Leading Lady (12 page)

John nodded. “Vegetarianism is suddenly making a lot more sense to me.”

****

That sentiment was discarded with John’s first whiff of the bacon being served from the sideboard at breakfast. True to Bethia’s prediction, her mind was sluggish, though her brother and nephew, who had opted for another game of dominoes, looked even worse for the wear. But she was lucid enough to count her blessings during services at Christ Church: the Christmas season was here, she was home with family, she was on her way to completing her final year of college, she had a challenging and interesting career . . .
and Guy comes home in nine days!

Only one thing put a damper on her joy. Though now an ocean away, Douglas Pearce still held her in his obsessive grip, for how could she rest easily until he returned?
Please keep him safe,
she added to her prayer.

Nine

Thirty-two actors had been fitted by Tuesday noon, including utility actors playing nonspeaking parts such as Citizens of the Watch and guests to the Capulet Ball. Once all the costumes for
Romeo and Juliet
were ready, Bethia began drafting patterns and purchasing cloth for
Lady Audley’s Secret,
scheduled to open the first of April.

She worked long hours and was finished by Friday the seventeenth of December, when she met her mother and Sarah downstairs to watch the dress rehearsal of
Romeo and Juliet.
It was sheer joy to see the costumes come to life on the stage. But as much as she enjoyed her job, it would be a relief to have some time away from the theatre. Mrs. Hamby and Miss Lidstone would do the sewing for the next play’s costumes over the next three months, and she would be back again in late March for final fittings.

On Monday the twentieth, she and Danny set out to purchase Christmas gifts for family and servants. John did not press to come along, having already taken care of his list in one hour in a bookshop last week. His absence was just one less ant in an anthill of shoppers at Harrods, attracted by the convenience of several departments under one roof, and the option of having their purchases wrapped and delivered.

The four and a half acre, seven-storey emporium started in a small way when, in 1849, tea merchant Henry Charles Harrod opened a small grocer’s shop lit by paraffin lights. At the time, Brompton Road was just a poor street, lined with costers’ stalls on Saturday nights. Two other shops were added soon after, and within a few years the whole of the shops between Hans Crescent and Queen’s Gardens had been absorbed.

“Bethia, this way!” Danny said, beckoning her over to the camera counter on the ground floor.

“The Lancaster Instantograph Compact,” the shop assistant said, smiling. He was exceedingly handsome, with neatly trimmed side-whiskers and blue eyes framed by thick dark lashes. “We just got them in last week, and this is the last one.”

“For Father,” Danny said unnecessarily, for both had grown up having every important event documented by their father’s lens.

Bethia eyed the polished mahogany and brass of the camera in the shop assistant’s hands. “You know how he is. He’ll scold if you spend too much.”

“It could be from both of us. It’s much lighter than his old one. Better for his back.”

“Allow me to demonstrate the changing box,” the still-smiling shop assistant said with a snap and a click of a sliding door which, he explained, allowed glass plates to be transferred between storage box and plate holders.

“You mean he wouldn’t have to find a darkroom between shots?” Bethia asked.

“Actually, he may take up to a dozen photographs at a time. Most convenient for picnics, strolls in the park, and the like.” He cleared his throat. “I take lunch in half an hour. Fine day for a stroll, isn’t it, Miss?”

“It’s forty degrees outside,” Danny growled. “And she has a beau.”

The man’s face reddened. “I certainly didn’t mean—”

“We’ll take the camera, thank you,” Bethia said, touching her brother’s sleeve. On the way to the lift, when they were well out of earshot from the counter, she gave him a sidelong look. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Into me? He was flirting with you.”

“No he wasn’t.”

“Fine day for a stroll, Miss,” Danny imitated, batting his lashes. “I take lunch in half an hour. And what do you call that?”

“He didn’t actually
ask
me out for a stroll.”

Danny sighed. “He was testing the waters, Bethia. If you would have giggled and encouraged him, he would have asked quick as you could say John Bull. That’s how men are.”

“I never
giggle,
” Bethia countered. “And I
know
how men are. I happen to work with them, remember?”

“But you don’t notice how they court because you’ve been engaged to Guy since you were nine.”

That made her smile. “Nine, Danny?”

“Very well . . . ten.”

