
she thought, setting out in that direction and ignoring the faint voice of reason that told her Ham would not have expected her out so early.

A man appeared at her side. “Lady Holt?”

“Yes, what is it?” she snapped.

“I’m Mr. Gatcomb with
Illustrated London News.
” Extraordinary white teeth flashed beneath a dark mustache. “You were magnificent in there this evening, as usual.”

“Thank you.” Glad for the lack of lighting upon her face, she said, “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

But he continued along beside her, holding pencil and a small notebook. “Would you pay me the favor of a brief interview?”

“I’m sorry. Later.”

Then, if you please, may I impose upon you for the names of the people present at Mr. Whitmore’s farewell party?”

“I’m obviously not there. How would I know?”

She had covered half the distance down the block, was close enough to see the lights from a half dozen coachmen’s cigarettes. Undeterred, the reporter said, “May I ask why
you’re not attending the party, Lady Holt?
You
aren’t thinking of leaving the Royal Court as well, are you?”

“It’s possible.” Actually, the thought had not entered her mind, but he had touched a nerve. Her pace increased, his as well. Up ahead Ham looked over his shoulder, tossed his cigarette, and started advancing.

“And why is that, may I ask?”

“Because the wardrobe mistress is a heartless trollop who killed my brother.”

The reporter’s white teeth formed two gaping rows beneath the mustache.

“Lady Holt?” Ham said, joining them. “Forgive me, I didn’t expect—”

“And how did that happen, Lady Holt?” Mr. Gatcomb cut in, leaning closer as if fearing he would miss a word.

Muriel ignored him and looked at Ham. “Take me home now.”

****

According to Jewel, Mr. Whitmore had requested that the party be a private affair, limited to those closely associated with the Royal Court Theatre and their families. He wished to relax in the company of his old friends one last time, without the intrusion of patrons, reporters, and even dignitaries. Messrs. Cumberland and Fry and their wives were present. Mrs. Steel put in a surprising and touching appearance, long enough to present the actor with an oil painting of the acting team based upon a signboard of their earliest production together, Dion Coucicault’s
The Willow Copse.

“May we leave once I’ve had the chance to say farewell?” Bethia asked Sarah and William.

“But of course,” William said.

The two hovered near her, and Bethia did not mind. Fortunately, Muriel had yet to show herself; therefore, it looked as if she would not have to see Guy tonight, after all.

Only for Mr. Whitmore’s sake was she even here. But every
sympathetic look, each quiet embrace from crew and cast members, brought her again to the brink of tears, and more importantly, took attention away from where it rightfully belonged this evening.

During a rare moment when the actor was not surrounded by well-wishers, she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek and promised to come see him at Drury Lane. “But you mustn’t tell Grady,” she added, surprised that she could joke even mildly.

He squeezed her shoulders and murmured into her ear over the conversations and laughter and piano music, “Just remember the title to another Shakespeare play . . .
All’s Well That End’s Well.
It’s hard to imagine now, dear girl, but I have a strong feeling one day you’ll see this was for the best.”

****

The elbow in Noah’s side jostled the beaker of punch in his hands. “What—?”

“I’ve been looking all over for you!” Jude said. “Where in the world did you go?”

“I had an errand,” Noah replied. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Well, I just overheard Miss Rayborn saying farewell to Mr. Whitmore. If you hurry you can catch up with her before she leaves.”

Noah shook his head. “I’m not going to take advantage of the situation.”

He could not fault Jude’s eagerness to have him rush into the void her fiancé had left. That same hopefulness had come over him when Mr. Birch first whispered the news. Until he realized how devastated she must be.

Help her through this, please Father,
he prayed under his breath.

“Noah?”

“Hmm?” Noah blinked, a little surprised Jude still stood before him.

Jude blew out his cheeks. “I
said
I don’t see how simply chatting with her is taking advantage of any situation.”

“Well, it is.” Noah sent a glance across the room. “Miss Walters is looking over here.”

Jude made a motion as if to turn and look but then stopped himself. Stiffly, he said, “Are you quite sure?”

“You must have made quite an impression on her. You didn’t show her the wiggle-your-ears trick, did you?”

“As if!” his friend snorted, and lowered his voice. “Is she looking now?”

Noah’s height served him well for peering across crowded rooms. The utility actress, thin as a rail but still feminine, with brilliant amber curls and upturned nose, lingered near the piano. When her eyes met Noah’s, she gave him back a little sheepish smile and shifted her eyes toward the back of Jude’s head.