Leading Lady (27 page)

“ . . . and enough for a nice ring,” Guy went on. “I’ve got my eye on one in Prosser’s, around the corner from the shop. A diamond, with—”

“I’d rather you put the money toward the house, Guy.”

His jaw tightened. “I’ll not ask your hand without a ring to put on it.”

“And I’d like to have one.” Bethia fished the chain with the barite gemstone from beneath her collar. “I’ve a great sentimental attachment to this. It would be lovely mounted on a gold band.”

“I paid six hundred lire for that, Bethia,” he said with a little grimace. “It’s just a reminder of what it’s like to be broke.”

“It’s a reminder of how you bought me a gift even
while
broke.”

“That’s less than five shillings, Bethia.”

She shrugged. “My parents paid nothing for me. Does that mean I’m not valuable to them?”

Guy rolled his eyes. “You’re being obstinate.”

Raising fingers to his lips, Bethia said, “You can buy me that diamond for our tenth wedding anniversary.”

“For our engagement,” he mumbled through her fingers.

****

Even though she had one less iron in the fire now that her schooling was complete, Bethia was as busy as ever at the Royal Court, for costumes needed to be prepared for Tom Taylor’s
The Ticket-of-Leave Man
before rehearsals started the following week.

“And why must I submit to this again?” Muriel Holt asked in her cool tone on the seventh of July, as Bethia wound the
measuring ribbon about her slender waist. Naturally, Muriel was assigned the lead role of May Edwards in the coming production. During Bethia’s absence, her popularity had grown to where audiences were still filling the theatre for
Lady Audley’s Secret.
Prince Edward and Princess Alexandra had even attended on Saturday past.

The critics loved her as well, judging by the framed newspaper critiques Miss Lidstone said were hanging, framed, in Muriel’s dressing room.

“Weight can fluctuate,” Bethia explained. “Especially women’s.”

“Not mine.”

“Then you’re very fortunate, Lady Holt.”

After affecting a sigh, Muriel said, “Not when you consider it’s worry over my brother’s safety that stifles my appetite. But then, you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Miss Rayborn?”

Bethia became aware of the sudden silence of the sewing machine trestle beneath Mrs. Hamby’s feet.
This isn’t the time nor place,
she thought. But she could not ignore the accusation hovering in the air between them, unchallenged. Trying to keep her voice steady, even while her hands trembled, she said, “I pray for your brother’s safety every day, Lady Holt.”

“Indeed? I do wish you had considered his safety before you wrote that malicious letter.”

Like a fish gasping in the bottom of a boat, Bethia struggled for words. Did Muriel really believe her so callous?

Muriel was staring, violet eyes challenging.

“How could I have known he would leave for Canada?” Bethia asked bleakly.

“You knew he was desperately in love with you, enough to do something rash!”

Miss Lidstone cleared her throat and approached, touching Bethia’s hand that held the measuring ribbon. “Why don’t I finish here, Miss Rayborn?” she said.

“Yes,”
Muriel said, raising her chin. “That would be more to my liking.”

****

Guy came up to Hampstead the following Sunday afternoon. After spending a half hour visiting with the family, Bethia and he took a walk on the Heath.

“Father says a highwayman named Jackson was hanged near this spot two centuries ago,” she said when they reached the large elm near the road from Jack Straw’s Castle. “He’s collecting research for a book on the history of Hampstead.”

“Why here?” Guy said. “I thought hangings were always out in the open.”

“It’s here that he killed a man.”

The account had fascinated Bethia when her father related it, for she shared his interest in history. But she wished now she had not brought it up, for the fates of a hapless traveler and merciless robber were to her melancholy mood as fuel to a fire. She sighed. “Let’s go back now.”

Guy’s sapphire eyes studied her face. “What’s the matter, Lilly?”

The concern in his voice was all the prompting she needed to tell him everything, beginning with happening upon Douglas Pearce in Covent Garden.

“Why did you keep this from me?” Guy asked with arm wrapped about her shoulders while she leaned her head upon his chest.

“You were at school. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Please, never do that again.”

“But what could you have done?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But
something.
We’ve confided in each other since we were children, Bethia. Please . . . promise me you’ll never keep something important like this from me again.”

