Authors: Lawana Blackwell
“Of course.” Jude nodded. “I didn’t even think of that.”
The corridor outside the rehearsal room was alive with the conversation, laughter, and piano music typical for closing
night, when actors and other theatre employees, patrons, and family gathered to celebrate a good run. Noah stepped through the open doorway, sent a quick smile across the room to Olivia, chatting with stage manager, Mr. Brown, and his wife, and then turned so that he could watch Jude’s face.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if you please!” Mr. Brown clapped hands, causing an expectant hush to fall over the room and heads to turn their way.
“Now . . . what’s this all about?” Jude asked, eyeing the long cake inscribed with
Happy Birthday Jude
and skillfully decorated with the iced forms of Comedy and Tragedy. Those who had been in the corridor skirted into the room behind him.
“We’ll give you twenty-seven guesses!” someone said.
More laughter, and the pianist struck up a chord. No Nicholls face was among the fifty or so presently singing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow!” even though Noah had sent a note out to Jude’s house two days ago. But then, that was no surprise. After the song Noah watched his friend receive handshakes and embraces, claps on the back, and wishes for many happy returns. Unlike himself, bashful to the point of being standoffish until he knew someone well, Jude never met a stranger. If his sense of humor was somewhat warped, at least there was not an ounce of cruelty in it. If anyone deserved a chance, he did.
Later that night, on his knees, Noah prayed.
Please make it happen for him, Father.
****
Soft knocking woke him the following morning, followed by the creaking of door hinges. Bernice, the chambermaid, stepped into the room with coffeepot on a tray.
“Mornin’, Lord Carey!”
“Good morning, Bernice,” Noah mumbled, blinking the dregs of night from his eyes. Because the quickest way to Danby was via the North Eastern Railway for fifty miles and then another twelve on horseback, he leased a suite in the
Hotel Lady Anne Middleton’s on Skeldergate Street during the run of a play. Two other actors stayed at the same hotel, and the chambermaids there knew not to disturb them before ten on mornings after a performance.
“Shall I bring your breakfast next?” She was a thickset, dark-haired woman of twenty or so, married to one of the waiters in the restaurant downstairs.
“No, thank you. I’m meeting someone for early lunch.”
“Will you be checking out today?”
“Yes.” Noah eased himself up against his pillows, sliding over so that she could place the tray on the side of his bed. “But I’ll not leave York for another two hours or so, if you’d like to put off packing until you’ve made your morning rounds.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Lord Carey. How was the play?”
“We had a standing ovation.”
“Is that a good thing?” she asked doubtfully while pouring coffee. He laughed, taking the cup from her hands. “If you would have used your tickets, you could have found out for yourself. What did you do . . . sell them?”
“Listen to you, m’Lord!” she said. “I gave them to my brother Lucas. He fancies hisself a poet, and I knew he and his Mary would enjoy the outing more.”
“Well, I’ll give you four to
The Importance of Being Earnest
if you’ll promise to go.”
“I will. Very kind of you, Lord Carey. I can’t wait to ring Lucas.”
“Well, you’ve plenty of time. It’s not until December first.”
That was the way of provincial theatres; local productions were outnumbered greatly by touring companies staging such productions as a London company’s
The Corsican Brothers
and a Russian opera company’s
Boris Godunov.
In the seven-month interim, most of the local actors continued with their daily occupations such as bank clerking and giving art lessons and selling shoes. Noah considered himself most fortunate in
that Olivia, whom he was to marry on the second of August, had no objections to his joining the others for rehearsals after they returned from a three-month honeymoon in Greece.
Enough light filtered through the drapes to allow Bernice to lay a fire in the hearth. Noah sipped his coffee, savoring the warmth spreading through him. When Bernice took the tray, he settled back beneath the covers to doze while fire broke the late-morning chill.
He was actually an early riser of habit, for that had been the routine since his boyhood, when he and Mother and Father would breakfast in the morning room. As he plowed the Star Safety Razor through the lather on his face at the washstand a half hour later, he wondered if Jude had yet broken the news to the Nicholls family.
His first order of the day was to go down to the lobby and ring his mother.
