Leading Lady (43 page)

“Good job, Mr. Carey!” said Mr. Webb, pounding his back. Members of the cast congratulated him as well, with the exception of Lady Holt, who made a beeline for her dressing room. It all felt very good, better than he would have imagined.

Mrs. McGuire actually gave him a sisterly embrace in the corridor. “You saved the show, Mr. Carey.”

“Thank you,” he replied, smiling. “I’m just going to run up and look in on Mr. Whitmore.”

“That’s very kind of you. But Mr. McGuire took him home.”

“Is there anything I can do for him?”

Mrs. McGuire lowered her voice. “Just pray he pulls himself together.”

He got the message. His heart went out to the man, who was generous with acting advice toward a mere understudy and was one of the few not to shun him during the itching phase. He wondered if the coldness Lady Holt displayed toward Mr. Whitmore, in the face of his infatuation, had anything to do with this. Another reason to dislike her, not to mention the unkindness she had displayed toward Miss Rayborn. The rumor mill’s latest was that Lady Holt had patched things up with Miss Rayborn, but Noah remained skeptical. He knew firsthand how effectively a layer of beauty could hide a core of cruelty.

Lady Holt gave him still another reason to dislike her as they stood in the wing again, waiting their cues for Act III.

“It appears you knew your cues very well after all, Mr. Carey,” she said in low voice. “I suppose you think that was very clever.”

He looked at her to see if she was joking, in the friendly sardonic way he and Jude sometimes made sport with each other. There was no evidence of that in her stone-cold expression. This time he made no reply, but reached up with his left hand to scratch his right shoulder vigorously. Her violet eyes widened, and she took a step away from him.

Act III sailed by as if on wings, the cast delivering their lines as if forgetful that over six hundred people were watching from the seats. There was no standing ovation, save from a handful of souls who sat down again quickly when they discovered themselves to be the only ones. But the applause was hearty. It was only as Noah was taking his bows that he allowed himself to cast aside the needful illusion that he was on the York stage.

I’m in London,
he thought while tears coursed down his cheeks.
Father, you can take me now and I’ll be satisfied that I’ve lived a good life.

When the final curtain closed and the applause was melding
into sounds of rustling feet and conversation, members of the cast congratulated him and each other.

“Good job!” said Corrie Walters, giving him a quick sideways embrace.

Lady Holt stepped closer, and for a maddening second Noah imagined she would do the same. Instead, she gave him a chill little smile and said, “Before you think yourself too high and mighty, Mr. Carey, you might remember that this is our first night in three weeks
not
to have a standing ovation.”

The dart hit its mark in Noah’s chest. The only variable in tonight’s performance was him. As his shoulders deflated, he took note of the dislike in her eyes. Or was it mirrored from his own?

“How does it feel,” he asked, “to discover that they were rising for Mr. Whitmore all along, and not for you?”

If looks could have killed, he would have been a heap of ashes. She turned and walked away. Whether or not she could have him sacked frightened him not one iota. He had not endured poverty and physical torment just to kowtow to a spoiled prima donna. Not with some thirty-five other theatres in London.

****

“Mother, I have guests arriving in an hour,” Muriel said into the telephone mouthpiece on Sunday afternoon. She felt as fatigued as if she had not lain in until almost ten. In spite of having to orient herself to working with a new lead last night, and with very little notice, she had delivered a fine performance. So had said Mr. Webb, who ought to know. And he was the
only
person to say so, with everyone else in the company vying with each other for a turn to pound that cheeky sheep farmer on the back as if he had played Macbeth for the Queen. She hoped he had bruises the size of saucers this morning.

And now, her mother’s petulant voice.

“All I said was that wet-nursing one baby after another
would ruin her figure,” her mother went on, as though Muriel had not reminded her twice already that she did not have time to chat. “Besides, she’s too weak.”

“But that’s her decision, Mother,” Muriel argued, hopefully to hasten an end to the conversation. “And why should a minister’s wife need worry over her figure?”

“Well, I tried to help by insisting Sally come stay with us for a couple of weeks. Florence could look after her just fine. But Bernard says they don’t want her to feel as if her brother displaced her. As if she would know. She’s but fourteen months old!”

