Authors: Lawana Blackwell
“Read another?” Georgiana asked, helping Jewel close the book.
“But of course, dear.”
“Nanny will read to you, Georgiana,” Muriel said, reaching for the bell cord. She turned to Jewel. “Let’s you and I take lunch at the Savoy.”
Jewel’s eyes moved from the girl upon her lap to the spread upon the tablecloth. “But it’s her—”
“Prescott will tend to her. The servants may have the rest of the food.” Muriel’s violet eyes were desperate. “If we don’t leave here now, I’ll lose my mind.”
****
When Nanny Prescott returned, she did not seem surprised at Muriel’s instruction to fix up a tray to carry up to the nursery with the child. Jewel kissed little Georgiana’s cheek, and when nanny and child were gone, she went to the telephone. “I must tell Grady where he can reach me. We had a little . . . problem yesterday.”
“What sort of problem?” Muriel asked.
Jewel shook her head, for the operator was speaking. Grady came on the line and said that he and Mr. Webb were just about to step out to Giovanni’s, the Italian cafe on the Square, and that he had spoken via telephone to a sober and relatively serene Richard Whitmore just minutes ago.
“But why are you leaving Georgiana’s party?” Grady asked.
“Yes, it’s cold, but I brought my coat,” Jewel replied, glancing up at Muriel. It was hers and Grady’s secret code, which meant “I’ll explain later.” There were variants of the code, such as “Yes, it’s raining, but I brought my umbrella” or “Yes, it’s hot, but I’m wearing light clothes.” Any abrupt reference to the weather served.
“Ah, I see,” Grady said. “Well, have a good time.”
In the coach on the way up Piccadilly Street, Jewel asked how the new nanny was working out.
“Fine,” Muriel replied, pulling a string from the hem of one glove. “And you know . . . I’m actually
glad
she’s so homely, now that I’ve grown used to her looks.”
“Why is that?” Jewel asked. Not that she had found the nanny particularly homely. She would be the
last
person to paste that label upon anyone else.
“Because Georgiana’s old enough to learn not to set too much stock in appearances. Mother had her faults, but she did teach the boys and me that one shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.”
Whether Aunt Phyllis had done such a thing or had not was debatable in Jewel’s mind, for over the years she had witnessed Muriel’s and her brothers’ derogatory and sometimes blatant comments about someone’s protruding teeth or poor complexion or wide girth. “Well, she seems competent.”
Muriel waved a gloved hand. “Enough of that. What sort of problem are you having at the office? Has it to do with Mr. Shaw’s column?”
“You read it too,” Jewel said flatly.
“Seems as if Daphne Lloyd is bringing down the whole production.”
“That’s not so, Muriel. No production rests upon the shoulders of one person alone.”
“Hmm.” Muriel’s rosebud lips pursed thoughtfully. “Yet, the costumes and sets and rest of the cast are the same the critics were raving over just weeks ago, before she replaced Charlotte Steel.”
“Well, yes,” Jewel had to concede.
“Mrs. Steel is obviously more popular than I realized.”
“It was her vitality that endeared her to everyone.” Jewel gave her a dry smile. “Except to Mr. Whitmore. They both have such forceful personalities that putting them in the same room was like fire and kerosene. But it worked onstage.”
“Why don’t you order Miss Lloyd to put more vitality into her role?”
“We’ve suggested it.” Jewel sighed. “And she makes the attempt. But changing one’s personality isn’t like changing a gown. She’s certainly competent, and every bit as beautiful as Mrs. Steel. But she hasn’t her strong personality. And when Mr. Whitmore compensates for Miss Lloyd’s . . . well . . . blandness . . . his acting seems overdone, artificial. He realizes it too and is a bear to be about lately.”
“Hmm. Can’t you replace her with someone with more experience?”
“It’s too late into the production for that.” Jewel swiped a hand across the window. The granite columns, colored pillars, and terraced balconies of the Savoy Hotel loomed through the hole in the condensation. She turned to her cousin and took her hand. “Forgive me. Here you are, needing some cheering, and I’m burdening you with our problems.”
“I asked you what was wrong, remember?” Muriel said. “It takes my mind off my own problems. And besides, it’s interesting. How many people are privy to the goings-on of a theatre?”
Jewel had to laugh. “You’d be surprised.”