Bethia nodded. “I promise.”

“That’s my Lilly,” he said gently, squeezing her shoulders.
“And I make you the same vow. Our marriage will be based upon total honesty.”

Twenty

The arched train shed of St. Pancras Station was a masterpiece of daring function—iron framework filled with glass and rising up a hundred feet to a pointed crown.
I’m here,
Noah thought with wonder while threading his way down the platform on the morning of the twelfth of July. The smell of coal smoke, the streams of humanity pouring past and sometimes jostling his arm with hurried apology, the scraps of conversation and piercing whistles—they were all perfume to his nostrils, music to his ears.

And then Jude, waving!

“So you made it!” his friend exclaimed.

Noah dropped the Gladstone bag from his right hand, the portmanteau from his left, and embraced his friend, clapping him on the back. “I thought you’d be in rehearsal!”

“The stage director appreciates my promptness. He gave me a couple of hours. So let’s make haste.”

Jude took up the portmanteau and led Noah toward the exit marked
Euston Road.
Over his shoulder he said above the noise, “I’m glad you packed light.”

“Well, you said a trunk wouldn’t fit in my room.”

“It’s even worse than that. The trombonist whose room you’re getting, well, his touring company’s departure is delayed ten days.”

Noah slowed down on the pavement outside. “So where will I—”

“Do hurry, Noah. You’ve seen London before. And you’re sharing my room for now.”

Jude turned to plow ahead, and all Noah could do was follow to a hackney cab with room on the floor for the luggage. “Haymarket Theatre,” Jude said to the driver and turned to Noah. “We would take the underground if time weren’t the element.”

“Haymarket? I thought we were going to the lodging house.”

His friend smiled as the driver snapped the reins and the horse pulled out into the traffic. “There’s a casting call for a half hour from now. They require four actors for Douglas Jerrold’s
Black-ey’d Susan.
I’ll drop your luggage off on my way back to work, and you’ll have to find your own way there.”

Excitement and panic surged through Noah’s chest. “But I’m not prepared,” he said, reaching back a hand to scratch his neck just below his collar.

Jude produced a worn playscript from his coat pocket. “I picked this up from a secondhand shop and marked the parts that are available. With so many, people will probably have to take turns using the theatre copies. You’ll have time in the greenroom to acquaint yourself with it. I wrote the address of the lodging house on the back, by the way.”

When Noah still gaped at him, at the playscript in his hand, Jude cuffed him on the upper arm. “May as well seize this opportunity, big fellow. There won’t be another for a week or so.”

“Yes, of course,” Noah said and relaxed enough to say, “Thank you, Jude. It’s good to be here with you.”

“It’s good to have you here.” His friend gave him a cautious look. “You’re not too torn up about . . . you know . . .”

“I’ll live.”

The hackney stopped in front of a beautiful white stone building with six gilt-topped white columns supporting a marquee with the words
Theatre Royal Haymarket.
After handing the driver a crown, which would surely cover both fares, Noah waved farewell to his protesting friend.
This isn’t a dream. I’m actually going to set foot on a London stage before the day’s end,
he thought while walking toward the only one of five arched doorways that was open. The stage doorman stood to the side and nodded somber entry to two men just ahead of Noah. Halfway fearing he would be turned
away for being an impostor, Noah approached and stated his purpose.

“Good morning, sir. I’m here to audition?”

The man nodded affably. “Can’t be too careful these days. Go on inside.”

Every seat in the greenroom was filled. Noah scratched a persistent itch on his arm, took one of the chairs set out in the corridor, opened his playscript, and mentally blocked out his surroundings.

Or at least he made the attempt.

“I say, is that a copy of the script?” said the fellow who was seated at his right, a young man wearing white flannels. A straw boater hat was perched upon on knee.

Noah gave him a polite smile. “It is.”

“I was told they were out. Where did you get it?”

“A friend bought it from a secondhand shop.”

“I wish I’d thought of that.” He motioned toward the greenroom. “They said copies will filter back from the stage as they’re available.”

“My friend warned me,” Noah said. “But auditions generally move along. You should have a copy shortly.”

