City of Ash (15 page)

“Wherever did you find him?”

“He went to your Mr. Greene,” Nathan said. “Apparently he knew of our … relationship and thought I might be willing to fund a new production.”

“How clever of him.”

“Indeed.” Nathan lapsed into silence. When we got back to my room, he watched me undress and had me put on the cloak again so I was naked beneath it, and he wouldn’t let me take down my hair, and then he took me as if he meant to punish me. But when it was over, he was laughing, as if at some private joke. I don’t think he even said good-bye before he went out the door, and I lay there in the darkness, feeling uneasy and wondering what the hell that had been about, what game we’d been playing for his pleasure, what play we’d acted that I didn’t know the script.

Geneva

I
t was two weeks after my dinner with Sebastian DeWitt that I saw the notice in the newspaper for James Reading’s
Julius Caesar
at the Palace. I remembered how he had begged me to come see him.
“I assume you share my love of theater.”

When Nathan came down to breakfast, I held the newspaper out to him. “Do you remember Mr. Reading’s play?”

He looked blank for a moment, then he glanced down at the page and said, “Oh yes.”

“I would like to go. I promised him I would.”

Nathan adjusted his cuff and looked thoughtful, and I waited, schooling myself. Since our talk in his office, we had circled each other cautiously. But I’d seen nothing in my husband to make me think he regretted the things he’d said. And now he did nothing to contradict them.

“I suppose your going can harm nothing. But I’ve other commitments. Why don’t you see if DeWitt will escort you?”

I was disappointed—not at the thought of Mr. DeWitt as an escort, but because I’d hoped Nathan would come; I wanted his company. It would be the truest measure of my sense that we were working toward reconciliation, although perhaps it was enough that he wasn’t thinking of appearances. In Chicago, I had often gone to theaters or dances without Nathan, escorted by Ambrose or one of my other friends. But this was Seattle, and there was still Stratford Mining to consider.

“Do you think that would be wise?” I asked.

Nathan frowned. “You don’t want to?”

“I didn’t say that. I just thought … there are people who might find it objectionable.”

“I’ve told you to let me worry about that. And I’ve no interest in watching Reading cavort about the stage. No one will find anything amiss unless you choose to disrobe in the box. Which I assume you won’t.”

“Of course not.”

A smile. “Well, thank God for that. I’ll get the tickets and send a note to DeWitt.”

“If you’re certain.”

“I am. Come, Ginny, how many times must I say it? Go and enjoy yourself. Take the playwright. There, at least, is someone you can talk to.”

I did want to see Sebastian DeWitt again. I had thought of him often in the time since our dinner, and I’d invited him to lunch twice—invitations he had declined very nicely, saying that as much as he would enjoy it, his work precluded a midday break. That was something I understood. It was my own fault that I was so unengaged during the day; most people were not. I hoped he would not decline an evening engagement.

He did not. Whether it was because his evenings were freer or because Nathan had tendered the invitation, I didn’t know. When he showed up at my door, still wearing the lamentable frock coat—I really must find him a tailor—I didn’t care what had brought him. Only that he was here.

I could not help my smile of delight when Bonnie ushered him into the parlor. “Mr. DeWitt, I
am
glad you could escort me this evening.”

His smile was arresting. “I’m happy to be of service, Mrs. Langley.” A little bow. “I believe our carriage awaits.”

I called for my blue cloak, and there was a moment of confusion when it could not be found and I must wear the black, but that was the only thing that marred the perfection of going to the theater with Sebastian DeWitt. I warned myself to be careful—I liked him perhaps too much, and I did not want to risk my reconciliation with Nathan. Still, when I took DeWitt’s arm, I could not restrain a heady little shiver of pure joy. When he gave me a sideways glance, I laughed.

“Is something funny?” he asked.

I shook my head. “It’s only that I’m so glad to be going tonight.”

“Oh yes—your love of blood and spectacle.”

“My love of anything different from my parlor,” I corrected. “I warn you, Mr. DeWitt, tonight might be excruciating. I have no idea whether Mr. Reading can act.”