She laughed and took his arm. “Well, he seemed harmless enough.”

“Guy?”

“No, the camera man.”

“You thought Douglas Pearce was harmless.”

“
Touché.
But seriously, I’ll give you notice whenever I need a knight in shining armour.”

When her brother looked a little hurt, she wished she had held her tongue. “You’re a dear, though.”

“Enough flattery,” he said, mugging a face at her. “Let’s go up to the perfumery, and you can advise me on Mother and Sarah. Unless you’d like to go back and chat with your new beau.”

Bethia laughed again. “To the perfumery.”

On the second floor she looked to the right and noticed a woman descending the last steps of the arched staircase. She was stunning, with ash-blonde and golden waves cascading over the shoulder of a toffee-colored cloak, and large violet eyes set in a finely chiseled face. Bethia recognized Muriel, having crossed paths with her a few times during their childhoods and from the benefit concert for Sedgwick School at the Royal Court last Christmas. The somber gray gown of half-mourning she had worn on that occasion had only enhanced her natural beauty.

If she had only not met Muriel’s eyes, Bethia could have continued on. But too late for that, for Muriel was staring directly at her.

“Oh dear,” Bethia said through stiff lips.

“What is it?” Danny said, looking about.

Muriel was too close now for Bethia to explain.

“Lady Holt,” she said, taking a step to the right. “How long has it been?”

To Bethia’s relief, Muriel took the hand she extended. But her smile was absent of warmth. “I believe a year, Bethia.”

A jumble of thoughts flooded Bethia’s mind.
I’m so sorry about your brother . . . I wish I hadn’t written that letter . . . I wish I had never gone near Covent Garden that day . . . I pray every day he isn’t killed over there.

But what did one say in such a situation, with shoppers streaming by, her brother now at her side, and a pair of violet eyes regarding her coolly?

“I . . . wonder if you remember my brother, Danny?” she said. Anything to pretend that this was a pleasant social encounter. They were actors, delivering lines far removed from their actual thoughts.

Muriel offered Danny her hand, gave him a smile only a degree warmer. “I hear you’re studying medicine.”

“Yes, Lady Holt,” he replied, taking her hand while stepping a little closer to Bethia, whether consciously or not.

“We need good doctors. My mother’s doctor is an imbecile, but she refuses to see anyone else.”

“I’m sorry,” Bethia said as Muriel withdrew her hand from Danny’s and slid her gaze over to her again. “Will her health allow her to come down for Christmas?”

“No. Georgiana and her nanny and I leave for Sheffield tomorrow. Of course it will be a somber celebration without Douglas.”

Bethia was opening her mouth to stammer an apology when her arm felt the gentle nudge of Danny’s elbow.

“We’ve detained you too long from your shopping, Lady Holt,” her brother said respectfully. “And we’ve still several names left on our lists.”

Muriel obviously caught his meaning, but she was not
about to be swayed from delivering her innuendoes. In a pleasant tone, as if she were commenting upon the evergreen wreaths adorning Harrods’ walls, she said pointedly, “How lovely that your brother accompanies you shopping. I would give anything if mine were here to do the same.”

Danny flushed to the roots of his strawberry-blonde hair. “It’s not my sister’s fault he’s not here, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Danny—” Bethia started.

“He’s a grown man,” Danny went on. “He’s responsible for his own actions.”

The violet eyes narrowed. “A woman’s cruelty can drive any man to desperate behavior. Good day, Mr. Rayborn . . . Miss Rayborn.”

She walked toward the mirror-lined archway leading to the perfumery.

Danny shook his head. “She goes for the throat, doesn’t she?”

“Yes,” Bethia replied, feeling more like she had been punched in the stomach.

“Why don’t we go back downstairs and look for William’s gift?”

“Let’s just go home.” All joy had been leached from the day, and she longed for nothing more than to take a nap.

“You can’t allow her to do that to you. And besides, when will we get another chance to shop?”

“Very well,” Bethia sighed. As they walked toward the lift, she realized she was grateful for one thing out of the encounter.

“Thank you,” she said.

Danny slanted her a knowing look, as if it was on the tip of his tongue to remind her of her “knight in shining armour” statement. But he smiled instead. “You’re welcome.”

