Leading Lady (2 page)

Bethia shrugged, her expression still wretched. “I figure the problem will resolve itself when I return to school. And well . . . he is Jewel’s cousin.”

“As are you.” Jewel put a hand upon her shoulder. “And more dear to me than Douglas, though of course I have to put up with him now and again.”

“I’ll speak with him,” Grady said. “Perhaps if a man
explains the situation, he’ll understand how it stands and give up.” He turned to Mr. Birch, waiting three feet away and no doubt taking mental notes for retelling later. “Will you escort Miss Rayborn to the stage door?”

That exit led down a staircase into the narrow alleyway separating the Royal Court Theatre from the Metropolitan Underground Railway station. Ideal for making a quick getaway from amorous visitors, as some of the actors had already discovered.

“Of course, Mr. McGuire.”

“Thank you!” Bethia said.

Jewel embraced her quickly, wished her pleasant journey tomorrow. She watched Mr. Birch and Bethia hasten in the direction from which they had just come, then turned again to her husband. “I’ll go with you.”

“Poor chap.” Grady took Jewel’s hand as they continued down the corridor. Just under the voices coming from the theatre, he said, “I would have followed you about like a love-sick puppy too, had you not fallen in love with me straightaway.”

She laughed. “Just because it’s true doesn’t mean you shouldn’t allow me some illusions, Grady. A woman likes to believe the man did all the pursuing.”

“Oh, I pursued you,” he said with a sidelong smile. “Make no mistake.”

She squeezed his hand but released it when they reached the door leading into the lobby. It didn’t seem fitting to advertise their contentment with each other in the face of unrequited love.

Douglas Pearce, clad in dark blue trousers, a short fawn-colored linen jacket, and cravat of colorful burgundy paisley, stood with hat in hand and his back propped against a post. Twenty-seven years of age, he was tall, at almost six feet, and handsome enough to catch the eye of most young women. But his shortcomings in the character department were etched permanently into his expression. He straightened, unfolded his arms, and looked past them.

“The old man said Miss Rayborn’s still here.”

“And good afternoon to you too, Douglas,” Grady said pointedly.

“Afternoon, Grady, Jewel,” Douglas said with hurried politeness. His hazel eyes slid past them toward the door again. “I need to speak with Miss Rayborn. Will you show me to her?”

“Sorry, old chap,” Grady said. “I’m afraid we can’t do that.”

“And why not?”

Jewel sighed. “Douglas, she has a beau.”

“A coachman’s son,” he said with the tone he would use to describe a serving of spoiled flounder.

“Yes,” she replied. “And aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

“They’re not engaged,” he replied, ignoring her question.

“I’m sure that will happen when he’s home for good.”

“Until such a time, she’s fair game.”

Grady stepped over to rest a beefy hand upon Douglas’s shoulder. His frown did not dilute the compassion in his eyes. “Bethia isn’t some grouse to be hunted, Douglas. She’s allowed some say in the matter, and her heart is attached elsewhere.”

Douglas’s face clouded to the roots of his light brown hair. “That wasn’t the impression I got at Covent Garden. We laughed over everything. It was obvious that she enjoyed my company.”

“That doesn’t mean she has romantic feelings for you,” Jewel reasoned.

She may as well have spoken to a gatepost, for her cousin replied, “I
know
I can persuade her to change her mind about that Russell fellow . . . if you’ll but allow me to speak with her.”

“Can’t you see? It’ll do no earthly good.” Pity came on the heels of Jewel’s annoyance. “You’re a handsome man, Douglas. There’s a woman out there somewhere for you.”

Her own words gave her pause. Would she wish Douglas upon any woman?

She would have to be foolish enough not to mind that he was expelled from King’s College during his fresher year for cheating. And not quite bright enough to guess that he had procured his accounting position at the London main office of Sun Insurance Company because of Uncle Norman’s influence. But conversely, strong enough to withstand Douglas’s temper tantrums without crumbling and wise enough to encourage him to invest some of Grandfather Lorimer’s legacy money for the times that he would probably be unemployed.

“Yes, find yourself a good woman and settle down,” Grady said gently.