The Savoy’s maître d’ led them to a table in the center of the vast dining room. Jewel, following Muriel, noticed how many admiring glances her cousin attracted from men, and not a few envious ones from women.
“You said there are only three weeks left in this production,” Muriel said after the server had taken their orders. She took off her gloves, and the diamonds of her engagement and wedding rings caught light from the chandelier. “What will you do next?”
Jewel puzzled over the interest in her cousin’s violet eyes. Muriel usually grew impatient within five minutes when any subject of conversation did not directly involve herself. It was a relief to pour out her troubles to someone not connected with the Royal Court. And she had no worry about
the information going any farther. For all her faults, Muriel was discreet.
“Fortunately, a New York touring company is bringing
The Runaway
for March, so we’ll be able to concentrate fully on rehearsals for
Lady Audley’s Secret.
”
“Indeed? And will Miss Lloyd be assigned the lead?”
“Sh-h-h.” Jewel glanced over at the nearest table. Two elderly men and a young man were involved in a friendly but animated debate over whether the artist Aubrey Beardsley had talent.
Still, she lowered her voice. “We’re making some inquiries.”
“With whom?”
Jewel shook her head, for negotiations with lead actresses were conducted in strictest confidence, even though so far nothing had come of them. “And we’ve posted a casting call notice in the
Stage
for two weeks from today. Miss Lloyd is most welcome to read for the part, if she desires.”
“But she’ll probably be demoted to a minor role,” Muriel said with a knowing little smile.
“Now, I didn’t say that.”
She was relieved when the server, a man of about forty, chose that time to arrive with bowls of hare soup and tea, for she was in danger of sharing information not already common knowledge in Sloan Square. With amusement she watched the server try to avoid staring at Muriel as he ground pepper into her soup.
“What’s it like?” Jewel asked.
Muriel dropped a sugar cube into her cup with a tiny splash. “I haven’t tasted it yet.”
“No, not the tea. Having men admire you everywhere you go.”
“You have Grady. Why would you want that?”
“Everyone wants to be admired,” Jewel replied, picking up her soup spoon. “But yes, Grady’s admiration counts the most.”
“I don’t attract as much attention as you think,” Muriel said.
And at that moment as if to prove her wrong, a gentleman appeared at the table. His auburn hair was wavy, like the late Lord Holt’s, his top lip was almost hidden by a full mustache, and he wore a finely cut woolen frock coat with raspberry checked cravat. “I beg your pardon, ladies,” he said, but addressing Muriel. “If you’ll permit me to introduce myself. . . . My name is Alan Slater. Have I the pleasure of addressing Lady Holt?”
Muriel eyed him for a fraction of a second, shook her head, and replied, “I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”
“I was so certain. Lord Holt, God rest his soul, was a fellow member of the Brooke’s Club. He and Lady Holt shared a booth with me at the Derby five years ago, and the resemblance is—”
“They say everyone has a twin. My name is Nelly Grimshaw. Perhaps you’ve heard of my husband, Jack Grimshaw, the boxer?”
His expression was doubtful. “Ah, I’m afraid I haven’t.”
She picked up her soup spoon and held it poised over her bowl, sending the message that she had had enough of Mr. Slater’s company.
“I beg your pardon,” he said and walked away.
“That was cruel, Muriel,” Jewel said when the man was out of earshot. Still, she felt guilty for the effort it took to refrain from smiling.
Her cousin took a spoonful of soup. “You take that risk when you approach people who are minding their own business.”
“Have you heard from Douglas?” Jewel asked, changing the subject.
“Last Wednesday, Mother and Father, Bernard, and I received letters he had posted in December. He and Mr. Adams are in a town called Edmonton or Edwardton or some such, waiting for spring. He asked to borrow some money, so I
sent a cheque. I wish now that I’d sent railway and steamer tickets instead. If he runs out of money, he would have no choice but to come home, yes?”
“I suppose. Poor Douglas.”
A frown tugged at the corners of Muriel’s lips. “I realize you take issue whenever I criticize your father’s side of the family, but I strongly resent Bethia for driving him to this.”
“That’s simply not true.” Jewel shook her head. “He hounded her to death, even though he knew she has a beau.”
“I hardly think a few letters constitutes hounding.”
“Good heavens, Muriel!” Over Muriel’s shoulder Jewel noticed three women turn heads in her direction. She lowered the volume but not the emotion of her voice. “He followed her to Girton!”
