Dare to Love (60 page)

I had been perfectly reasonable, open to suggestion and patient to a fault. I was willing to work to the point of collapse in order to make this San Francisco opening special, but we had gone over this particular number at least ten times since noon, and Mr. Anthony Duke
still
wasn't satisfied. He still felt it necessary to carp and quibble and make ridiculous suggestions. The musicians were exhausted. The four male dancers were ready to drop. I was ready to kill.

“Let's try one more time,” he said amiably.

That did it.

“You can go straight to hell!” I cried. “I don't intend to dance another step! I may never dance again for the rest of my life! I've had it up to
here
, Mr. Duke! I suggest you find someone else to ridicule and bully! Don't you
dare
try to humor me!”

“Now, luv—”

“Out! Everyone out! Rehearsal is over for the day!”

The dancers scurried off stage. The musicians quickly emptied the pit. In a matter of seconds Anthony and I were left alone. He looked up at me and sighed. I glared at him, still standing near the edge of the stage with my hands on my hips. Neither of us spoke. There were clattering noises backstage as dancers and musicians departed, and then, after a while, total silence.

“You're tense,” he remarked.

He skirted around the orchestra pit and moved up the steps at the side of the stage.

“I meant what I said, Anthony. Don't try to humor me. I'm in no mood for your—your joviality.”

“You were terrific, you know. I realize this new routine is difficult for you, and—”

“Difficult! Are you implying I can't—”

“This is the first time you've worked with other dancers. It isn't you I'm worried about, luv, it's them. Christ knows where Peterson found them. Members of a Spanish ballet troupe, he claims. They move like they've spent most of their lives roping steers.”

“They're highly competent dancers.”

“Hardly speak a word of English, either.”

He strolled over to me, smiling, and tried to take my hand. I pulled away.

“Three more days until opening night,” he said, “and every seat is sold out. We're going to make history. San Francisco has never seen anything like this. When they write books about these times, Elena Lopez is going to have whole chapters devoted to her.”

“Do you think I care about
that
?”

“I think you're exhausted, Elena,” he said. “I think you're nervous and distraught and need a little relaxation. You haven't gone out a single night since we got here. Besides, it's bad for business. People need to
see
you. Staying cooped up in your hotel room isn't helping at all. You've turned down every invitation.”

“That's my affair.”

“In some cases, I'm glad. That fellow Wayne, for instance. I'd hate to see you get mixed up with a chap like that, but when the Governor himself asks you to dine—”

“I'm weary, Anthony. I've never been so weary in my life. I'm tired of theaters, tired of dancing, tired of being on show twenty-four hours a day. I'm tired of the strain, the upset, the—”

“You don't mean that, luv.”

He wrapped his arms around my waist, drawing me to him and resting his chin on my head.

“You haven't been the same since that Black Hood incident. I realize it was an ordeal for you, but everything worked out beautifully. Even though we lost twenty thousand dollars, the publicity was worth ten times that much. The greatest showman on earth, couldn't have arranged such a coup.”

“I don't want to talk about it,” I said stiffly.

“You're going to go to your dressing room and change,” he informed me. “Then you're going to go back to the hotel and rest. Tonight I'm taking you out. We're going to the fanciest restaurant in the city. It'll do wonders for you.”

“It'll also cost me,” I snapped.

“
I
'll pay, luv. Don't I always?”

“You hand over the actual money. Then you deduct it from my share of the profits. It's listed as ‘expenses.'”

“Tonight is on me,” he promised.

He nuzzled my cheek with his and then stepped back. I was still irritated, but it was impossible to stay angry for long. He knew just what approach to use, just the right tone of voice to mollify me. I went backstage to my dressing room. Millie was out somewhere with Bradford, and it was just as well. I wasn't in any mood for her bright chatter. I washed and changed into a garnet taffeta frock, enjoying the silence and solitude. Anthony was right. Since my arrival in San Francisco almost two weeks before, I had been irritated, strangely dissatisfied and prey to a peculiar melancholy I couldn't seem to shake.

