Leading Lady (33 page)

All Jewel could do was stare.

“You can’t mean that, Muriel,” said Grady.

“It’s not as if she needs money,” Muriel said defensively, as if rattled by their silence. “You wouldn’t be throwing her out into the streets. This is just her
hobby,
for heaven’s sake.”

Jewel sighed, set her cup on the desk, and rose to stand behind Grady’s chair with hands upon his shoulders.

“I
don’t
understand, Muriel.”

“Nor I,” Grady said softly. “Surely you’ve gotten over blaming her for Douglas.”

“Didn’t Bernard speak with you?” Jewel asked.

“Bernard.” Muriel rolled her violet eyes. “He would have forgiven Napoleon. Bethia could have come to me, gone to you, done any number of things, but instead she sent that vile letter.”

Deep breath,
Jewel told herself, watching her cousin sip from her cup. “I’m sorry about Douglas, Muriel. I have fond memories of when we all played together as children. But he brought this upon himself.”

“We’re not discharging Bethia,” Grady said.

Jewel nodded. “But if it would make you more comfortable, we’ll ask her to leave the wardrobe room when you’ve appointments and have Miss Lidstone or Mrs. Hamby measure you from now on.”

And it wouldn’t break Bethia’s heart,
she thought, for word had reached her ears about Miss Lidstone having to take over the measuring once before because Muriel was being difficult. Bethia had not even complained but had replied when Jewel
approached her about it,
“You’re not to worry . . . I don’t have to deal with her that often.”

Muriel raised her chin. “Then you’ll have to find someone else for
The Ticket-of-Leave Man.
” A little bark of a laugh, then, “Perhaps you can persuade Daphne Lloyd to come back.”

Faintly Jewel tasted blood and realized she had bitten the inside of her mouth. “You mentioned appreciation, Muriel. Is this how you show it? You’ve no idea of the gamble we took, putting you in a lead role. We could have lost our jobs for it.”

After a sigh, Muriel replied, “Of course I’m grateful, Jewel. But you should also be grateful to me, don’t you think? I filled your theatre again.”

Jewel felt her husband’s shoulders rise and fall. She knew what was coming. Grady was the most amiable, easygoing person she knew, but a difficult childhood had put something of a street fighter in him as well.

“We are grateful, Muriel,” Grady said softly. “But we cannot allow extortion from anyone. Even you. If you walk out, you’ll find no more stage work in London.”

She gave him a wary look. “Perhaps you’ve not read my reviews, Grady McGuire.”

“Perhaps
you’ve
not read the contract you signed for run-of-the-show. Petty vindictiveness is not an excuse for breaking it. We may be competitive with other theatres, but there is a certain code of honor we share. It comes down to this, Muriel. Do you wish to act or don’t you?”

For what seemed like a full minute, the violet eyes stared across at him as if she were undecided if he were bluffing. And then Muriel lowered them, murmured, “I want to act.”

Jewel circled around to her, took the cup from Muriel’s hand, and set it on another one of the rare bare spots on Grady’s desk. She put her arms about her cousin’s shoulders. After a second, Muriel leaned her head against her as much as her hat would allow.

“You’ve suffered a great loss, darling Muriel,” Jewel said,
patting her shoulder. “Taking it out on Bethia . . . on
anyone,
won’t bring Douglas back to us.”

Eventually she heard a sigh, a small voice. “I know.”

Darting a relieved glance at her husband, Jewel said, “Let me take you home.”

“I have a cab waiting.”

“Then I’ll ride with you, keep you company.”

“I don’t want company, Jewel. I just want to go home and nap.”

“Very well.” Jewel helped her to her feet.

Grady, rising from his chair as well, said gently, “You’ll forgive me for speaking so bluntly with you?”

“Yes, Grady,” Muriel said, giving him a wan smile.

“Everything is fine between us now?”

Muriel nodded. “As long as you keep Bethia Rayborn away from me.”

****

Keeping his vow to God, Noah walked to St. Andrew’s with Jude on Sunday. “I’m just glad my father can’t see me now,” Noah said as he caught sight of worshipers ascending the three wide steps and entering the stone-front chapel. The Careys were as staunch Anglican as the Nicholls were Presbyterian.

“I suspect he can,” Jude replied.