Fortunately, Muriel did not even appear in Bethia’s vigilant peripheral vision as they continued shopping and then lunched in the restaurant. They hired a hansom cab, having
sent coachman Hiram Wyatt back home that morning, for it would have been inconsiderate to ask him to wait with the horses in the cold for such an undetermined amount of time.

A thought occurred to Bethia on the way home. “Please don’t mention to anyone what happened.”

“Very well,” her brother agreed. “But why? Mother and Father know Douglas is in Canada.”

That was so, for Aunt Virginia had mentioned the fact in a letter.

“They don’t know Muriel blames me. I haven’t wanted to worry them with all this business. And Guy has enough on his shoulders, keeping up his scholarship.” She shook her head. “I have to agree with Muriel. I also would give anything if Douglas were Christmas shopping in London.”

****

The following morning she waited with her parents and the Russell family, Stanley and Penny and their two daughters, at Waterloo Station for the train from Portsmouth. Twenty-three-year-old Guy Russell stepped out of the second-class coach with violin case in hand, his sapphire-blue eyes sharp with excitement and dark hair sprouting out in all directions. The presence of parents on either side abashed both Bethia and Guy so that they merely pressed cheeks. But later, while everyone was having tea and scones in the cozy parlour above Russell Saddle and Tack, Guy asked Bethia’s father if they might go downstairs.

“A quarter hour, then we’ll join you,” Father said after a glance at his watch. “We’ll have to be getting on by then anyway.”

“I’ll go with you,” eleven-year-old Sharon said, rising from an ottoman.

“No, you may stay here,” said her mother.

“They want to be alone,” Lottie explained. Her sage look befitted her seventeen years and the worldly wisdom of a fresher studying voice at the Royal Academy of Music on Hanover Square.

Sharon’s crumpled face brightened when Guy pulled her long brown braid. “Save your strength for Christmas shopping, Pet. I’ll need you and Lottie to advise me.”

Bethia and Guy held hands on the narrow staircase, even though Guy had to walk ahead of her. The aroma of leather and voices of shop clerk Mr. Neale and a patron wafted through the curtain dividing the shop from the hall at the foot of the staircase.

“I can’t believe we’re finally together,” Guy whispered, taking Bethia in his arms.

“I can’t believe it either,” she whispered back.

Absence made the kiss they shared even sweeter than their first one. Light-headed afterward, Bethia rested her cheek against his shoulder and savored the strength of his arms about her.

“What do you eat while I’m away?” he asked.

She moved her head to give him an odd look. “I beg your pardon?”

He smiled and brushed a stray tendril of hair from her cheek. “You grow prettier and prettier. It must be something in your food.”

“You look nice too.” She touched the lapel of his brown wool coat. “Another new suit?”

“Almost new. I had it made in October. I hated to spend the money, but the professors already know I’m on scholarship. Some are quite snobbish. They cater shamelessly to the wealthier students.”

Bethia wondered if that was the reason he discouraged his parents from visiting him at University, for they poured more money into the shop and into educating their girls than into their wardrobes. Immediately she shamed herself for the thought. Guy was not like that.

She frowned at the thought of any University professor looking down upon him. “I despise snobbery.”

Too soon, footsteps sounded above.

“I’ll come out to the house tomorrow,” he murmured into her hair.

As loathe as she was to part again, Bethia understood that he needed to spend his first day home with his parents and sisters. Back in Hampstead she busied herself with helping Mother, Sarah, and their housekeeper, Claire Duffy, fill small baskets with candies and nuts, and glaze gingerbread figures for the tree Danny and John brought home from Epping Forrest.

Wednesday morning, Guy came over in spite of the icy rain slickening the streets. The servants who were part of his life in his earlier years greeted him as an old friend—Avis, who was still Sarah’s lady’s maid, Claire, Trudy, Susan, and Jack Woodley, the gardener.

Hiram, the coachman, invited him to look about the apartment above the stables where Guy’s family had lived for most of his life. Guy smiled, but replied, “No, thank you.”

Bethia was not surprised. It was one thing she could not quite understand about Guy, for she had never felt shame over her mother having been a cook for several years, even a scullery maid before that. Honest work was honest work. But she supposed she would feel the same way if her family had served
his
instead of the other way around.