“I can’t imagine he could be worse than other actors I’ve seen,” DeWitt said as we went outside and he helped me into the carriage.

“Except that James Reading is no actor.”

“Perhaps we’ll be lucky. Perhaps it’s his hidden talent.”

I settled onto the seat. When he sat across from me, and the door closed, I said, “You say that as if everyone has one.”

“Don’t they?”

“I don’t think I do. Or if so, it’s hidden very, very deep.”

“Perhaps I meant to say that everyone has a talent. In some it’s hidden. In others, it’s obvious for anyone to see.”

“And what would mine be?”

“Why, you’ve told me yourself. You shine a light on men’s vision.”

“Ah yes.” I settled back again, smiling. “I had thought you might say I harbored a talent for embroidery.”

“I said your talent was obvious. If you’ve one for embroidery, I’ve yet to see it.”

“I did try a footstool cover once. Truly wretched, and uncomfortable as well. One could not put one’s foot upon it without being gouged by knots.”

Sebastian DeWitt laughed. The passing light striped his features, bringing out the sharp planes of his face. “Remind me never to ask you to embroider my handkerchiefs.”

“I expect you would leave that task for a wife,” I said, unable to resist probing. “Or, perhaps, a sweetheart?”

“I’ve neither, more’s the pity.” He sounded truly dismayed.

“I imagine it’s not for lack of opportunity.”

“One look at my coat, and women run screaming,” he said wryly. “I can’t blame them, really. I imagine most of them prefer to eat.”

“Then they don’t find you as charming as I do,” I said. “And they’re shortsighted as well. Your future is very bright, Mr. DeWitt. Has
Penelope
begun rehearsing yet?”

“Not yet. Mrs. Bernardi is leaving the company, and Greene prefers to introduce the play with a new leading lady.”

“Oh, I’m glad. You know, I think Mrs. Bernardi is rather … too broad.
Penelope
needs a greater talent.”

“My thoughts exactly,” DeWitt agreed.

The carriage pulled to a stop; I glanced out the window to see we were before the Palace Theater. “I suppose it’s time to discover if acting is Mr. Reading’s hidden talent.”

The Palace had a better pedigree than the Regal, but it was not nearly as grand as Frye’s Opera House. Sebastian DeWitt was every inch the gentleman as we went up the stairs to our seats in the lower tier of boxes. I saw one or two people glance our way, no doubt noting the disparity between my gown of deep plum silk and his frayed frock coat. As we took our seats, I saw the flash of opera glasses turning toward us.

“Look how they all stare,” I said to him in a low voice.

“They can’t help but wonder why the lovely Mrs. Langley is hobnobbing with a peasant.”

I laughed. “Is that what you are?”

“Oh, I come from humble enough stock, madam. I think you would turn up your nose at me if you passed me on the street.”

“I am convinced I would not.” I turned, unable to resist touching him, and tapped my finger to his lapel. “We really must get you a finer coat, Mr. DeWitt. One more befitting of your new rank.”

“As your escort?”

“As America’s new Shakespeare.”

He laughed, flashing white teeth, pure amusement. “A compliment I’ve no doubt you will rethink once
Julius Caesar
ends, and you remember what genius it is.”

“Perhaps not, with Mr. Reading acting Brutus.”

“Perhaps not,” he agreed with a smile.

The orchestra began to play; the crimson velvet curtain swished aside to reveal a Roman street and village, and I was plunged into the story, despite the fact that Caesar wore a doublet that had seen better days and Marc Antony a frock coat and James Reading was often so softly spoken as to go unheard.

Even so, I was held rapt, as I always was. By the beginning of the fourth act, as Brutus defended himself against Cassius—“Did not great Julius bleed for justice’s sake?”—I was leaning forward, caught completely. When Brutus committed suicide at the end, I did not see James Reading lay himself gently upon the stage floor as if afraid of bruising himself, but Brutus falling insensate. And when the company bowed to the hoots and jeers of the gallery above and the polite applause of the boxes, I stood and clapped loudly.