Douglas’s jaw tightened. He shrugged Grady’s hand from his shoulder. “I don’t want just
any
woman! And it’s no use hiding her from me. I’ll go back there and find her myself if you refuse—”

“Douglas,” Jewel interrupted. There was nothing to do but administer a dose of brutal truth. “We sent her out the side. She doesn’t want to see you. I’m sorry, but that’s how it—”

He straightened. “The side?”

“And there’s no use trying to catch up with her. She’s gone.”

“We’ll see!” He gave her a murderous look and dashed for the door, throwing over his shoulder, “I’ll never forgive you for this, Jewel!”

“You’re making a fool of yourself!” she shot back.

Grady patted her arm. “We tried, love. No use in getting upset over it.” They walked to the door he had burst through. Douglas was sprinting toward the entrance to the Sloan Square underground railway station on their left.

“I shouldn’t have blurted out what I did,” Jewel said, standing back so that her husband could close the door. “Do you think we gave her enough time?”

Grady turned to her. “I believe so. Bethia’s quick.”

“Good thing Girton doesn’t allow male callers.” Jewel blew
out an exasperated stream of breath. “This is Aunt Phyllis’s fault.
And
Uncle Norman’s.”

“Indeed? But they live in Sheffield, do they not?”

“I’m speaking of how they reared my cousins. They denied them nothing, so they became little tyrants. Now they expect the whole world to indulge them the same way.”

At least in Douglas’s and his younger sister, Muriel’s, cases, she amended to herself. Douglas’s twin, Bernard, with a nice wife and infant daughter, was vicar of Holy Cross Church in a little town south of Sheffield proper and was proof that miracles still happened.

Grady smiled and touched her cheek. “Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are when you’re angry?”

It was impossible to enjoy a good stewing of temper with that man about, Jewel thought. She was aware that she would never be the beauty that her older sister, Catherine, and cousins Bethia and Muriel were. Men did not compose sonnets about women with sparsely lashed eyes behind wire spectacles. Her only assets, in her opinion, were a slender waist and generous bosom. She wrapped her arms about his neck and pecked his chin. “You have kind eyes, Grady McGuire.”

“Not kind. Astute.” The lines in his bulldog-like cheeks creased with his smile. Even after five years of marriage, it never ceased to amaze Jewel that two such plain people had found something so lovely in each other.

They were introduced at a benefit luncheon for Sedgwick School by Headmaster Hugh Sedgwick, Catherine’s husband. Hugh and Grady were former classmates at Saint John’s College and had even acted together in a couple of productions. Grady was, at that time, the stage manager for Sadler’s Wells Theatre, and he invited Jewel to observe a dress rehearsal of
Little Lord Fauntleroy.
They were wed within six months, and three years later they were managing the Royal Court Theatre for the owners, Messrs. Cumberland and Fry.

Now that her parents had finally stopped blaming Grady for Jewel’s abandoned plans for college, they had grown quite
fond of him. She and Grady had no children as yet. At least no
infant
children, Jewel corrected mentally as her ears caught the increase in volume from the other side of the theatre door.

“You haven’t an ounce of respect for those who have to work with you!”

Mrs. Steel’s voice. Jewel did not have to guess to whom it was directed. She sighed at her husband. “I should see what’s going on.”

“And I’ll get back to those matinee receipts,” Grady said.

“Coward,” she said with a loving smirk. Raised in a family where rows were commonplace, Grady could not bear to occupy the same room with disharmony. It was a wonder, Jewel thought, that he had offered to speak with Douglas.

“Yes.” He smiled in guilty concession. “And grateful to have a wife so skilled in mediation.”

They parted ways, and Jewel slipped into the theatre. The dispute onstage apparently centered about Richard Whitmore’s breakfast.

“What on earth did you have, Mr. Whitmore?” Charlotte Steel scowled up at the leading actor, hands upon hips in a very unJuliet-like pose. Still, she was a beautiful woman, seeming far younger than twenty-eight, with a wealth of burnished auburn hair and pale blue eyes like chips of ice—startling and arresting between thick lashes.

“Sardines and onions?” she went on. “Could you not have spared a moment to clean your teeth before shouting your lines into my face?”

“If you’ll run and fetch my toothbrush, old girl, I’ll do that straightaway,” Richard Whitmore replied, smirking down at her from his six-feet-four height, savoring the point just earned on the irritation scorecards he and Mrs. Steel kept.