“Well, how did it go?” Mother said over the telephone. She had attended the play twice during its run, so he had not pressured her to come into York last night.
“We had a standing ovation.”
“But of course you did. You’re an excellent actor.”
He could picture the smile on her plump face, and teased, “Well, there were
others
up there onstage with me, you know. And you’re not exactly my harshest critic.”
“That doesn’t make you any less excellent. When are you coming home?”
“I’ll catch the two-thirty train. Olivia’s joining me for early lunch.” He raked his fingers through his dark hair, pushing it back from his forehead. His George Vavasor character called for long locks that became increasingly more disheveled as his state of mind grew more agitated. “I’ll try to squeeze in time for a haircut.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Moss would still be willing.”
Noah smiled. The housekeeper’s two sons, who worked on the estate, appeared to have stepped out of fifteenth-century
portraits with their cropped hair. “I’m a bit old for the bowl-over-the-head look, don’t you think?”
“Very well, you ancient thing. Give Olivia my love. I’ll send Vernon to meet your train this afternoon.”
“Wait.”
He had figured he would have time to break the news to her in person, but it was conceivable that Sir Thaddeus would send Jude packing. “Will you keep Vernon handy to fetch Jude from the station in case he rings?”
“Of course.”
He had been poised to explain, but her tone suggested an inkling of already having grasped the reason behind his request. She was perceptive in that way.
****
“Was Jude surprised, or was that just acting?” Olivia Ryce asked from across the small table in the hotel restaurant, after she had folded her hands for silent prayer.
“He didn’t have a clue.” Noah smiled. “Thank you for ordering the cake. It was delicious.”
“That’s because Mrs. Bromley baked it. I wanted it to be special.”
“How kind of her. I’ll give her the money we would have spent at the bakery.”
Olivia smiled. “She didn’t buy any of the ingredients herself, silly. And Papa wouldn’t hear of your repaying him.”
“Still, the amount of work . . .”
“I’m sure she was happy to do it.” Reverting back to the subject at hand, Olivia said, “And Jude is determined to leave for London?”
“He is. I just pray his father will surprise me and be understanding about it.”
“I’m afraid that’s a lost cause. Papa says he’s the most overbearing person he’s ever met.” She pressed a finger to her smile. As the daughter of a physician, she was not supposed to be repeating gossip about his patients. “You’re to forget you heard that.”
He winked at her. “My lips are sealed.”
The waiter brought their favorite dish, identical servings of
Lobster à la mode Française
—lobster meat cut into small squares, simmered in cream and seasonings, returned to the cleaned shell, covered with bread crumbs and melted butter, then browned before a fire.
Olivia picked up her fork with her slender fingers, causing the one-carat pear-shaped diamond in her engagement ring to catch light from the chandelier. “Whenever Jude decides to leave, make certain he knows I expect him to stop by the house first. We’ll have a basket ready. Heaven knows his father won’t give him money for decent meals on the trip.”
“That’s very kind of you. But wouldn’t you like to see him off with me?”
“No. Best friends should say their farewells without the distraction of a third party.”
“You’re not exactly a—”
She shook her head. “That’s how it should be, Noah.”
“Thank you, Olivia.” He smiled across at her again as his chest filled with pride that he would be married to such a thoughtful, beautiful creature in just three months. What could he have done that God should favor him so?
In jest he accused her of marrying him just to rid herself of the name that was the bane of her grammar school days. It had not mattered to her schoolmates that “Ryce” was a noble Anglo-Saxon name meaning “powerful.” They only cared that they could make her blush by tacking
pudding
onto the end.
In some ways they could have passed for siblings or cousins, for they had in common hair the color of ink, high foreheads, and eyes so brown that the irises seemed to meld into the pupils. Yet there were enough differences to prevent local gossips from speculating some sort of hidden kinship. The Careys were tall and strapping—one aunt on his father’s side an inch shy of six feet—whereas Olivia had inherited her
father’s small frame; Noah’s nose was gloriously Roman, and Olivia’s was as small and dainty as a gumdrop.
