Colorado Dawn (43 page)

She glared in Jesse’s direction. “I believe I mentioned as much to the search committee when Reverend Hamilton was presented to the church as a candidate. We’ve never had an unmarried minister before, especially not one so young.”

Jesse laughed. “Time will cure the young part, and I imagine if we give Silas here a little time, he’ll work out the married part, too.”

“Not in time for his performance review, I imagine.”

“Say”—Jesse checked his pocket watch—“we’d best be moving along. We want to have lunch over by the time the baby wakes from her nap.”

Silas didn’t miss Mrs. Drabble’s parting shot. “It’s high time he was married and setting up his own nursery. He owes it to his congregation.”

Willow Starr followed her sister Francine up the center aisle of the Martin City Theater. Weariness pulled at her limbs and tightened the band around her forehead, though it felt good to stretch her legs after sitting on the train all afternoon. If only she could escape to the little creek she’d glimpsed from the train window. From long experience, she knew only solitude would allow her to return to the theater refreshed and ready to work.

“At least it’s a decent size, though I never would’ve chosen navy blue for the chairs and drapes. It makes it much too dark in here.” Francine poked one of the new, velvet chairs with her folded fan. “Positively saps the light. We’ll have to adjust the footlights and our makeup or we’ll all look positively ghastly.”

Philip shoved his hands into the pockets of his narrow, striped trousers and rocked on his heels. “Hello! ‘Alas, poor Yorick!’ ” His voice filled the empty theater. “Wonderful acoustics.”

Francine’s mouth pinched. “You’re no Edwin Booth. Now
there
is an actor. My mother played opposite him, you know. The greatest production of
Hamlet
ever seen outside the Globe Theater.”

Willow smothered a smile as the three stagehands behind Francine pantomimed this well-worn phrase. Her sister brought up her acting pedigree at every opportunity, as if being the daughter of the woman who played Ophelia to Edwin Booth’s Hamlet made her a great actress, too.

Francine continued up the aisle, the skirts of her ornate traveling gown falling behind her to a train that brushed the carpeted floor with a whisper of satin on wool. “I see they have ample balcony boxes. After that shack we were booked in at the last town, it’s nice to see a place with some class.”

Willow separated herself from the gawking actors and wandered over to one of the pillars supporting the balconies above. She leaned against the solid post and closed her eyes, wishing away her headache and anticipating getting settled into her room at the hotel and having some peace and quiet. Finding time to be alone had been particularly difficult lately, and she felt like a rag doll with the sawdust drained out.

“Willow, you’re going to ruin your posture slouching like that.” Francine sounded so much like their late mother, Willow snapped to attention before she realized what she was doing. “We need to inspect the dressing rooms and see that our costumes have arrived.”

Philip Moncrieff made his way through the actors and offered his arm to Willow as she approached. “Allow me.” His mouth twisted into an oily sneer under the pencil-thin mustache. With his back to everyone, he didn’t bother to hide his bold leer.

Her throat tightened, and she stepped back. Though she’d suspected from the first time she’d seen him that Philip might be trouble, she hadn’t anticipated how much. Nearly old enough to be her father, he had made a game of pursuing her this past winter, always covertly, laughing at her blushes and evasions and getting closer and closer to outright insulting behavior.

“Philip?” Francine cut through the chatter. “Let’s go see what the dressing rooms look like.”

He rolled his eyes, pulled his lips into a pleasant smile, and turned on his heel, but not before winking at Willow and whispering, “Perhaps later, my dear.”

She swallowed the distaste on her tongue. Walking to the stage, she didn’t miss the whispers from the rest of the troupe. Her sister’s possessive attitude toward Philip was common knowledge. Willow, having no designs on the lecher herself, was grateful. If Francine kept him dancing attendance on her, he wouldn’t be free to make things difficult for anyone else.

Willow followed, pausing to caress the velvet curtains. Even in low light the narrow boards of the maple stage gleamed with wax and elbow grease. Her shoes echoed as she crossed in front of the footlight reflectors.