“I see,” the man said with defeated voice.

As Noah’s eyes returned to the page, his neighbor leaned close enough so that their arms pressed together, and Noah caught a whiff of the macassar oil in his blonde hair.

“I say . . . you wouldn’t mind if I read over your shoulder, would you?”

“Sorry,” Noah said, easing himself to the left a bit. “I have to concentrate.”

And that was proving more difficult. The itching struck again, this time between his shoulder blades. When it began in various places upon his body three days ago, he had chalked it up to anxiety and excitement over leaving Yorkshire. He had barely noticed it during the railway trip. But now, in the windowless and hot corridor, he had the compelling urge to get up and rub his back against a post.

A second later, his attempt to regain concentration was hindered again by a sigh and more pressure upon his arm. “I beg your pardon . . . would you consider selling it?”

“Sorry,” Noah said again.

“I’ll give you a fiver.”

The amount raised Noah’s eyebrows now that he had to watch his pennies. He reminded himself that he was down here to fulfill a dream, not scramble for the odd fivers. His neighbor mistook his hesitation for agreement and dug a purse from his coat pocket.

“I’m not interested,” Noah insisted.

“Anyone else?” the young man said, holding it up for the half dozen others in corridor chairs.

But only two men had copies of the script and were, like Noah, not inclined to part with them. Noah took pity upon the young man and nodded toward the greenroom. “I’m sure you’ll find someone in there to do business with you.”

The man brightened, rose, and walked off. He returned seconds later, grinning, with a script in hand. “I say, what parts are open?”

You walked in here without even knowing?
Noah stifled a sigh and showed him the markings Jude had made. “The admiral and Jacob Twig, Doggrass and Lieutenant Pike.”

A bald man in shirt-sleeves exited the greenroom with notebook tucked in the crook of one arm. “My name is Mr. Kaye. When I approach you, be ready to state your name, address where you may be telephoned, and most recent stage experience.”

He began across the corridor, so Noah concentrated again on the playscript and on
not
scratching. Presently Mr. Kaye crouched before his neighbor with a creaking of knees. “Your name, please?”

“Lord Cecil Bovey,” the young man replied. “Our in-town address is 19 Park Lane. Perhaps you’ve heard of my father, the Duke of Chertsey? My family leases a box here every season.”

“Mm-hmm,” Mr. Kaye murmured, writing. “Experience?”

“Well . . . none, actually,” Lord Bovey admitted and chuckled. “Unless you count playing a shepherd in the school Christmas pageant when I was ten. My mother said I was quite extraordinary.”

Mr. Kaye raised weary-looking eyes from his notebook. “Acting lessons, perchance?”

“None. But I’d like to give acting a try.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’d like to be an actor,” the young lord repeated.

A little smile curled both corners of Mr. Kaye’s mouth. “Wouldn’t you, just?”

Lord Bovey returned his smile. “Why, yes, I would.”

A man seated across the corridor snorted suppressed laughter, bringing a flush to Lord Bovey’s fair cheeks. In spite of the irritant he had been, Noah felt pity for the young man.

And the humiliation was not over. Mr. Kaye straightened. “I’ll make a deal with you,
your Lordship.
”

“Why, thank you.”

“There’s a branch of Coutt’s Bank down Haymarket, a stone’s throw from here. Go down there, tell ’em you’d like to give accounting a try. If they hire you, come back here, and I’ll escort you to stage myself.”

Lord Bovey flushed deep crimson, rose from his chair. “You’ll hear from my father before the day’s over.”

“I can hardly wait,” Mr. Kaye said in a mocking tone.

The young man turned and stalked up the corridor. Over the laughter Mr. Kaye snorted, “That’s the upper crust for you! Thinks his silver spoon is the only qualification he needs.”

More laughter, and then he became businesslike again.

“Name, please?” he said to Noah.

It struck Noah that the title he had worn since infancy, so much a part of his life experience that he took it for granted, did not belong here. Perhaps later, when he had proved himself. And then, perhaps not. Was he any better a person than,
say, Jude? What had he done to deserve
Lord
before his name other than been born? “Noah Carey,” he replied.