Midnight at Mallyncourt

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Midnight at Mallyncourt

Jennifer Wilde writing as Edwina Marlow

To Marilu

Chapter One

I
NOTICED
him immediately. He was tall and blond and strikingly handsome, and there was a rakish air about him. As he stared at me, quite openly, a faint smile curled on his wide mouth, and the vivid blue eyes were filled with that thoughtful assessment I had long since grown accustomed to seeing in men's eyes when they looked at me, as though I were something they were thinking of buying. I had grown accustomed to it, one had to in my profession, but I still didn't like it. This particular man made no effort to conceal what was on his mind. Tilting my chin haughtily, I walked on past him. He lifted his elegant beaver top hat. The smile broadened. The blue eyes seemed to dance with secret amusement.

I walked down the promenade, my long silk skirts rustling, the ostrich plumes on my hat billowing. Perhaps he wouldn't follow me. Perhaps for once I could enjoy a simple stroll without having to fend for myself. I was accustomed to that, too, and quite adept at warding off tipsy young gallants and boorish middle-aged roués. It was something I had learned that first year with the Gerald Prince Touring Company, and now, after four years, I no longer cringed inside every time I saw that look in masculine eyes. It was an occupational hazard, Laverne had explained, poor Laverne, who hadn't had that problem for years, reduced to playing minor character roles, finding what solace she could in the gin bottle now that her looks were a thing of the past.

“A pretty little thing like you, ducky,” she had said, “the men'll go wild. You'll have to fight 'em off, all kinds of men, and one of these days you'll meet one you won't
want
to fight off. Take my advice, ducky, make sure he's rich. With your looks, your breedin'—why, Jenny luv, you could have yourself a bloomin' earl if you was a-mind to—”

I hadn't had an earl. I hadn't had anyone. That was some kind of record for the Gerald Prince Touring Company. Most of the girls came from the slums, pretty, vivacious, determined creatures who chose the stage instead of the brothel. Only last week Daisy had eloped with a dashing young student from Oxford, and Chloe was debating whether or not she should let her current gentleman friend set her up in a flat in London. I liked the girls, all of them, but my background had been different. Perhaps that was why I still clung to my virtue. Influenced by her pious, straitlaced German husband, our Queen set rigid standards for her subjects, and in drawing rooms all over the country young girls blushed modestly at the least suggestion of anything improper. Strict propriety was rampant, in public, on the surface, but in my profession I saw another side. Nevertheless, I was still as virtuous as any well-bred maiden in white organdy and blue sash, despite the worldly wisdom I had had to acquire in order to survive. The girls couldn't understand my attitude, but they respected me for it, particularly as I passed no judgments on their own morals. I was virtuous, but I was no prude. One couldn't be in the theater.

The theater, I thought wryly. That was hardly the word for it. Fifteen years ago Gerald Prince had been one of the stellar attractions in the London theater, dazzlingly handsome, incredibly magnetic, compared by critics to Garrick, to Kean, but his arrogance, his lack of discipline had brought an early eclipse. Now, at forty, he was still handsome, though inclined to stoutness, and still magnetic enough to play romantic heroes convincingly, but the shabby, tattered touring company he hauled around the provinces was but an echo of what he had once known. I had joined the company at eighteen, and Gerry had assured me we would play London the very next season. Four years had passed. We were in Brighton now, and it was the nearest we had ever come to London.

Brown velvet reticule swinging from my wrist, topaz silk skirts fluttering crisply, I strolled on down the promenade, savoring the salty air, the sound of waves crashing over the shingles, the shrill cry of gulls as they circled overhead. Fine carriages and elegant curricles rumbled up and down the street, and the pavements were crowded with fashionably dressed men and women, men in frock coats and top hats, women in silk and velvet, smiling, laughing, enjoying the sunshine and the aura of vitality that prevailed. It was The Season, and Brighton was at its best, the hotels full to overflowing, the expensive shops doing remarkable business, the plush restaurants invariably crowded. It was rumored that Her Majesty intended to spend a few days at the Royal Pavilion, even though she claimed it was an atrocity and added that Prinny must have been out of his mind when he built it. But what could you expect from a man who would take up with a creature like Mrs. Fitzherbert, she asked. Whether or not the Queen decided to grace us with her Royal Presence, Brighton was decidedly festive, sparkling with gaity, ablaze with color. I felt some of that excitement now, delighted to be here, forgetting many of the problems that beset me.