A familiar form slipped into the theater in the back, and she smiled. Clement Nielson, director and friend, and the only person in the troupe with the clout to override her sister’s demands. He waved and cupped his ear.

Her shoulders straightened, and she tightened her abdomen. “ ‘Life appears to me too short to be spent in nursing animosity or registering wrongs.’ ” The line from their upcoming play,
Jane Eyre
, flowed out to the corners of the auditorium. Though Willow was aware of Francine’s snort of disapproval coming from the wings, she didn’t acknowledge it.

Clement nodded and made a damping motion.

Willow dropped her voice to a whisper. “ ‘I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will.’ ”

“Bravo, child.” He strode up to the stage, planted his hands on his lean waist, shoving back his jacket, and looked up at her. “I knew this part would be perfect for you.”

Francine glided over, a ship in full sail. “Clement, I hope you’re not making a dreadful mistake. It isn’t too late, you know.”

Willow’s fingers tightened in the folds of her skirt, waiting for a repetition of the histrionics Francine had gone into when Clement first announced the cast for the upcoming production of
Jane Eyre
. The thrill of being awarded her first starring role had been snuffed under an avalanche of protests, tantrums, and petulant criticism, to the point that Willow had been ready to beg Clement to let her sister take the part.

Especially since creepy Philip would be playing Mr. Rochester. The hours she would spend in his company pretending to be in love with him would surely tax her acting ability to the limit.

“The cast is set, Francine. Willow is more than ready. She’ll be a sensation. You’ve read the reviews from this past winter. Even in her supporting roles she’s garnering attention.” Clement bounded up the stairs, energetic as always, and touched Willow’s chin, lifting it slightly. “I’ve never seen a more perfect ingenue. With that face, form, and ability, they’ll be clamoring for her in New York, San Francisco, Paris, London, Berlin….” He smiled, white teeth flashing, and feathered his fingers through his thin, pale yellow hair. “I’ve only held back until now, waiting for a bit of wisdom and serenity to appear in those marvelous gray eyes. She only lacked a bit of maturity to her carriage and voice.” He clucked his tongue. “It was that tip-tilted nose. Gamine, pixie-ish, and alluring, but without a bit of maturity to counter it, she appeared too young. Until now.”

Willow kept her gaze steady on the director, well used to being discussed as a commodity, an object with pros and cons. With Clement it wasn’t personal. He spent a great deal of energy and time cataloging his cast and using everything at his disposal—costumes, lighting, makeup, positioning, props, sets, the lot—to bring out the best performance possible. He knew his actors inside out.

Or so he thought. Clement knew the public her, the actress who could pretend to enjoy the crowds, the demands, all the people pushing and prodding her to do what they wanted. But there was another Willow, intensely private, needing solitude, longing for stability in a life that had them moving every few weeks, longing to put down roots, fall in love, marry, and raise a family.

Only once had she dared to let that part of herself show, had she dared to give voice to her own desires and dreams of love and marriage, and Francine had squashed her dream flatter than dropping a sandbag on an éclair. “Ridiculous. Mother raised us both better than that. The daughters of Isabelle Starr deserve better than to be shackled to a cookstove, caring for the squalling brats of a dirt-poor farmer or miner. She’d turn over in her grave.”

Clement clapped his hands, drawing Willow back to the present. “For now, I say we start making ourselves at home. We’ll be here for the next two months, so feel free to unpack over at the hotel. Dressing rooms are over there.” He waved to the wings. “Name cards are already affixed, and no sniveling as to the assignments.” His brown eyes panned the cluster of actors. “Costume trunks should’ve arrived from the depot by now.” He indicated the woman in charge of costuming. “Make sure everything got here in one piece. I’ll get together with you and the prop master tomorrow for any last minute issues.” He raised his voice. “We’ll do a read-through rehearsal tonight at six, so don’t be late.”

Francine’s brilliant green eyes glittered, and her jawline tightened, but she didn’t challenge Clement’s casting decision further.