Everything seemed pointless. I had fame, modest wealth, a glamorous life full of color and excitement, and it meant nothing. I realized that more and more each day. Some performers thrived on glory, basking in their fame. As long as their egos received proper nourishment, that was enough. But I felt as if I were participating in some kind of insane race. I was well in the lead and the crowd was cheering me on, but I could see no finish line in sight. There
was
no finish line. For the past five years I had kept right on running. To what purpose? I had achieved incredible success, but in my heart I had to acknowledge that it was an empty success.

For some reason the encounter with Black Hood had brought all this to the surface. The dissatisfaction and melancholy had been there all along, carefully contained, but I had refused to acknowledge them. That was no longer possible. Black Hood had somehow or other touched a cord inside me and made me aware of feelings I could no longer ignore.

With a heavy sigh I turned away from the dressing table and put on the hat that matched my gown. The hat, a sumptuous affair of stiff garnet taffeta, dripped with frothy black plumes. Elena Lopez had to maintain her flamboyant air. The publicity I'd received in San Francisco was incredible. My abduction by the bandit had created a furor, and it seemed the city could think of nothing else. The newspapers were filled with sensational stories, and my refusal to disclose any information about my abductor had given rise to wild, romantic speculation. I was the heroine of the day, and I couldn't step out of the hotel without attracting a huge, admiring crowd.

Posters announcing my opening night were displayed on every street corner. But there was more. Several nights before, a theater on the waterfront had premiered
Elena and The Bandit
, a lurid melodrama that apparently had been written overnight and staged in record time. It was a nightly sell out. Incensed at first, Anthony threatened to sue, but then he decided the extra publicity was good for business. My own opening night was set back in order that a more elaborate production might be mounted. Male dancers were hired, new sets hastily constructed, and new costumes designed. Anthony thought it might be interesting to have the men dressed all in black with black silk hoods over their heads, a suggestion I immediately vetoed.

Now, I turned as he opened the dressing room door. Anthony would never think of knocking. Attired in dark blue jacket, gray suede top hat in hand, he was the picture of a perfect dandy, handsome and merry and vain, as he went over to the dressing table mirror and straightened his pearl gray neckcloth.

“Ready?” he inquired.

“I suppose so.”

“We'd better go out the front way,” he informed me. “I peeked out back, and there's a mob waiting for you. They must have found out about the rehearsals.”

“There's always a mob,” I complained.

“Your public. They love you.”

“I feel like a freak.”

“You'd attract a crowd even if you weren't Elena Lopez. You happen to be the most beautiful woman on earth,” he said, “and San Francisco is starving for female beauty. The majority of women out here came in with the covered wagons, and most of 'em look as if they were up front, pulling.”

“You're horrible.”

He grinned and pulled on his gray suede gloves, and then, placing the top hat on his head at a jaunty angle, he took my arm and led me around to the stage and down the side steps. The theater still sparkled with newness, overwhelmingly red, walls covered with red brocade, seats of plush red velvet, balconies and boxes ivory white with gold leaf patterns. Sparkling chandeliers hung from the ornate ceiling. The bordello look was extremely popular.

“Hope you're feeling better,” Anthony remarked as we moved up the aisle.

“I'm in a wretched mood.”

“We'll take care of that later,” he promised.

“I really don't want to go out tonight, Anthony.”

“That's too bad. You're going out whether you want to or not.”

I waited patiently as Anthony took out his key and unlocked one of the doors that led out from the lobby. We stepped out under the marquee, and Anthony locked the door and took my arm once again. People stopped and stared as we started up the wooden sidewalk toward the hotel. A crowd soon gathered, following at a discreet distance, exchanging comments about my gown, my hat, my complexion. I tried to pretend they weren't there.

“Lovely day for a walk,” Anthony observed. “Ridiculous to hire a carriage for such a short distance.”

“Seven blocks,” I said, “all uphill.”

“Exercise will do you good, luv.”

“You keep telling me that.”

Although I felt it necessary to make a token complaint, I was secretly glad Anthony was too tight to provide a carriage. The walks to and from the theater provided my only opportunity to observe the phenomenon of San Francisco—an incredible place, booming, bustling and expanding by the minute.