“I really must finish dressing,” Muriel said, winding the telephone cord about her forefinger. “Why don’t you sit out in your garden? I’ll ring you again after my guests leave.”

“No you won’t.”

Muriel closed her eyes, filled her lungs again. “Yes I will.”

“You’ll forget.” A sniff, and then her mother’s voice became more brittle. “I don’t even feel as if I have family anymore. Douglas is gone, Bernard is wrapped up in his family and church, and you are—”

“I’m coming for a nice visit between shows.” A three-day, two-night visit, actually, but it was better than nothing.

“In two weeks, yes?” her mother said.

“Well, later. Grady says we’ll be running this one until the twenty-second of October.”

She braced herself, but silence followed, as if her mother had to gather up her strength before dissolving into hysterics. An idea flashed into Muriel’s mind, and she spoke it impulsively.

“Why don’t I send Georgiana and her nanny in the meantime?”

The advantages would be three-fold, Muriel realized. Not only would her mother be mollified, but she would not have to invent outings—such as today’s to the Botanical Garden—so that Georgiana and Mr. Russell would not be at the house at the same time. And she would be relieved, at least for a while,
of guilt over not spending enough time with Georgiana. Her mother would dote over her.

“You would do that?” her mother said in a small voice.

“The country air would be good for her.”

“You haven’t still got that nanny with eyes like a monkey, do you?”

“Mother, Prescott is very capable. I’ll put them on the train Wednesday.”

The voice on the other end of the line strengthened dramatically. “That will be lovely, darling. Now, go prepare for your tea. That’s nice that you’re establishing friendships with your neighbors.”

Mr. Russell arrived at ten of two, giving Muriel very little time to speak with him. Her guests arrived almost en masse: Mrs. Fiske, Mrs. Griffen from next door on the west and her niece Miss Davy, Mrs. Postgate from across the Square and her sister Mrs. Scott, and Mrs. Farmer, who knocked at the door yearly collecting donations for seamen’s widows.

Conversation flowed more easily than Muriel would have imagined, against the backdrop of Mr. Russell’s soothing music. Muriel
enjoyed
herself more than she would have imagined, considering that she had only invited them because she needed a half-dozen props, the minimum amount necessary to hold a realistic social gathering.

They were full of questions about the theatre, such as was she nervous when she auditioned for that first part, how did it feel to have the attention of so many people, and how long did rehearsals go before a production was considered ready?

“Is Mr. Whitmore as charming in person as he is onstage?” Mrs. Postgate asked, and her subtle tone made it obvious that she was really asking if the love scenes were not just acting. The anticipation that came over the other five faces gave evidence that they were wondering the same.

“He’s very charming,” Muriel replied. “And a good friend. I hope he finds a nice little wife one day.” Just in case Mr.
Russell could hear her over the sound produced by the strings near his ear.

****

“Thank you, Mr. Russell,” Muriel said after her guests had left with declarations of having had a lovely time. “Your music lent elegance to the whole little affair.”

“It would have been an elegant affair without me. But thank you, Lady Holt.” He hesitated. “And I’m glad you were mistaken over why no one came last week.”

“So am I.” She gave him a cautious little smile. “And now I wonder if I might persuade you to stay a little longer? My servants enjoyed your impromptu concert so much last week. I rather hinted to them that I would ask again. I’ll pay extra, of course.”

“I would be honored. But I’ll not accept payment.”

“Mr. Russell . . .”

“We had an agreement, Lady Holt.”

“
You
had an agreement,” she corrected, wagging a finger at him. “I don’t recall having any part in it. And being the gentleman that you are, will you not allow the lady her way?”

He smiled. “If you force a cheque upon me, I’ll accept it—being the gentleman that I am—but I’ll not cash it.”

“Oh, very well.” Muriel sighed. “You’re a stubborn man, Mr. Russell. But I do admire your integrity. We’ll speak more after your concert.”

