Authors: Lawana Blackwell
She was bored to tears and had no idea what to do with herself. She went back inside, removed smock, cardigan, cap, and boots. In the morning room she took Douglas’s letter from her writing desk and dropped upon the sofa.
My dear Sister,
As I write this, Christmas is but ten days away. Yours will have long passed by the time this reaches you. How I wish I were there to celebrate with all of you! I do hope you thought to give Georgiana something from her uncle.
Randall and I are sharing a room in a lodging house in Edmonton, Alberta, for the winter. We, and many others, were prevented from pushing on to Dawson City by a snowstorm and now must stay until late March or early April. In the meantime we are gathering supplies, which our landlord allows us to store in the cellar, for a fee. A list of recommended necessities is posted in most mercantile shops. We will purchase horses at the very last minute, to save on stabling and feed money. The list is endless, but I will give you some examples:
2 axes, 3 shovels, 3 picks
3 gold pans
1 whip saw, 1 hand saw
1 frying pan, 1 baking pan
1 granite kettle, 4 granite cups
2 large cooking spoons, 4 each of knives, forks, and spoons
hammer, wire nails
canvas tent, mosquito netting
oiled canvas sheet to lay under blanket
2 heavy pocket knives
candles, matches, and soap
200 feet oakum rope
sheet-iron stove with reflector for baking
4 woolen blankets each
2 sleeping bags made of oiled canvas and lined with wool
rubber boots
1 rifle, 2 Colt revolvers and 4 boxes of ammunition for each
I am not mentioning the firearms in Mother and Father’s letter for obvious reasons. We are also laying a store of warm clothing, medicines, and food—for example, they recommend 250 pounds of smoked bacon!
This leads me to an embarrassing request. Because we did not anticipate having to purchase so many supplies, I am running a little short on money and fear we will not have enough for some decent packhorses. If you would kindly send your dear brother a cheque for two hundred pounds, I will repay you when I bring back my fortune.
It is difficult to wait for the snow to melt. One can only play so many games of Commerce, and Randall sulks when he loses. Bernard will be happy to know I have started attending a little Presbyterian chapel across the street. The choir is quite good for its size and was in need of a baritone, so I allowed myself to be pressed into service. But I am looking forward to pressing on to the Klondike. More and more of late, I go through a whole day forgetting to grieve for Miss Rayborn’s lack of esteem for me. I do believe, dear Muriel, that this will be the adventure of my life.
If you don’t get yourself killed,
Muriel thought, wiping her eyes.
A soft knock sounded. She folded the letter. “Yes?”
Mrs. Burles entered the room to stand just inside the doorway. “May I speak with your Ladyship?”
“What is it?”
“It’s about Nanny Prescott.” The housekeeper’s expression grew a little uncertain.
“Must I drag it out of you, Mrs. Burles?” Muriel said. “What has she done?”
“Sorry, your Ladyship. It’s just that we’re all fond of her, and she’s very kind to Miss Georgiana, but she’s gone and boxed up most of the toys and put them in the attic.”
The housekeeper’s report sounded so ludicrous that Muriel had to allow it to run through her mind again before she had the wits to respond.
“Well, make her take them back down.”
“She reminded me that you gave her full authority over the nursery and said that Miss Georgiana has too many toys for her own good.”
“Too many for . . .” But what was she doing, sitting there parroting everything Mrs. Burles said? Muriel sighed and got to her feet.
“Shall I tell her you—”
“No,” Muriel replied. “I’ll speak with her.”
Leah Prescott sat on the edge of the day-nursery rocking chair. Georgiana, clad in little coat and boots, stood before her, submitting to having the strings to a knit cap tied beneath her dimpled chin.
“There you are, a wee Laplander,” Prescott was saying.
“Laplan?”
“It’s a place far up north.”
Georgiana turned her face toward the doorway and brightened. “Mummy, we go to Laplan.”
“Well, just to the Square,” the nanny said, smiling and rising. “Good morning, Lady Holt.”
“Good morning.” Muriel entered the room. She had expected the day nursery to be bare, but there were several toys
about—Georgiana’s dollhouse, a heap of building blocks, and others. Still, Prescott had overextended her authority. Calmly, for her daughter’s sake, she said, “Why did you put away Georgiana’s other toys?”