The whole city was throbbing with vitality. One could hardly turn a corner without seeing a new building going up. Stately mansions were beginning to bloom on the hills, and wooden shacks were giving way to blocks of fine stores. Gambling halls, saloons, churches, gaudily ornate hotels and an unusual number of fire halls—for fire was a constant hazard—multiplied with amazing speed.

The noise was deafening. Horses neighed and carriages rumbled. Bells clanged and hammers hammered. Men shouted heartily as piles of lumber were hoisted into the air on ropes and pulleys, and Chinese laborers chattered as they pushed wheelbarrows filled with bricks. The very air seemed to be charged with excitement. I longed for the freedom to explore freely and savor the marvelous atmosphere, but my celebrity made that impossible. As we reached the crest of the hill I could see the thick forest of ship masts in the harbor. Millie had told me that the waterfront was fascinating, wild and wicked and exploding with color, but I had yet to visit it.

“That fellow still sending you presents?” Anthony inquired as we drew near the hotel.

“What fellow?”

“You know bloody well what fellow. Wayne. Nicholas Wayne. He still sending you things?”

“Bouquets of flowers every day,” I replied, “and an occasional diamond.”

Anthony took hold of my elbow and helped me up the steps in front of the hotel. His expression was sullen as we crossed the verandah.

“I hope you're not keeping them,” he said.

“What does it matter to you?”

The lobby we entered was extremely large and showy, all rococo woodwork and luxuriant Persian carpets, potted plants in abundance. As Anthony led me over to the staircase, he took off his top hat, frowned, and glanced around to make sure that no one was within hearing distance.

“I don't like what I hear about the fellow, Elena. He's too rich, too powerful. He owns most of the gambling halls in the city, holds mortgages on those he doesn't actually own. He's counted a respectable citizen, very civic minded. He's on all the boards and committees, contributes to all the funds, even donated a new fire hall.”

“I find that admirable.”

“So do a lot of people, but there're others who aren't fooled by his façade. Steer clear of him, luv.”

Continuing upstairs to my suite, I was both puzzled and intrigued by what he had told me. Why was he so adamant about Nicholas Wayne, a man he apparently had never even met? It would be nice to think he was jealous, but I didn't flatter myself. Anthony had never shown the least sign of jealousy when I went out with other men, had, in fact, encouraged me to go out with them if they were important and my being seen with them would make the papers. Nick Wayne was certainly important in San Francisco. It was rumored that he had political aspirations. I wondered why Anthony had taken such a strong dislike to him.

Nicholas Wayne had sent a bouquet of flowers to the suite the night I first arrived, along with an invitation to dine. Though I had refused the invitation, there had been more flowers, another invitation and a diamond pendant. I had torn up the invitation and returned the pendant. A third invitation, another bouquet, and a stunning diamond and sapphire clasp were delivered. The messenger boy had waited patiently while I read the brief message, then asked if there would be a reply. I shook my head and handed him the velvet box containing the clasp. With an exasperated sigh, he went on his way, only to return the next night with another note and another, larger velvet box.

Nick Wayne was persistent, to say the least, but I had no desire to meet him, or any other man for that matter. I had received dozens of other invitations. Everyone in San Francisco wanted to meet me, it seemed, but I was in no mood for social activity. The rehearsals were grueling, and after they were over I wanted only to rest. I hadn't even tried the hotel's dining room, but had my meals sent up to the suite instead, sharing them with Millie whenever she wasn't out with James Bradford. Which was seldom. Bradford had been monopolizing her time, and Millie quite clearly loved it.

As I stepped over to the window and looked out, I could see a patchwork of rooftops, a row of large brown warehouses and, beyond them, the crowded harbor. The sun, now a huge orange ball, made wavering golden streaks on the water and spread shadows over the rooftops. For some reason, I found myself thinking of the man in black, and that irritated me. Perhaps Anthony was right. Perhaps going out would do me good. Staying in and brooding about things wasn't going to help at all.