Authors: Lawana Blackwell
He smiled. “Very well.”
Muriel returned his smile and held out a dish of cheese. “Are any of your family as musically inclined as you are?”
Taking two slices, he replied, “Some are. My mother sings at church, and my sister Lottie just began her second year at the Royal Academy of Music. But my younger sister, Sharon, can’t sit still for music lessons. She’s more like our father.”
“Well, he must have some very good qualities, being able to run a business as he does.”
“Quite so,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Tell me more about all of them,” she said and forced herself to pay attention, even though she could quite identify with the younger sister.
Thirty-Three
As long as she lived, Muriel thought, she would never take a standing ovation for granted. She drank in the applause and shouts of
bravo!
through every pore, blowing one final kiss to the audience as the curtain closed again. She was so caught up in the moment that she gave Richard Whitmore a euphoric smile, though she regretted it for the cautious hope it brought to his expression.
But she had other things to attend and turned from him with a little parting wave. The members of the orchestra would be leaving through the stage door shortly, for they did not have to get out of costume or makeup. “Will you ask one of the violinists to my dressing room?” she asked Lewis.
The callboy gave her the same adoring look that lurked in Richard Whitmore’s eyes. “Right away, Lady Holt!”
She lingered in the dressing corridor only as long as courtesy demanded. Six bouquets of roses vied for space upon her dressing table and floor. She was loosening the braids from her May Edwards hair when the knock sounded.
“Come in.”
The door opened. “Lady Holt?”
She swiveled upon her stool to smile at a middle-aged man with thinning auburn hair slicked straight backwards from his forehead. She recognized him from the orchestra, of course, but could not recall his name. “Thank you for coming, Mr. . . .”
“Kirk, Lady Holt,” he reminded her. “Hubert Kirk. Mrs. McGuire introduced you to my wife and me at the opening night party.”
“Oh yes, now I remember.” She rolled her eyes prettily. “Forgive me, Mr. Kirk. If I forgot my lines as frequently as I forget names, I wouldn’t be here. Do close the door.”
He obeyed and stood just inside, wearing an expression
of being flattered that she should wish to speak with him, mingled with fear that she might pounce.
You’ve absolutely nothing to worry about,
she thought. “I would like to buy a violin for the orchestra of my brother’s church. A gift. But knowing nothing of them, I fear I’ll be taken advantage of if I merely walk into a shop. Please enlighten me, Mr. Kirk. What’s the best money could buy?”
“Why, a Stradivarius, in my opinion,” he said, visibly relaxing enough to prop an elbow against the door. “Some would argue a Stainer. I would give all of my teeth for either.”
“How much do they cost?”
“I doubt you could find either one for less than five thousand pounds.”
That wouldn’t do, she thought, even though she could well afford it. Why spend so much on a man she did not intend to keep?
“Could I get one that you’d give
some
of your teeth for, for less than five hundred pounds?” she asked.
“Absolutely, Lady Holt,” he replied. “Johann Hellmer, from Prague, made some fine instruments. I saw one last week in Finny and Yates on Regent Street. Four hundred and sixty quid, and the tone’s as mellow and clear as a brass bell.”
“Do you think it’s still there?”
“Without doubt it is. Most musicians I know can’t afford that, and even rich folks wouldn’t get one that pricy for children’s lessons.”
That was all she needed to know. “Thank you, Mr. Kirk,” she said, turning to take a pencil from the beaker on the dressing table. She had no paper, so she tore open a packet of dressing pins over the drawer. “Will you write it all down for me so I can ring them tomorrow? They’ll deliver it to the house, won’t they?”
“Wouldn’t you want to look at it first?”
“I don’t know violins from violets,” she shrugged. “You said it’s a good one. I trust your judgment.”
He looked flattered and did as she asked. When he handed
her the paper and pencil again, she thanked him by insisting he carry home to his wife as many bouquets as his arms would hold, which happened to be four.
“By the way, Mr. Kirk, there are people here who are acquainted with my brother,” she said, opening the door for him. She gave him her most compelling smile. “I would hate to have his surprise spoiled. Will you please not mention our chat to anyone? It’s very important to me.”
In mid-nod he paused, grimaced. “Some of the musicians heard Lewis ask me to your dressing room. They’ll ask me about it for sure.”