Prescott nodded. “Forgive me, m’Lady. I realized after speaking with Mrs. Burles that I should have asked first. It’s just that, with the new birthday gifts, Miss Georgiana had so many about that she couldn’t enjoy them.”
“We put horsy in a box,” Georgiana said, too absorbed in pulling on her mittens to be distressed.
That did not matter. They were
Georgiana’s
things, not Prescott’s. “I fail to see your logic,” Muriel said. “Explain.”
With an uncertain look at Georgiana, as if she feared the discussion would cause her to demand her toys, Prescott replied with soft voice, “She didn’t know how to sit and play with
one,
m’Lady. She would run from one to another to another and eventually became bored with the whole lot.”
“She’s three years old,” Muriel reminded her. “What do you expect?”
“But—”
“You’ll get those toys down before bedtime. Do you understand?”
It seemed for a second that the nanny would protest. But she eventually nodded. “Yes, m’Lady.”
“We go now?” Georgiana asked, proudly holding up her mittened hands for their approval.
She was so fetching that Muriel smiled. But she had to ask Prescott, “Isn’t it too cold for a walk?”
“We go out to snatch a bit of sunlight every day weather allows, and Miss Georgiana has suffered no ill effects. But if m’Lady would rather we didn’t . . .”
An accusing little voice, which sounded remarkably like Nanny Tucker’s, spoke in Muriel’s mind, saying that any good mother would be aware of her daughter’s activities, including walks in the Square. But how could she have known, Muriel
thought, when it seemed only yesterday that Georgiana was a red-faced infant being carried, or pushed in a pram?
“It not too cold, Mummy,” Georgiana said desperately.
Muriel eyed Prescott’s face for any sign of disrespect or, worse, judgment upon her mothering abilities. When she detected neither, she replied, “Oh, very well.”
Georgiana clapped her hands. “Laplan!”
“Not quite so far, I’m afraid, Miss Georgiana,” the nanny said. She looked up again at Muriel, hesitated, and asked, “Perhaps m’Lady would care to join us?”
“Some other time,” Muriel said automatically. “I’ve too much to do.”
Instead of just hearing the voice this time, Muriel could see Nanny Tucker’s face with her mind’s eye.
I do so spend enough time with my daughter!
Focusing her attention upon Nanny Prescott again, she said, “But I suppose I could spare a little time . . . just today.”
Traffic was scant on Belgrave Street, still Muriel carried Georgiana across until she could safely lower her to the weathered grass of the Square. The walk started off well, Muriel holding her daughter’s small hand with Prescott following just closely enough to be available if needed. Every now and again, Georgiana would look up at her with wonder in her little face. Smoke rose from chimney pots of houses on all four sides. Muriel hoped some of her neighbors were witnessing how little their snubbing of Georgiana’s party yesterday had affected them.
“Moke,” Georgiana said, pointing.
“What is it, darling?”
“Moke in your mouth.”
Muriel understood and blew out a stream of vapory breath, which made Georgiana laugh.
“It’s coming from your mouth too,” Muriel said. “Blow out and see.”
Her little face screwed up in concentration as she pushed out her lips in a circle, but nothing happened.
Muriel demonstrated pulling in a deep breath, blowing it out. “Try again.”
This time the girl blew out a faint but definite stream of vapor, and they both laughed. Never mind yesterday’s disaster of a birthday party—today was fresh and clean, and Muriel wished it could stretch out like this forever.
“You’ll be taking a walk this same time tomorrow afternoon?” she impulsively asked Prescott over her shoulder.
The nanny smiled. “If it doesn’t rain, m’Lady.”
“Perhaps I’ll join you again.”
****
“O gentle Romeo!
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully:
Or if thou think’st I am too quickly won,
I’ll frown and be perverse and say thee nay. . . .”
“Is she taking quinine?” Muriel leaned to whisper. “
I
could do better than that.”
Jewel put a finger to her lips.