Her cousin frowned. “Yes, that was stupid. But she
could
have used more tact in informing him she wasn’t interested.”
“How could she have been any more tactful?”
“Oh, I can think of one way—by
not
sending him a snooty letter saying she couldn’t love him if he were the last man in England. And signing it ‘with utmost contempt!’ Who does she think she is?”
Jewel sucked air through her teeth and counted silently to five. “I’ll have you know that Bethia regrets writing the letter. She was most upset when I informed her he’d left his job and gone off to Canada. And almost every time we speak, she asks if I’ve heard how he’s faring.”
“How good of her.” Muriel smirked.
“You’re only looking at this from Douglas’s side.”
“And why shouldn’t I? He happens to be my brother.”
This merry-go-round just isn’t going to stop,
Jewel thought. “Muriel, are you sure some of your animosity toward Bethia isn’t because her family didn’t attend your wedding?”
“Not at all,” Muriel replied at once, then belied her statement by following with, “Sidney warned me that they would ignore the invitation, that they thought themselves better
than him, even though William Doyle used to clean his boots at Oxford.”
“
We
ignored the invitation too,” Jewel reminded her.
“But
you
attended the funeral. They didn’t even send a note of condolence.”
Jewel placed her linen napkin beside her half-finished bowl and reached for her handbag on the empty chair. She would return to the theatre, where at least she was
paid
for mediating petty complaints.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” Muriel said, eyes widening.
“I think it’s best.”
“Please don’t be angry, Jewel.” Her expression grew contrite. “With Douglas away, you’re the only friend I have.”
“I’m not angry. Just frustrated. Bethia’s my cousin too.”
Muriel reached across the table and touched her hand. “I’ll not mention it again—I promise.”
An uneasy truce presided while they chatted of safer things such as one of the servants finding an ear wire Muriel had lost on a flagstone in the garden and Jewel’s housemaid having to borrow the neighbor’s cat when a mouse took up territory in the kitchen. The server returned with entrees—roast pigeon with stewed celery
à la crème
for Muriel and scalloped oysters with German carrots for Jewel.
Using knife and fork to carve a bit of breast, Muriel said, “I’d like to see for myself if Miss Lloyd is really as awful as you—”
Jewel’s pulse jumped. “I never said she was awful.”
“Oh, very well,” Muriel said with rolled eyes. “Just leave me a ticket at the call box tonight.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
Of the things Jewel could not understand about Muriel, her casualness toward motherhood was paramount. “I just assumed . . . Georgiana’s birthday . . .”
Looking slightly offended, Muriel said, “She’ll be in bed by that time.”
“Of course.”
Her cousin sighed. “But perhaps tomorrow will be better after all.”
“We’ll put you in Lord Brandon’s box. He’s in the country and has no guests coming in. I’ll even join you after I’ve counted noses in the greenroom.” And to ease the reproach still lingering in her cousin’s expression, Jewel added, “Just promise me you won’t throw tomatoes at Miss Lloyd.”
“Don’t worry,” Muriel said, finally smiling. “I happen to know a lot about tomatoes. They aren’t in season.”
Twelve
Muriel rose late the following morning, having read from H. G. Wells’s
War of the Worlds
until midnight, then lying awake listening to her own heart thump as house noises became malevolent Martians. At half past twelve, she finally rang for Joyce to sit just inside her bedchamber. Even then, she had to bury her head under her covers with just a space for breathing, before she was able to drift into fitful slumber.
No more scary stories at night,
she promised herself at breakfast, knowing she would break that resolve within the week.
Downstairs, she pulled boots on over her slippers, a knit cap over her head, and a cardigan over a fresh gardening smock. Frigid February air stung her nose in the garden. “Good mornin’, m’Lady,” Watterson said, shovel clanking against the bed of the barrow as he pushed a load of bark toward the ligustrum. He had been a boxer in his youth, so said Mrs. Burles, and had the misshapen nose to prove it.
Muriel nodded and stepped farther along the path, surveying the direction from which the gardener had come. He would finish mulching well before evening. The tender plants were secure in the greenhouse, lily bulbs were in the ground waiting for summer flowering, the rose of Sharon shrubs had been pruned. The only task remaining for the next fortnight or so was the application of a winter wash of tar oil to the plum and birch trees. That she would leave to Watterson, for the chore was messy, and besides, why should she pay him for idling?