“Hmm.” She was annoyed at herself for not taking that into account. The simplest answer seemed best, and he carried the proof of it in his arms. “Just say your wife and I got on well at the cast party, and I wished to share my flowers with her.”
“Why, that’s very kind of you, Lady Holt,” the musician said, as if already forgetting the flowers were now merely props for an excuse and not some gesture of friendship.
Muriel knew enough about backstage gossip to know that he would not be able to keep their conversation secret indefinitely, roses or not. But she was only concerned with stalling the flow for a few days. And even then, she had Bernard as an unwitting alibi. Those were the best kind, she was learning.
****
“Now remember, no personal questions,” Bethia warned the seamstresses and Mr. Birch on Thursday the twenty-ninth of September after a glance into the corridor.
“We’ll be the soul of tact,” Miss Lidstone promised.
“The
souls
of tact,” Mr. Birch corrected.
Even though Mr. Carey had played the lead in
The Ticket-of-Leave Man
twelve days ago and was assigned the minor role of the Clerk of Court in the upcoming
The Bells,
he was still an understudy for the moment, making him one of the last actors to be fitted.
He appeared in the doorway two minutes later, bearing a
tray with teapot and cups. “Miss Ainsley just made a fresh pot, so I thought—”
“You’re not supposed to be bringing us tea, Lord Danby!” Mrs. Hamby hastened over to him, her voice filled with alarm.
Wonderful!
Bethia thought, intercepting Miss Lidstone’s dry look.
His face fell. “Please, Mr. Carey would suit me better.”
“Thank you, Mr. Carey,” Bethia said as Mrs. Hamby took the tray. “Tea is always welcome up here.”
Mr. Birch’s stooped figure rose from the drafting table stool. “If you’ll step behind the screen, Mr. Carey.”
“Wait, please.”
He had said it softly, but exclaiming it would have caused the same effect. Time froze. Everyone stood still as statues, waiting.
“I assume you’ve all read the article.”
All eyes went to Bethia. She nodded.
“You’ve all been exceptionally kind to me,” he said. “I believe I owe you an explanation.”
Bethia looped her measuring ribbon over her neck, raising her beribboned hair to fall over it. Having spent the last several days in the ‘hurry’ frame of mind, she realized it was no longer necessary. She looked at Mrs. Hamby, lining up cups and saucers on the drafting table. “Shall we talk over tea? I’m sure we have another cup up here somewhere.”
The chairs dragged over from sewing machines and odd parts of the room formed a circle. Easier to balance cup and saucer upon a knee than sit at the table that rose to chin height when seated in an ordinary chair.
Or chest height for Mr. Carey,
she thought, smiling at her own silent joke.
“I didn’t intend to deceive anyone,” he said after swallowing a mouthful of tea. “I just chose not to mention my past.”
“I desired to try for success on the London stage based upon my own merit,”
Mr. Birch quoted from memory.
A shadow of vexation crossed Mr. Carey’s patrician
features. “I didn’t say any of that. That reporter made me sound like a pompous . . . person.”
“What did you actually say to him, Mr. Carey?” Miss Lidstone asked.
He looked at her. “I said ‘Go away or I’ll flatten you on the spot!’ ”
“Did you, Mr. Carey?” she said with eyes wide, while Mr. Birch chuckled so hard that he had to set his cup up on a corner of the drafting table.
“No.” The actor smiled sheepishly. “But I thought it. He stuck to my side like a tick, from Sloan Station to the theatre door.”
“Then, why
did
you conceal your title?” Bethia asked.
“Actually, for the reason ‘quoted’ in the article, though in not so grand terms. I simply wanted to see how far my talent alone would carry me.” He shook his head. “My talent and prayer, to be precise.”
Bethia’s admiration for Mr. Carey grew as she remembered her own early employment at the Royal Court, when she insisted that Jewel and Grady keep to themselves that she was Jewel’s cousin. Word had eventually leaked out, though she faulted neither for it. She had learned between then and now that secrets flitted about in the backstage atmosphere like spores, reproducing wherever they landed.
She was also touched that he would mention praying, something Guy could never say in the presence of others, though she was certain that he prayed. Admitting thus, for Guy, would be admitting that he could not succeed on his own. They were somewhat alike, the two men, in that they were driven to prove themselves. Only, because of Guy’s background, he had a deeper pride issue.