Having been warned this time, the servants quickly abandoned stacking dishes at Mrs. Burles’s urging and filled the chairs. This time they were not so timid about singing along to tunes they requested, such as “Hares on the Mountains” and “Sweet Lovely Joan.” The warbling was quite awful, Muriel thought, with only Joyce and Mr. Watterson able to maintain pitch. But it was worth the discomfort to her ears when Mrs. Beckingham’s bemused face appeared and then disappeared above the wall.

****

“I would like to do something for Gladys,” Muriel said as
they sat with cups of tea on the parlour sofa. He remained adamant about not accepting payment, even though he had stayed another hour for the servants’ sake.

“She’s the one who sang ‘Waxie’s Dargle’ last week,” Muriel continued and leaned her head thoughtfully. “Whatever in the world is a
dargle?
”

He smiled at that. “I’m not sure myself.”

“Oh well . . . after you left, she said she would give anything to be able to play an instrument and bring such joy to a gathering. I have not brought this up to her for fear of disappointing her if you’re not willing, but I wonder if you would consider giving her lessons?”

It would be like throwing money down a well, but she was consoled by the thought that the lessons would last only for as long as the lesson she would teach Bethia Rayborn.

“
She’s
the acquaintance you mentioned to me last week?” Mr. Russell asked, clearly a little surprised.

“Yes.” Muriel allowed her expression to soften with sentiment. “I do not take my blessings for granted, Mr. Russell. I realize I’m compelled to do something for someone less fortunate. And Gladys has had a difficult life.”

She had not actually found the
time
to ask the scullery maid her background, but it would stand to reason that any sixteen-year-old willing to take a job standing in a kitchen washing dishes would have had a difficult life.

“But before I proceed further,” she went on, “I must ask you, as one who, well, is familiar with servitude. Will my providing lessons make her feel as a charity case? Because it might not be worth it.”

“I’m afraid she won’t be able to avoid feeling that way, no matter how you couch your offer,” he said frankly. “But if she desires to play music, it’s worth it.

“Then, that answers my question,” Muriel said. “And I’ll be most delicate. Will you teach her, for ten pounds per lesson?”

He stared at her. “Lady Holt, I couldn’t accept that in good conscience. She would need three lessons per week, to start.”

“You sell yourself too short, Mr. Russell. I’ve never believed in cutting corners. If I’m going to hire someone, I’m going to hire the best. And if someone is the best, he deserves to be paid well.”

Again Mr. Russell seemed at a loss for words. When he finally spoke, it was to say, “I think you sell yourself too short as well, Lady Holt.”

She stared down at her teacup as if herself lost for words. She could have taken advantage of the moment, perhaps confessed some attraction to him, but the same instinct that had helped her win Sidney at such a young age caused her to maintain a businesslike attitude.

That did not mean she had to put aside her femininity. Softly, she said, “That means more than you can know, Mr. Russell, hearing you say that. Will you consider teaching Gladys? It would mean so much to her.”

“It will be a privilege,” he replied, and when she raised her eyes to his again, he smiled. He suggested that ten in the morning on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays would not conflict with his rehearsal and performance schedules. A jolt of disappointment over having to rise early hit Muriel until she reminded herself that she would not actually have to be present during the lessons, just afterward.

But not for the first week. He must not suspect that the lessons were for any reason than her generous nature.

“Have you a violin she can use?” he asked.

Muriel blinked at him. “Won’t you bring yours?”

“She’ll need one for practicing. I still have my first one. It’s fine for a beginner. She may borrow it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Russell.”

You’ve missed your calling,
she said to herself as his footsteps faded in the corridor outside the sitting room. She should be writing playscripts instead of acting from them.

****

“Three times a week, m’Lady?” The scullery maid appeared
to be constrained from hysterics only by the fact that Muriel could sack her in an instant.

“Actually you’ll have to practice every day as well,” Muriel said.

“But I don’t
want
lessons, if you please.”

Muriel sent a bewildered look to Mrs. Abbot, who began stirring a kettle with renewed vigor, as if she had not slowed to eavesdrop. So eager was Muriel to see the results of her magnanimous gesture that she had made a rare visit to the kitchen instead of sending for Gladys. And only to have the stupid girl throw back in her face the offer of a lifetime?