Authors: Lawana Blackwell
“Ah, well then, that’s as good as a sworn-in jury.”
“Let’s get back to work, shall we?” Bethia said amiably. But firmly.
Twenty-Eight
“Good evening,” Bethia said to the seamstresses outside the Royal Court on Friday the second of September.
“And to you,” Miss Lidstone and Mrs. Hamby replied in unison, followed by the latter’s nervous titter. Ordinarily Bethia would accompany them to Sloan Station, but she was having supper with the Russells tonight and then accompanying them to the Royal Opera House for the production of
The Flying Dutchman.
The nearest underground railway stop to Bond Street was Victoria Station, but she would still have to walk a mile after that, so she planned to take a hansom instead and was headed for the stand a half-block down when she heard her name.
“Miss Rayborn?”
Bethia turned and spotted Muriel exiting a black coach trimmed in silver as her driver held the door.
“Yes, Lady Holt?”
“I was hoping to catch you,” Muriel said, hastening toward her with black-gloved hands outstretched.
Returning her smile, Bethia pushed the strap of her bag up her arm so that they could clasp hands. It occurred to her to wonder why Muriel had not simply gone inside to look for her. She had to go inside anyway to get costumed up for tonight’s performance. But she did not rack her brain over it. She was so grateful that the enmity was a thing of the past and so hopeful that it would stay that way, that Muriel could have clog danced upon the theatre steps and Bethia would not have questioned her.
“You know how it is—a maze inside with all those nooks and crannies,” Muriel said, as if reading her mind. “I was afraid I would miss you entirely. Are you in a hurry? May we sit in my coach for a quick chat?”
Flattered as she was, Bethia glanced at her wristwatch and
replied, “I’m sorry, Lady Holt. I’m on my way to catch a cab. I’ve plans for the evening.”
“Then my driver will take you wherever you’d like to go.”
“Thank you, but—”
“And now you have time for our chat,” Muriel said, linking an arm through hers. “I promise to detain you but a minute.”
Before Bethia quite knew what was happening, she was seated inside the coach. “Just a turn around the Square, Ham,” Muriel said to the driver as the door closed.
And then Muriel smiled across at her. Even in mourning dress she was beautiful. As the wheels started moving, she said, “I’ve invited some of my neighbors for tea on Thursday, before rehearsals start up again. I’ve not really gotten on well with them, but many were kind enough to send their condolences to my family when Douglas—”
A chill ran down Bethia’s back. Her smile froze.
“Now, now,” Muriel said, leaning forward to pat her arm. “That’s water under the bridge, dear. And that’s
not
why I abducted you. I thought some music would be a lovely background for visiting—but nothing as overbearing as an ensemble, mind you. Some light classical, very subdued, for an hour and a half at the most.”
It did not seem that Muriel was extending an invitation to the tea, for she had mentioned neighbors. Still, Bethia sent up a quick prayer of thanks for the miracle of the two of them sitting and chatting like old friends. Or at least on the
surface
like old friends, for she would continue to feel a slight uneasiness in Muriel’s presence until the emotional wounds from Douglas Pearce’s death were not so fresh.
“I had thought to hire one of the musicians here,” Muriel went on, “but then recalled hearing that your beau plays violin for the Royal Opera House.”
“He plays piano and flute as well,” Bethia said modestly, for Guy was, after all,
her
beau. Still, it pleased her to have an excuse to point out his accomplishments. “But his scholarship was for violin.”
“You must be very proud of him.”
“I am,” she admitted. The reason for Muriel’s drawing her apart clicked in her mind like an electric light bulb. She wanted Guy to play for her tea. But for hire, or was she asking a favor? Were she herself the violinist, she’d offer to play in a heartbeat, simply out of indebtedness. But she had no right to be volunteering Guy’s limited time.
“I probably shouldn’t ask this. . . .” Muriel bit her lip.
Bethia’s shoulders stiffened. “Yes?”
“Does he possibly hire out for private affairs? I would pay, mind you.”
“As long as they don’t conflict with rehearsals and performances,” Bethia replied, relaxing again. “He helps out in his father’s shop, but those hours are flexible.”
“Hmm. Do you know if he’s rehearsing Thursday afternoon?”