Mrs. Hamby was studying him intently. A dangerous sign, and sure enough, she said, “The article says you’re poor as a beggar’s cat, Mr. Carey. Ha-ha!”
Time froze a second time. But once the look of surprise
wore off Mr. Carey’s face, he laughed and everyone else laughed until he sloshed tea upon the lapel of his coat.
“That description is entirely accurate,” he replied, pulling a folded handkerchief from his pocket. “For as long as she lives, my mother has full financial control of the estate my father left me.”
“Here, I’ll do it.” Miss Lidstone took it from him and dabbed at his coat. “Will she not share any of it with you?”
“Nothing would please her more. But then . . .”
“I desired to try for success on the London stage based upon my own merit,”
Mr. Birch quoted for the second time.
Mr. Carey sent him a smile. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
Once all cups of tea were drained, Bethia got to her feet and the others followed suit. If they sat about chatting any longer, someone was certain to bring up the matter of the former fiancée. She glanced at Mrs. Hamby, who even now seemed to be mulling over something.
The costume coat fit Mr. Carey’s broad shoulders perfectly. The hem of the trousers had somehow escaped pressing, but Miss Lidstone would attend to that before they all went home. Bethia accompanied Mr. Carey into the corridor and to the staircase, fearful that if she brought up the subject that had dominated their tea party again in Mrs. Hamby’s hearing, the word
fiancée
would be given air.
“I appreciate your being so candid with us, Mr. Carey,” she said with voice lowered slightly. “But I hope you felt no pressure to do so.”
“It’s sort of a relief to get it out,” he said. “I suppose I can only comfortably be who I am.”
She smiled, reminded him, “Unless you’re onstage.”
“Unless I’m onstage,” he echoed. His brown eyes softened over his smile, the way Father’s did when he leaned his cheek for a good-night kiss, the way Mother’s did sometimes in the mirror whenever Bethia brushed her hair. And suddenly the
look was gone, the eyes opaque as mahogany buttons. His feet shifted. “I should go now. Good day, Miss Rayborn.”
“Good day, Mr. Carey.”
Shame about the fiancée,
Bethia thought on her way back to the wardrobe room. It was not her place to judge someone she had never even met, especially without being informed of the situation from both sides. But, she thought, a woman who would decide she did not love Mr. Carey must be exceptionally hard to please.
****
“Please give Gladys another week,” Muriel said to Mr. Russell on Friday. “She so desperately wishes to learn.”
She had persuaded the musician to accept her invitation to the Savoy for lunch this time, stating Bethia would understand that it was a reward for his not giving up on the lessons. But she had a feeling he would not even mention it to her.
The awe Mr. Russell had been attempting to conceal in his expression ever since they walked into the restaurant faded briefly into sobriety. “You know, Lady Holt, she would be more suited to piano, if she’s that desperate. Not having an ear for music would not be such a liability, as the notes on the piano cannot be made sharp or flat by the press of a finger.”
Because he was unfamiliar with the menu, Muriel had ordered prawns with lobster sauce for him, fowl
à la béchamel
for herself. Most of the remaining space upon the cloth was taken up by side dishes—artichokes
à l’Italienne,
stewed mushrooms, potatoes
à la maître d’hôtel,
cauliflower with parmesan cheese, baked tomatoes, broiled mushrooms. She leaned forward and stretched out her arm with half an artichoke heart impaled upon her fork. “I insist you taste this. They seem like sweets to me.”
After a hesitation he leaned forward and opened his mouth. He chewed self-consciously, swallowed, and smiled. “Very good.”
“Would
you
consider giving Gladys piano lessons?”
“I’m sorry,” he said a little tersely.
Muriel realized why she had offended him. Piano lessons were usually given by dowagers needing a genteel way to maintain a lifestyle no longer supported by a fat bank account. Not fitting for a man with pride.
She wasn’t too alarmed. She smiled across the table, aware that she looked especially beautiful today. Just because a woman wore mourning clothes did not mean she had to give up elegance. The black cloth only intensified the ash-blonde and golden waves rippling over her shoulder to her tiny waist. Nor did it mean she had to give up dabbing the intoxicating scent of Fougere upon her neck and wrists.