Although I had grown accustomed to hardship, to tension, to constant friction, I could still take pleasure in life. I could still smile, still experience a youthful exuberance as I did now. I could still believe that things would get better. I hadn't lost hope, and I hadn't become cynical. Not quite. Four years ago, when my parents died in the influenza epidemic, leaving me destitute, I had made my decision, and I didn't regret it. Not entirely. As the daughter of a country squire, brought up in a ramshackle though comfortable old house and given an exceptional education, there were two choices left open to me when I discovered that all the money was gone, that the house and all its furnishings would have to be sold to pay off my father's debts: I could become a governess, or I could marry one of the dull, pleasant young men eager to rush to my rescue. I detested the idea of going into service, and I detested the idea of marrying Stephen or John or Reggie just for security, without love. I was young and impetuous and eager to savor life to the fullest, and I saw no reason why I should have to make either choice.

At that genteel, much-too-expensive school I had attended from twelve to seventeen, I had excelled at amateur dramatics. Both Misses Pennifords had adored putting on plays, and I had always been given the leading roles. I was good, very, very good, even the other girls admitted that, and they said it was a shame the stage was such a wicked place, so improper. If it weren't, they claimed, I could become a great actress. I was as scandalized as they were at such an idea, but when my parents were dead, when the house and all that lovely old furniture was about to go on the block in public auction, I couldn't have cared less about scandal. The Gerald Prince Touring Company was playing an engagement in York. I went to the theater. After the performance I went backstage. I was interviewed by the great man himself. He agreed to audition me. When, five days later, the company left town and I left with them, friends and neighbors were as horrified as any of those giggling schoolgirls would have been. Jennifer Randall had been a respectable young woman, an ornament in York social circles, admired by one and all. Now, I felt sure, Jennifer Randall was a name mentioned only in shocked whispers after the servants had left the room.

I would never be a great actress. I had no illusions about that. I had been a gifted amateur. I was a competent professional, competent enough to climb from dress parts to ingenue roles to Gerald Prince's leading lady, a somewhat dubious honor. I might shine in his shabby troup, but in the real theater in London I would have quickly sunk into oblivion. I had come a long way since that day backstage in York, I thought, watching a small boy in a blue suit frolicking on the beach with his brown and white terrier. My salary had increased in proportion with my roles, and this in itself was remarkable, for Gerald Prince was not a man celebrated for his generosity. I might have to mend my own costumes and do my own hair styling, but five pounds a month was an enormous sum.

I was saving almost all of it. There were a number of expenses, but the extra money I earned sewing for the girls usually took care of them. I loved to sew, was extremely adept at it, and while the other girls were out on the town with their gentlemen friends, dancing, drinking champagne and eating oysters, I could usually be found in my hotel room, mending a pair of tights for Chloe, making a velvet gown for Annabel, trimming a bonnet for Louise. Soon—two more years? Three?—I would have enough put away to open my own modest dress shop in London. It was something I longed to do, one of the reasons I was able to endure the backstage squabbles, the strain of too many performances, the privations of dusty third-class railroad carriages and fourth-class hotel rooms in dismal little towns.

Two more years, I thought, and then I can give this all up. If only I can keep Gerry at bay.

Gerald Prince was a ladies' man. Most of the girls found him both seductive and fascinating and were delighted to share his bed, and, sensing my abhorrence of such conduct, he had been content to carry on a mild, jocular flirtation with me, never pressing for more. It was only recently that he had grown more persistent, more determined. The roles we were playing had something to do with it.
Lucrezia Borgia
was the most daring production Prince had ever attempted. I played Lucrezia, and he was Cesare. There was a violent, passionate love scene in the fourth act. Of late he had played it for real, seizing me brutally, leaving me bruised and shaken after the curtain fell. He had taken to lingering in my dressing room, too, lounging against the wall with arms folded over his chest, those magnetic brown eyes with their heavy lids never leaving me as he made idle chitchat in his husky voice.

We were doing
Lucrezia Borgia
again tonight. I dreaded it. The play never failed to bring out the worst in my employer. Gerry had left me alone for four years, content to dally with the merry, chattering creatures who gladly made themselves available. He was bored with them now. Now he wanted something more challenging. Everyone in the company was aware of it. Some of the men were even betting on whether or not he would succeed. I prayed he would find someone else to amuse him. I prayed we would drop the Borgia play from our repertory and go back to drawing room comedies and melodrama. Gerald Prince could dismiss me at a moment's notice. I had seen him dismiss others without the least qualm. I needed my job. I needed those five pounds a month.