From their vantage point in box six, Muriel could see the reason for the worry and resignation in her cousin’s face. Less than three-quarters of the Royal Court’s seats were filled, and from the threepence upper-galley seats drifted the low hum of conversation, then laughter when a Cockney voice called out, “Come on, love . . . say it like yer means it!”
Muriel had to suppress a smile. Faint ripples came from even the upper-class seats below. Richard Whitmore broke character only long enough to send a tight-lipped glance up into the galley, which silenced the laughter and voices, for he was still quite popular even among those of the rougher sort.
The effect upon Miss Lloyd was negligible; she went on stoically delivering her lines.
“This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath,
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. . . .”
“Opium,” Muriel could not resist speculating. “Have you checked her dressing room for a pipe?”
Her cousin looked at her, pressed her lips together, and nodded.
****
It was as her clock was softly chiming four that Muriel roused to drink from the carafe on her bedside table, not bothering with the glass. As she settled again into her pillows, she willed herself to gather up the fragments of the pleasant dream the clock had interrupted. She was onstage at the Royal Court, dressed as Juliet, addressing Richard Whitmore’s Romeo with every emotion drawn from every part of her being.
“Of all the days that’s in the week
I dearly love but one day—
And that’s the day that comes betwixt
A Saturday and Monday. . . .”
Which was actually from “Sally in Our Alley,” a poem by Henry Carey she had memorized in grammar school, for her dream self was not acquainted with Shakespeare’s lines. But Romeo and the audience approved; she could tell by the smiling faces from the front row . . . Jewel and Grady, Mother and Father, Douglas and Bernard. Even Sidney was there, face flush with pride, and their Belgravia neighbors, faces flush with sheepish envy.
“For then I’m dressed all in my best
To walk abroad with Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley. . . .”
When she woke in the morning, the glow from all that approval clung to her for a little while, until reality set in again and caused it to dissipate. What would it be like to be an actress, she wondered as she brushed her teeth. To see one’s name above a theatre marquee and eventually become a household name, like Sarah Bernhardt, Charlotte Steel, Ellen Terry. To stand under lights, every eye in a huge auditorium on
her.
And Jewel had said the Royal Court would be holding auditions for
Lady Audley’s Secret
in two weeks. Wouldn’t it be something if she were to show up as well?
You’re insane,
she said to herself, bristles working on the hard-to-reach space between her lower back teeth on the right side.
You’re not an actress.
But who
were
actresses but ordinary people who discovered they had talent? They weren’t Martians. They weren’t born onstage—they’d had to make that first step, attend that first audition at some point in their lives.
She was certainly attractive enough. She didn’t consider herself vain, but mirrors did not lie.
And you have experience,
she realized while rinsing her mouth with water. Had she not acted the part of a grieving widow flawlessly during the two-and-a-half years of her mourning? What could she lose by auditioning, except suffer a little embarrassment if she were rejected? Acting was now considered a respectable profession; some actors such as Henry Irving and Charles Wyndham had achieved knighthood.
The notion continued popping into her mind all morning, like a dresser drawer sliding open on its tracks in spite of her efforts to keep it shut.
“What would you think of my auditioning for a play?” she asked Evelyn, while the latter fastened the buttons running up the back of Muriel’s Wedgwood-blue silk gown.
Muriel wasn’t in the habit of sharing secrets with her lady’s maid, but her closest confidant was across the ocean, probably wrapped in bearskins huddled by a fireplace, and her
second-closest confidant was one of the people who could make this notion happen, so this wasn’t time to discuss a half-baked idea with Jewel and regret it later. The idea should be discussed with someone whose opinion did not matter, so that Muriel could sort it out in her mind with no fear of losing face.
“A play, m’Lady?” Evelyn said with the same inflection she would have used had Muriel asked if she should go to a hospital and perform surgery today. “Begging your pardon, but they only allow actresses to be in plays.”
“Yes, that’s so,” Muriel said and repeated her earlier thoughts. “But actresses are just people like you and me. They’re not Martians, you know.”
Evelyn came around to fasten the four buttons on either of Muriel’s cuffs. “I’m not acquainted with any Martians, m’Lady.”
“Well, no one is, Evelyn. They’re creatures from Mars.”