Noah sent a glance up toward the cloudless sky. Was his father frowning down on him from heaven, or was the concept of denominations as out of place there as the concept of greed? He hoped so.

“I was just as surprised to find myself coming here, the first time,” Jude said. “But for the opposite reason. If Father thinks of me at all, he expects me to remain Presbyterian. It was very tempting to find something else, just to spite him.”

“Why didn’t you?”

His friend’s casual shrug was contrary to the emotion in his voice. “When you’ve lost your family, you realize just how
important your church is. The rituals I’ve grown up with add stability to my life now that it’s changed so abruptly.

The service was comfortingly familiar, with its reading of the litany and singing of hymns. When the minister announced the theme of the sermon, trusting God, Noah imagined it had been written solely for him, until he glanced about at others in the congregation wearing absorbed expressions, also soaking in that hope for whatever their needs might be.

Still, he would gladly settle for a portion of that hope. He needed the reminder that God could be trusted with his future, what with the itching beneath his clothing causing his upper lip to bead with sweat. Mentally he latched on to the passage the minister read from Lamentations.

It was a new and strange concept to grasp that perhaps his affliction was not some punishment for some sin—unconfessed or confessed—but was necessary in order that some plan for his life might be fulfilled. That perhaps, God actually felt compassion for him.

Back at the lodging house and after a lunch of bratwurst, sauerkraut, and fried potatoes, Noah went up to his room for a nap to supplement what scant sleep the itching had allowed last night. But between the tasks of pulling off his boots and turning his pillow, he took pen and paper from the top of his chest of drawers and wrote
His compassions fail not.

He wedged the paper between shaving mirror and wall so that he could see the words every time he glanced in that direction. That would help keep discouragement at bay, he hoped. For the morbid thoughts would try to creep into his mind again. He was only human, and he was hurting.

Twenty-Four

On Monday morning, Mr. Birch came around the dressing screen with a concerned expression.

“This doesn’t look good.”

Oh dear,
Bethia thought. She traded puzzled looks with Mrs. Hamby. Wasn’t the newest member of the cast supposed to be recovered by now?

“Mr. Carey?” she asked.

“One moment, please.”

When he came around the screen, he was not wearing Robert Brierly’s gray convict costume, but his own suit. “There is no sense in wasting your time. It’s no better.”

He did not seem to feel the need to explain what “it” was, because having had theatre experience, he would certainly know that any newcomer would be the focus of gossip and speculation until the newness wore off. From what Bethia’s ears had picked up in the wardrobe room, corridors, or directly from Jewel, she knew that Mr. Carey had had lead roles in several York productions, that he now resided in a lodging house for struggling artists near Leicester Square, and that intolerance to soap caused him to stay in the shadows of the wing during rehearsal.

There were rumors as well, originating probably from Mr. Rigby, who resided in the same lodging house, that Mr. Carey came to London after being jilted at the altar by a fiancée. That spawned another rumor that he came here to forget the last tragic moments he spent at a fiancée’s bedside. This led Bethia to believe—in the few occasions she had time to think about it—that both rumors were false, or one was false, or Mr. Carey was a lothario who had had two fiancées at the same time. Only, he didn’t have the look of a lothario—however they were supposed to look.

At the moment, buttoning his coat in front of the dressing screen, he looked deflated, discouraged.

“Such a shame, Mr. Carey,” she said.

He shrugged, made an effort at a smile.

“Have you been to a doctor?” Mr. Birch asked, holding out a pea green cravat toward him with two bony fingers, as if it might be contaminated.

“Almost three weeks ago.”

Mrs. Hamby approached from her machine, stood a cautious three feet away. “Have you tried lanolin, Mr. Carey, ha-ha-ha?”

Looping the cravat through his collar, he gave her an uncertain look. “It didn’t help.”

“Now, I’m surprised,” she went on. “It cleared up my nephew’s nappy rash in two—”

“I hardly think your nephew’s nappy rash is relevant to Mr. Carey’s situation,” Mr. Birch snapped. Mrs. Hamby’s little laugh sometimes brought the worst out in people, Bethia noticed.

“Yes, well.” Mr. Carey turned to Bethia. “Thank you, Miss . . .”

