Leading Lady (55 page)

“What’s his name?” she asked Danny.

“That’s for you to decide.”

Bethia studied its intelligent face. “Scotty, I think.”

Forty-One

Three weeks into
The Bells
run, the wardrobe room staff were already preparing for
London Assurance.
The only lead cast member
not
to be measured for costuming would be Mrs. Steel.

Jewel had confided to Bethia that she and Grady hoped the lead actress would change her mind once she stepped out onto the boards again. Still, public speculation over who would take her place added to the favorable columns devoted to
The Bells,
and the Royal Court was holding its own against the larger theatres on the Strand.

“I would have thought you would be leaving that lodging house,” Bethia heard Mr. Birch say to Mr. Carey behind the screen on the sixteenth of November. The actor had requested the last appointment for the day so that he could await delivery of two beds and mattresses.

“I’m waiting for a friend’s situation to improve so we can share a flat,” Mr. Carey said. “Jude Nicholls is his name. He’s a member of the cast at Daly’s.”

“Ah . . . I remember him very well from Mr. Whitmore’s party.”

Miss Lidstone closed the hood on her sewing machine and sent Bethia and Mrs. Hamby a sage look. “He was the fellow chatting up Miss Walters.”

The actor’s eyes appeared above the screen. Good-naturedly he said, “If you please, Miss Lidstone . . . he happens to be a decent man.”

“Did I say he was not?” she snapped defensively.

Mrs. Hamby was picking change out of her handbag to slip into her pocket for Sloan Station. “And when will your friend’s situation improve, Mr. Carey, ha-ha!”

The eyes appeared again. “Sometime after January. He’s
won the part of Captain Ardale in
The Second Mrs. Tanqueray.
”

Presently Mr. Carey walked out from the screen in street clothes. Miss Lidstone said in a mild offering of appeasement, “How does it feel to have your portrait on posters all over town, Mr. Carey?”

Mr. Carey smiled at the older woman. “Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, Miss Lidstone.”

When the chuckling abated, the staff gathered up umbrellas, coats, hats, and handbags. Bethia set her notebook upon the drafting table and said in her most businesslike tone, “Will you stay another minute, Mr. Carey? I’d like to speak with you.”

“But of course, Miss Rayborn.”

All three of her co-workers’ movements slowed noticeably. But when there were no more items to gather, they traded reluctant good-byes and filed out of the room, Mr. Birch closing the door in deference to the stove. Mr. Carey smiled down at Bethia, attentive.

“We received a package from Lady Danby yesterday,” Bethia said. “Three Wensleydale cheeses and a dozen jars of wild rowan jam. Mother is writing to thank her, but it was such a lovely gesture that I wanted you to know how surprised and pleased we were.”

He did not react at first, then leaned his head to study her. “That’s it?”

“Well, yes.” She felt a little sheepish, having to explain, and nodded toward the closed door. “You know . . . well . . . how people here speculate. If they learned your mother sent gifts . . .”

Mr. Carey’s eyes crinkled at the corners, betraying an effort to hold in a smile.

“Do you find that amusing, Mr. Carey?” Bethia said with a small dose of Miss Lidstone’s testiness. She had been on her feet most of the long day and was not inclined to be made sport of.

“No, not at—” he began, but stopped his head in midshake. “I’m sorry, Miss Rayborn, that’s just not true. I’m delighted to hear that about my mother. But I confess the thought struck me that Mr. Birch and the others are probably speculating all the same.”

“Oh dear.” She put a hand up to her forehead. “I acted on impulse, but of course you’re right.”

“They’ll have us engaged,” he said. “Not that I
mind.
”

“Mr. Carey,” she said as heat stole through her cheeks.

“Forgive me.” He gave her a pensive little smile and echoed her own words. “I acted on impulse too.”

One month had passed since Guy asked Bethia to step into the coach outside the theatre. The sharpness of the hurt had worn to a dull ache, and even that was subsiding as she realized more and more how incompatible they really were, at least for marriage. With the lessening of pain came sharper clarity. Sarah was very right. It was too soon to encourage another romance. Even one with Mr. Carey, who caused her to smile every time they came across each other in corridors or the wardrobe room.