“You are an actor’s favorite audience,” Mr. DeWitt said as we rose to leave. “Enthusiastic and uncritical.”

“My friend Ambrose Rivers often said so,” I told him. “He used to say I would be useless as a reviewer, as I found the grossest actors on par with the best. But that’s not really true, you know. It’s only that I’m willing to overlook everything else if the story is a good one.”

“Then you are precious indeed,” he said, guiding me into the throng making its way to the stairs.

Right in front of the Stebbings. Mrs. Stebbing glanced at Sebastian DeWitt and then to me, giving me a polite, cold smile.

“Ah, Mrs. Langley,” said Mr. Stebbing as we moved into the crowd beside them. “Your husband said you would be here this evening.”

“Yes indeed. I wouldn’t miss it.” I introduced DeWitt to them, noting the slight widening of Mrs. Stebbing’s nostrils, as if she smelled something rotten. “Mr. DeWitt is a playwright of quite astonishing talent.”

“Mrs. Langley is very kind,” DeWitt said modestly.

Mrs. Stebbing said, “Is she?” And then, suspiciously, to me, “Wherever did you meet a
playwright
?”

The implication was there quite clearly, that I’d gone slumming into one of the worse neighborhoods and stumbled upon him, and I smiled and said, “My husband introduced us. Nathan is invested in the Regal Theater.”

“Then he has the power to hire Reading should he decide to make acting his occupation,” Mr. Stebbing said. “Which is good, because I fear otherwise no one would have him.”

We laughed. I said, “I think him very brave to try it, but I do think he should not relinquish his job at the water company.”

Mr. Stebbing winked. “Luckily, he’s an amusing fellow. We mean to go backstage to offer our congratulations. Will you join us?”

I turned to Sebastian DeWitt. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” he said.

We followed the Stebbings down the stairs to the hall that led to the parquet. Mr. Stebbing had a commanding presence; the crowd parted for us as we bucked them to go back inside, past the rows of seats and those patrons still making their leisurely way out, the musicians putting away their instruments, programs littering the floor beneath our steps. When we reached the short flight leading to the stage, Mr. Stebbing went up as if he owned them, despite the fact that the stage was crowded with men rushing about, moving sets, taking up props, one sweeping
away the detritus the audience had thrown in either appreciation or mockery.

I had known many actors, but I had never been backstage before, and now I felt as if I’d entered an unknown land. Of course it was all illusion; I’d known that, but the buildings that had looked so large and substantial from the box were nothing but painted wooden flats, and the backdrop of a Roman street was coarse and undetailed now with proximity. We plunged into the darkness of the wings, a dozen or more ropes snaking up the walls, a bulky table tangled with gas tubing, the prompter’s high stool and podium. Down another set of stairs and then into a narrow hallway crowded with people. It was so hot and close it was hard to breathe, and my corset felt much too tight, my hands sweating in my fine kid gloves.

Beyond the waiting admirers there was an open door through which I heard James Reading’s voice.

“… Do you think so? I’m flattered, truly I am.”

We went inside. The dressing room was small. There was a mirror, a dressing table littered with pots of rouge and powder. Reading turned to us, throwing up his hands in delight. “Ah, my dear Stebbing, your presence humbles me. And Catherine!” His face crinkled with obvious delight. “And Mrs. Langley! How kind of you to come!”

“I’ve brought my friend, Mr. DeWitt,” I said. “He’s a playwright, Mr. Reading, so you must be kind to him, else he’ll write you as a villain in his next play.”

“Well, then, I shall be my most genial self!” Reading said, shaking DeWitt’s hand. “I am gratified beyond measure to see you all.”

“We could not let you linger in obscurity, could we, man?” Mr. Stebbing said, shaking Reading’s hand, clapping him on the back. “Orion and Narcissa Denny were here too.”

“Both of them? Well, excellent, excellent! How did you all enjoy the play?”

“Delightful,” Mrs. Stebbing said.