At thirty-six, he was quite long in the tooth for the part of Romeo. Not that audiences would mind, for as many were drawn by his fame as from any love of drama. Still, the premature gray frosting his hair and beard would have to be dyed to stay within the bounds of credibility.

“Mrs. Steel . . . Mr. Whitmore . . . if you please!” Mr. Webb, the stage director, cajoled, wringing his hands. The recently hired actors standing nearby stared uncomfortably at their shoes. Those who had been around for a while studied their scripts with bored expressions while waiting for the tempest to pass.

Mrs. Steel wheeled upon Mr. Webb, pale blue eyes stormy. “Will you just stand there and allow him to insult me that way?”

“She takes offense at what
I
said?” Mr. Whitmore laid a hand upon his chest and quoted a line from the play to the invisible audience filling all three tiers and 642 seats. “Why, ‘I am the very pink of courtesy.’ ”

Jewel sighed and hastened down the aisle. The frustration of dealing with giant egos notwithstanding, she loved everything about theatre: the thrill of witnessing the clumsy first readings of the playwright’s lines gradually absorbed into an actor’s personality and delivered with such naturalness as if the actor’s mind were composing them; the transformation of canvas, lumber, and paint into scenes of distant places—of cloth and paste jewels into costumes of another era; the hush of an audience, all eyes fixed upon the stage, while thought of troubles and responsibilities, debts, disappointments, and heartaches were given a couple of hours’ respite.

“You came to rehearsal in that state just to provoke me!” Mrs. Steel was saying.

“ ‘E contrario,’ Madame!” He faced the invisible audience again and quoted another line, causing several of the other actors to conceal smiles with their hands or by turning faces toward the backdrop. “Methinks ‘thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat.’ ”

“If you don’t make him stop that, Mr. Webb, I shall leave!”

And because of the magic of theatre, Jewel thought wryly, come December, every occupant of every empty seat she passed would be convinced that the two bickering actors
were passionately in love. That is, if she and Mr. Webb could prevent them from murdering each other beforehand.

****

Bethia, waiting just inside the stage exit, shook her head at the sounds of disharmony drifting her way through the wall.
Poor Jewel and Grady!
And here she was, adding to their burden with the Douglas Pearce situation.

This isn’t your fault,
she reminded herself. But believing that was another story. Why had she had tea with Douglas Pearce that day? Why had she not made it clear that she had no romantic affection for him when he first began appearing everywhere she went? And why had she not suspected he’d eventually show up at work?

It was dear old Mr. Birch who had insisted she wait until he determined that the coast was clear. After all, he had reasoned, there was no guarantee that someone as obviously unstable as Mr. Pearce would linger long enough to listen to Grady and Jewel.

The nerves in the back of her neck flinched when the doorknob started turning. But it was only Mr. Birch. “He hurried toward the underground station five minutes ago. It may be prudent to allow him another five, just to be certain.”

“Yes, I’ll do that. Thank you, Mr. Birch.”

“Not at all, Miss Rayborn. At my age, a little intrigue is a welcome diversion.” He leaned his aged head, studying her. “Did you say this young man is your cousin?”

“No,” Bethia hastened to assure him. “He’s
Jewel’s
cousin.”

“But so are you.”

Bethia nodded. “Jewel’s father, James Rayborn, is
my
father’s younger brother. Uncle James is married to Aunt Virginia, and they have two daughters—my cousins Jewel and Catherine. It’s Aunt Virginia’s sister, Phyllis Pearce, who is the mother to Douglas Pearce and his siblings.”

“Siblings. Oh dear. You mean there are others like him?”

The affected horror in Mr. Birch’s voice made Bethia smile. For a second she was sorely tempted to share tidbits she had
heard as a child about the infamous Pearce children—particularly the sister, Muriel. But however cathartic the sharing would be, loyalty to Jewel sealed Bethia’s lips, except to thank Mr. Birch for watching out for her.

“We’ll miss you up in the wardrobe room,” he said warmly as they shook hands.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” she reminded him.

Two

The most populous city in the world had humble beginnings—a settlement of thatched huts inhabited by Britains, a branch of the Celtic race. Roman invaders in 43
a.d.
realized the military significance of the location on the River Thames and made it their headquarters, giving it the name Londinium. Over the centuries, London development advanced upon field and forest, absorbing the town of Westminster and villages such as Kensington and Mayfair and Chelsea, home to the Royal Court Theatre.