“Rayborn,” she supplied. “You won’t leave without speaking with the McGuires, will you?”

“I’ll stop in the office on my way out.”

As Mr. Carey walked toward the door, Mr. Birch glanced behind the screen. “Wait, Mr. Carey. Your playscript.”

The understudy hesitated, looked back, and said, “I don’t think I’ll be needing it, thank you.”

“There’s the pity,” said Mrs. Hamby when he was gone. She clamped shut her mouth before the laugh could escape, giving Mr. Birch a reproachful look as if he had taken something from her.

“Yes it is,” Miss Lidstone said while tacking on a bit of lace to a gown sleeve. “And you wouldn’t guess he had a problem from the look of his face.”

“Except when he’s twitching and frowning, ha-ha,” said Mrs. Hamby. But with a sympathetic frown.

****

It was almost a relief to be leaving, Noah thought as he knocked upon the office door. He had become a social pariah, like one of the biblical lepers—unclean and unfit for decent society. That notion was reinforced by the wide berth that most members of the cast gave him whenever their paths happened to cross.

“Won’t you change your mind?” Mr. McGuire asked after admitting him to the office. “Wait this out a bit longer?”

“We should have our doctor see you,” said Mrs. McGuire.

Noah shook his head. “It won’t help. But I thank you for giving me a chance. I hope you find another understudy soon.”

“Ah, you’re not to worry yourself over that, Mr. Carey.” Mr. McGuire said, taking a metal box from a drawer. It rattled when he set it upon his desk. “We always manage.”

“I’ll not accept any money.”

“You must, Mr. Carey.” Mr. McGuire swung back the lid. “You worked hard.”

Reluctantly Noah accepted the three pounds, one week’s wages. He had a railway ticket to purchase, and his landlord could possibly ask for a penalty for breaking his lease with such short notice. He thanked them again and walked out of the office.

The lobby was empty. He cocked his head to listen for approaching footsteps, then turned to rub his back against one of the columns. The relief was intense, but he was aware that it would bring on more itching when he stopped.

He had come to this, he thought as he blinked burning eyes. Lord Carey, who had arrived in London confident with his stage experience, certain that theatres would open their collective arms to him with time, now reduced to scratching himself like a bear against a tree. And returning to Yorkshire as a failure.

“His compassions fail not,”
passed through his mind.

I’m trying to cling to that, Father,
he prayed.
Please forgive my lack of faith by asking, but if you could just send some sign that you haven’t forgotten me. . . .

****

“My turn?” Mr. Graham, the actor cast as Mr. Gibson, the bill broker, took a hesitant step through the doorway.

“Do come in, Mr. Graham,” Bethia said. He was the last of the men to be fitted because of a severe cold that had kept him at home last week. Tomorrow would be the women’s turns, not because they were less important, but because the fine detailing of their costumes meant it took longer to sew them.

As Mr. Graham went behind the screen with Mr. Birch, Bethia inspected the hems of two gowns of plain brown linsey, a coarse fabric of wool and flax, that Muriel and understudy Amanda Hill would wear as the penniless May Edwards. She would not actually
see
it on Muriel until dress rehearsal, for she would have to slip from the wardrobe room before eleven tomorrow, when Muriel’s fitting was scheduled.

“Does your grandson still build stained-glass windows?” Mr. Graham asked Mr. Birch behind the screen.

“The finest in London,” Mr. Birch replied. “In fact, he has a waiting list. Are you in the market?”

“Not me, my Uncle Miles. But he lives in Wimbledon.”

“That’s not too far for Lucas. He’s fitted windows as far as Chertsey.”

“How does one . . . communicate with him?”

“With pencil and paper. He can read and write, same as any—”

Suddenly it was Miss Lidstone’s voice Bethia was hearing, in her mind.

“And you wouldn’t guess he had a problem from the look of his face.”

Absently Bethia pressed the rough fabric between her fingers. Mr. Carey was well groomed, his face clean and hair shiny. And he was clean-shaven. One could hardly accomplish
any of that without soap. Then, why was there no rash upon his face?

A vague memory drifted into her mind but popped like a soap bubble before she could grasp it. Something she had read. Or overheard? Or even dreamed? She strained to remember, then realized her best course was to relax, resume her work, and hope the memory would return with more clarity.