To cover her embarrassment, she went over to the stove and closed the damper. “I don’t want you to miss your supper,” she said lightly. He only had two hours before time to return for tonight’s production. She took her handbag from the cupboard ledge while he walked over to the copper urn by the door and lifted out her umbrella.

“This is yours?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

When she joined him at the door, he cleared his throat. “May I say something?”

“Of course, Mr. Carey,” she answered and found herself holding her breath.

A trace of hopefulness came to his smile. “I’ve no wish to frighten you, like Lady Holt’s brother did. And I realize you need some time to recover from the obviously insane former fiancé. But would you be adverse to going out for lunch with
me some Sunday? I’ll invite Jude and Miss Walters if that will make you more comfortable.”

Bethia’s mind began racing.
How to say this?

It was enough hesitation for hopefulness to fade from his smile.

“It was just a thought,” he said, and nodded. “I understand.”

The resignation in his voice disturbed her. She could not leave this conversation hanging in the air, incomplete, with the potential to cause future awkwardness or even misunderstanding between them.

Looking up at him, she asked, “What
do
you understand, Mr. Carey?”

“Well . . . that I shouldn’t press for anything beyond friendship.”

Courage please, Father,
she prayed under her breath.
And the right words too!

“I treasure that friendship,” Bethia said. “It’s just that I can’t encourage anything beyond that for the time being.”

“Yes, I under—” He paused, and a brow lifted warily. “For the time being?”

“Yes. For the time being.”

“Then, you’re not saying you would be averse to a social outing with me . . .
one
day?”

She nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

A little smile quirked the corners of Mr. Carey’s mouth. “Have you any idea how long ‘for the time being’ will be?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” she admitted, thinking,
Where’s Sarah when you need her?
“Months? A year, perhaps? So, if you’re not inclined to wait, I understand.”

“Oh, I’ll wait,” he said, but then a dent appeared between his dark brows. “Just one thing, Miss Rayborn.”

“Yes?”

“When you know for certain that ‘for the time being’ is over, will you give me some sort of hint? You see, I’ve no wish to become a pest, but a man needs to know.”

“I’m not sure if I can promise that.” She gave him an apologetic look. “Gender roles and such.”

“Then how will I . . . ?”

She took the umbrella from his hands. “You’re an intelligent man, Mr. Carey. I suppose you’ll just have to figure that out.”

****

They were halfway down the last flight of stairs, Mr. Carey a few steps behind Bethia, when Lewis came bounding up the steps, two at a time. “There you are. The McGuires would like to see you.”

“Both of us?” Mr. Carey asked.

“Just Miss Rayborn, sir.”

Bethia said farewell to Mr. Carey at the foot of the stairs. Grady was standing outside the closed greenroom door, hands in trouser pockets, expression anxious. He gave Lewis some coins for some meat pies up the Square and motioned Bethia aside, away from the greenroom.

“Muriel’s in there with Jewel,” he said with voice low. “She asked to be allowed to beg your forgiveness, but we warned her that that would be up to you.”

“Is she asking to come back?”

Grady shook his head. “She knows very well that’s impossible.”

“Do you think she’s sincere?”

“I do.” He gave her a wry smile. “But then, she was a clever actress.”

“I’ll see her,” Bethia said.

Curiosity was the chief reason. This was unfinished business. She could not help but wonder what Muriel could possibly have to say. When she realized Grady was not following her into the room, she closed the door behind herself and turned. Jewel and Muriel rose from a sofa.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Bethia,” Muriel said.

To Bethia’s relief, Muriel did not lunge at her to snivel on her shoulder. But something about the setting was not quite
right. She realized it was the gown Muriel wore, of muted amber and nutmeg plaid, with red threads running down the squares. Only four months had passed since Douglas’s memorial. The customary time period for mourning a sibling was six.

Muriel followed Bethia’s eyes. “Bernard said it would help put the past behind me.”

“Oh.”

Jewel moved away from the sofa. “I’ll give you two some privacy.” As she passed, she patted Bethia’s arm. Bethia moved on into the room, stopping about six feet from the other woman.