“I’ll be happy to ask,” Bethia said, ignoring a faint warning voice in her mind. What was there to be afraid of? “I’ll be seeing him shortly.”
“Also, please ask if ten pounds would be adequate compensation. My late husband always handled such details, so I’m woefully ignorant of them. If that’s not enough, I’ll be happy to pay more.”
“I’m sure he’ll think ten pounds most generous.”
The coach had come to a stop outside the theatre again. Muriel leaned to give her a quick embrace. “Thank you. This will be my first time to entertain since . . . well, you know, and I do so want this to be special.”
Bethia smiled. “You’re welcome, Lady Holt.”
“It’s Muriel, if you please,” she corrected. “And you’ll be
Bethia
to me. After all, we’re practically related.
****
“Thank you,” Bethia said to Muriel’s coachman on the pavement outside Russell Saddle and Tack. She held out a crown. “And please accept this.”
“I couldn’t, Miss,” he replied while eyeing the coin with an expression that suggested otherwise.
“I would consider it a favor,” Bethia said. “You saved me a lot of inconvenience.”
“Well . . .” He grinned at her, took the crown, and pocketed it. “Thank you, Miss.”
As she neared the door to Russell Saddle and Tack, it opened and Lottie stepped outside. “Whose coach?”
“Lady Holt’s,” Bethia said, linking arms with the seventeen-year-old. “You remember, the actress who played Lady Audley? By the way, I’ve tickets for
The Ticket-of-Leave Man
in my bag.”
“Thank you!” Lottie stepped ahead to open the shop door. The bell tinkled, and Mr. Neale paused from polishing a saddle to raise a smeared rag in greeting. Bethia smiled back.
“How are your studies?” she asked the girl as they walked through the curtained area.
“Intense.” The girl drew in a breath, and out flowed a high note, “
Ma, me, may, mo, mu . . .”
“One day we’ll have two reasons to visit the opera, yes?”
“That would be nice.” Lottie paused at the foot of the staircase. “How is your family?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“And John?”
Hence, the reason Lottie waited. She was blonde and pretty, but whenever the families got together, sixteen-year-old John barely seemed to notice her.
I should advise her to carry a football,
Bethia thought. “He’s well. I’ll mention that you asked about him.”
The girl brightened. “Thank you.”
Upstairs, the rest of the Russell family greeted her, save Guy, already at the opera house. Penny Russell cooked the family meals, though she sent the laundry out and had a day maid in once a week to polish furniture and floors. She ushered everyone to the table and served boiled knuckle of veal with rice, turnips, and potatoes, followed by baked apple pudding.
There was no time to tidy up, so Bethia helped the girls carry the dishes to the kitchen sink while Mrs. Russell put away the leftover food. Twelve-year-old Sharon was brushing crumbs from the cloth when Mr. Russell came back upstairs to say he had a hired coach waiting. They sat like sardines in a tin, but not unbearably so, with Bethia sharing a seat with Lottie and Sharon.
The Royal Opera House in Covent Garden had a handsome slab-faced exterior with Corinthian columns and was huge enough to seat thirty-five hundred persons. Because the tickets Guy had procured were complementary, they were located up in the amphitheater stalls, but that did not hinder Bethia’s enjoyment of the story of the Dutchman doomed to sail the seas for all eternity, landing only once every seven years until redeemed by the love of a faithful woman.
“You were the best violinist,” Sharon said when Guy joined them afterward.
He tweaked her cheek, winked at Bethia. “There were eight violins. How could you tell me from the others?”
“I’m your sister. I could tell.”
Because of the late hour, Bethia’s father had already arranged to send the coach from Hampstead to meet her after the opera. “Let us deliver you home,” she said to the Russells.
Stanley Russell declined the offer. “We’re in opposite directions. We’ll hire another coach.”
Guy walked Bethia down Bow Street while his family waited for the queue of carriages for hire to snake its way toward the front of the Opera House. Quickly, Bethia related her conversation with Muriel.
“I would rather not, Bethia.”
“You’ll have rehearsal?”
“Actually, we won’t.” They reached the coach. Guy exchanged greetings with Hiram, opened the door, and turned to her again. “But I don’t care to meet her.”
“She’s been trying hard to make up for the past.” The
memory of Muriel’s embrace was still pleasant. “She’s brought pastries up to wardrobe three times now.”