Willow followed her off the stage, around the ropes and rigging for the curtains and backdrops, and down a narrow hall to the dressing rooms. She winced at the white card tacked to the center of the first door. W
ILLOW AND
F
RANCINE
S
TARR
.

Not that she wasn’t used to sharing a dressing room with her sister, but to Francine Starr, billing was
everything
. To be listed, even here in this dim hallway, second to her younger sibling…

Bracelets clanked but didn’t drown out the snort as Francine snatched the card, crumpling it and tossing it to the floor. “Now that we know which room is ours, we don’t need the card.” She twisted the knob and shoved the door open.

Willow set her features into a pleasant expression and stepped into the dressing room. Clement needn’t worry about her acting abilities on stage. Anyone who could pretend to be at peace in the company of Francine Starr in a temper was a fine actress indeed.

S
he’s a beauty, just like her mother.” Silas cradled Miss Dawn Matilda Mackenzie, gazing down into her tiny face. “You’re a blessed man, David.” He only hoped he didn’t drop her or break her.

David eased himself into a chair in the drawing room, his wide smile creating deep creases in his cheeks. “I try to remember that when she wakes the entire household squawking in the middle of the night.” Though blind, he wore a cloak of serenity and satisfaction Silas admired.

David’s wife, Karen, slipped out of her shoes and tucked her feet up under the hem of her dress on the settee, glancing ruefully at Silas. “You don’t mind if I get comfortable? We’ve been friends long enough for a little informality.” She smiled when he shook his head—faint, dark smudges hovered under her eyes. Her hand came up to cover a delicate yawn. “It’s been two months since the baby arrived, and I haven’t managed a decent night’s sleep yet.”

Celeste Mackenzie, David and Karen’s adopted daughter, sat primly on a footstool beside David. The child wore a spotless pinafore and shiny boots as black as her hair. Her sky-blue eyes, thick lashed and striking, never left the baby’s face. Most beautiful of all was her smile.

Only a few weeks ago, Celeste’s upper lip had been a ravaged snarl due to a birth defect. Now, after surgery, a thin pink scar showed where repairs had been made. The surgeon had assured her parents the scar should fade in time.

“Are you a big help to your mother?” Silas knew the answer, but he loved to hear Celeste’s voice. For so long she’d hidden her mouth behind a scarf and kept her voice to a whisper, speaking only when she had to in a lisp so mangled only those who knew her well could decipher it.

“I try to help her all I can. And Buckford does, too. If I didn’t have to go to school, I could help more.”

David smiled. “I tried that very argument on mother when Sam was a baby. It didn’t work then either. You’re going to school, young lady. You’re all healed up from surgery, and you start tomorrow.”

“I heard you were going to finish out the spring term here in Martin City.” Silas gingerly shifted the baby so he could pat Celeste on the shoulder. “You don’t need to worry. The teacher is very nice, and you’ll have Phin and Tick there to introduce you around. Your cousins like the school well enough. You’ll soon find yourself with lots of new friends.”

The infant squirmed, squeaked, and shoved her fist into her mouth. Smelling faintly of milk and that special brand-newness that only very young babies have, she snuggled into Silas’s arms. An empty place in the corner of his heart swelled a notch. What would it be like to hold his own child?

Jesse strode into the room, his presence filling every corner. “How’re my best girls?”

Celeste shot off the footstool and ran to him, hugging his waist hard. Jesse put his arm around her shoulders, grinning.

Silas smothered a smile at how Jesse strangled his normally booming voice into a hoarse whisper so as not to scare his granddaughters. “You’d best be careful Matilda doesn’t find out you’ve demoted her in favor of Celeste and the baby.”

Matilda entered the room ahead of the butler with a tray of tea. “It wouldn’t be news. He’s been besotted since the moment grandchildren came into the family. If he isn’t fishing with the boys or teaching them to ride, he’s having a tea party with Celeste.” Warmth shone from her eyes. Though married for thirty years, the Mackenzies displayed a love and affection that didn’t seem to have faded or gone stale.