Funny how acting before an audience of hundreds barely caused him a flicker of nervousness, but in the first weeks of their courtship, he had felt awkward in her company, as if he were a lumbering giant and she a china doll. One step out of place could crush her dainty foot, a careless motion of the arm might knock her to the ground. Mercifully, none of that had happened, though he did manage to knock a beaker of lemonade into her lap at the White Hart Inn last September. She took the mishap with good grace, assuring him that accidents happened to everyone. That was when he first realized he loved her, and he proposed marriage three months later.
He realized she was staring across at him expectantly.
“Forgive me, darling,” he said. “Did you say something?”
She gave him an indulgent smile, which did not mask the concern in her eyes. “I asked if you wished you were going with him.”
“To London? And leave the most beautiful woman in the world?”
“That’s not an answer, Noah.”
He had not realized that when the words left his mouth. He thought for several seconds, while concern deepened in her expression. How easy it would be to assure her that no such thought had passed through his mind. But they had determined they would have a marriage based upon Christian principles such as truthfulness. Shouldn’t a betrothal be based upon that same foundation?
Leaning forward, he reached across the table to touch the back of her hand. “I confess to a little pang of envy when he first broke the news, Olivia. We’ve spoken of London for years, you see. But I can honestly say that I’m happy with the life God has given me here.”
“What if Jude is a smashing success?”
“I pray he will be.”
“Will you resent me?”
“Never.” Noah shook his head for emphasis. “Give me fifty years to prove it to you.”
Her expression smoothed. “That’ll be lovely. Fifty years together.”
“Lovely,” he echoed, smiling into her brown eyes.
They finished their meals—at least Noah did. Mrs. Ryce had taught her four girls that they would never have weight problems if they left roughly a fourth of their food upon their plates, which meant enough to feed another person went to the ash can. It seemed wasteful to Noah, but he assumed it was a standard practice for most females old enough to watch their figures, even though his mother never left food upon her plate.
A hired coach and a trio of hansom cabs waited outside for restaurant and hotel customers. Noah guided her to the coach, and they held hands from Skeldergate to Nunnery Lane. He was helping her to the pavement in front of the Ryces’ three-storey town house when a Maltese came bounding from next door with white coat rippling.
“
Chaucer!
Go away!” Olivia shooed.
“I thought they fixed the gate,” Noah said over high-pitched barks.
“He figures out a way to open it.”
At least Chaucer had never bitten either of them. Olivia had assured Noah that the animal was as tame as a lamb whenever
he
wasn’t present. Which did not increase Noah’s fondness for the animal. He walked Olivia to the door and then went back to the coach with the dog barking and snapping at his heels.
After his usual barber on North Street trimmed his dark hair, Noah hired a coach to carry him back to the hotel for his trunk, then on to York Station. The fifty-mile journey took an hour and a half, what with stops in such towns as Haxby, Grambe, and Pickering. Vernon Thatcher, the Careys’ coachman, met him at Sleights Station with the wagon and
team of two horses, the easiest way to transport the trunk over the highs and lows of the twelve-mile lane.
“Mr. Nicholls is at the house,” Vernon said as the two hefted the trunk into the wagon bed. Auburn-haired, he was the only person at Carey Hall taller than Noah, and by a good three inches.
“For how long?” Noah asked.
“A couple of hours. The smithy’s boy drove him.”
“How did he look?” Noah asked, knowing the coachman was intelligent enough to discern that he was asking of Jude and not fifteen-year-old Aaron Jenkins, who earned extra money carrying people from the station in his father’s wagon.
“Not too good, m’Lord.”
****
Once when Noah was a boy playing near his mother in the garden, she beckoned him over to where she was planting crocus bulbs. “This is north Yorkshire,” she said, pressing the fingers and thumb of her right hand into the moist soil, ink-black from sulfur streams. She pointed to the mound below the imprints and said it was the Glaisdal Moor, running east to west.
“See where my fingers were? They’re the dales, and the high spaces between them are moors. My thumb imprint represents Westerdale, and then there is Danby-dale, Little Fryup, Great Fryup, and Glaisdale. Do you know where we live?”