“I don’t know, Bethia. . . .”
“She would pay ten pounds.”
His dark brows lifted.
“Ten pounds?”
“She actually offered more if that’s not enough,” Bethia said. “It seems very important to her to make a good impression on her neighbors. And this could lead to other engagements, you know.”
And so it was settled. He agreed to telephone the Holt residence in the morning.
“But for us, not
her,
” he clarified. “For the deposit on our house.”
****
“Why don’t we meet for lunch Monday?” Jewel said in Muriel’s dressing room a half hour before curtain the following evening. “Just the two of us. It’s been ages.”
Though Dorothy, the makeup artist, had just left with her greasepaints, Muriel picked up a hare’s foot and dusted her cheeks lightly. “Where?”
Jewel blew out a quiet breath of relief and smiled at her cousin in the mirror. Muriel would not have agreed so quickly had she any inkling of an ulterior motive. She was about to suggest Giovanni’s but reconsidered. Too great the chance of running into some of the cast or crew. “Let’s go to the Savoy. Then we’ll hop over to your house so Georgiana doesn’t forget her old cousin.”
She had not seen the child since just after the memorial service, another reason she and Muriel should get together, and another reason she should not feel an iota of guilt.
“The Savoy?” Muriel said. “Can you spare the time?”
“I’ll make the time. Mr. Fisher will be showing us his scene sketches for
The Bells
at eleven, but that usually takes less than an hour.”
“Then we’ll come for you at half past one.”
“That’s not necessary. I’ll take a cab and meet you.”
Muriel turned upon her stool and arched a perfectly shaped brow. “Jewel, of what use is having a rich cousin if you can’t enjoy some pampering now and again? And lunch will be my treat, by the way.”
A knock sounded at the door, accompanied by Lewis’s voice. “Greenroom, please, Lady Holt?”
****
“I’ve followed the cab as far as I could! I saw them get out, and lost them at the last turning. If I could only keep them in sight—if he could but hear my voice—Robert! Robert!”
Every seat and box were taken, so Jewel and Grady had settled onto stools in the dress circle corridor to peer discreetly through the back curtain.
“Do you hear that?” Jewel whispered, pushing her eyeglasses up the bridge of her nose.
He smiled and nodded. She did not have to explain that she referred not to Muriel’s brilliant heart-tugging plea onstage but to the sounds of weeping in the audience. Every sniff, every honk into a handkerchief, was music to their ears.
She smiled at Grady during the standing ovation. He winked back. They turned their attention back toward the stage, where, amidst the applause and
bravos,
Mr. Whitmore let go of Muriel’s hand and took two steps backward to join in the applause. Jewel watched her cousin soak up the applause, glowing, and felt a twinge of wistfulness. What would it be like to be on the receiving end of such adoration?
“Here, dearest, give me your stool before the corridor fills,” Grady said over the roar, a hand resting lightly upon her shoulder.
Jewel smiled and got to her feet. But of course she knew how it felt. And Grady’s love for her would continue long past the point when Muriel’s admirers found some other object of affection on some other stage.
May that be years and years away,
Jewel thought—and
not only for her cousin’s sake. The receipt ledger had come to life again, like a sickly person after taking a tonic.
****
Muriel’s most steadfast admirer shepherded Jewel into his dressing room after she congratulated him on his performance. Grady was not along, having been summoned to the mezzanine-level refreshment stand to look at a faulty shipment of chocolates.
“I heard you’re meeting Lady Holt for lunch tomorrow,” Mr. Whitmore said, closing his door.
“That news is already circulating?” Jewel said. “I believe that’s a record for speed.”
“Thin walls.” Smiling, he knocked upon one lightly for emphasis. “And for speed, the record was set last year when Susannah Laws was overheard boasting to a visitor that she could act circles around anyone in the company—especially Charlotte Steel. We froze her out after that.”
“So
that’s
why she went over to the Lyceum,” Jewel said, folding her arms.
“I had no fondness for Charlotte.” The actor shrugged. “And we’re all conceited in our own ways. But anyone foolish enough to admit it deserves what she gets.”
“Why weren’t Mr. McGuire and I informed?”
The greasepaint upon Mr. Whitmore’s cheeks creased about the corners of his smile. “Well, you’re management. You think
everything
reaches your ears?”