“I know you expect a scene,” Muriel said quietly.

That was exactly what Bethia expected and was the reason she was so stoic. One show of emotion on her part had the potential of setting off an avalanche of hysterics. And with Muriel’s proven ability to produce tears six nights a week on cue, how would she know if they were genuine?

“There is nothing I can say that will ever repair everything I did,” Muriel continued. Her eyes lustered. She blinked and stood straighter, as if willing tears away. “But I would like for you to know that the hatred I directed toward you—and others—is now directed toward myself. I’ve no right to ask, but one day I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.”

“What about Guy?” Bethia said.

“I spoke with him yesterday.” Muriel’s violet eyes closed as if the memory was painful, and then opened. “He said you won’t have him back.”

“I have you to thank for that.”

When Muriel’s eyes glistened again, Bethia shook her head and said, “That wasn’t a dart. I
realize
you meant to hurt me. But God helped me glean good from the tragedy. Guy and I weren’t meant to be together.”

Muriel drew in a sigh. “He’s terribly hurt, still. I was hoping . . .”

“Perhaps good will come out of this for him too, eventually.”

“I pray for that every day.”

When Bethia stared with suspicions aroused anew, Muriel gave her a little self-conscious smile. “If one is determined to destroy one’s life, it’s convenient to have a minister in the family. I was almost suicidal until Bernard read to me of the woman at the well. Now I’m trying as best I can to make amends to everyone I’ve ever hurt—you, Guy, Milly . . .” Again the self-conscious smile. “But you haven’t all day, have you?”

In spite of herself, Bethia allowed her stony facade to soften. Just a bit. “I’ll always regret sending Douglas that letter.”

“You had cause,” Muriel said. “But if you want forgiveness, it’s absolutely yours.”

“Thank you.”

Muriel bit her lip. “Will you forgive me?”

“Yes,” Bethia said without hesitation. And in spite of herself, she advanced and embraced her former enemy.

“Oh, thank you!” Muriel gushed, squeezing Bethia’s shoulders hard.

****

Having spent twenty-five years with little or no remorse for any of her actions, Muriel was still in awe over how being on the receiving end of forgiveness felt like a cool cleansing stream flowing through her mind.

And having granted
others
forgiveness even fewer times in twenty-five years, she wondered why she never noticed how heavy a burden bitterness was to carry around day after day.

“What will you do now?” Bethia asked, sharing the sofa with her.

“I’ve bought a cottage up in Gleadless. That’s where Bernard and his family live. I’ll be meeting with a land agent tomorrow afternoon to put the house here on the market.”

She had other loose ends to tie as well. Two of the servants, Ham and Evelyn, had family in London and did not wish to relocate, so she needed to write up character references for
the hiring agency and withdraw some money from the bank to tide them over. And the detective she had commissioned over the telephone would be stopping by the house at six. “I have to go now,” she said, squeezing both of Bethia’s hands.

“I’m glad you came,” Bethia said.

“Oh, so am I!” Muriel said as relief welled up within her again. She hesitated. “Perhaps we’ll be friends one day?”

“Perhaps we will,” Bethia replied. Not a definite
yes,
but she was smiling as if the notion did not repulse her.

****

The detective, a Mr. Fowler, had been highly recommended by Henry Godfrey when Muriel telephoned Northamptonshire to ask if Leah Prescott had returned to her former home. Mr. Fowler walked with the aid of a cane and looked as old as the pyramids, but he had the information she had sought.

“She has not found another nursemaid position,” Mr. Fowler said, leaning forward on the cane even from the parlour chair. “I’m certain that her having no
recent
character references was a factor. She’s working at a factory, stitching gloves twelve hours a day.”

“But why don’t you have her with you?”

He shook his wizened head. “She flatly refused.”

“I’ll change her mind,” Muriel said. She realized pride was a sin but did not think God minded confidence, as long as one could back up one’s words. Another question she would have to ask Bernard. Thank God he never seemed to tire of them!

But at least her brother had more
time
for her questions, now that he no longer had to cook.

“Will you direct me to her now?” she asked.

“Tomorrow. We don’t want to be caught in her neighborhood after dark.”