Leading Lady (30 page)

Her hand was once again enveloped by his. “Everyone has the potential of acting rashly when provoked, Miss Rayborn. I knew my brother’s flaws. Do you suppose you were the first young woman he hounded?”

“What do you mean?”

He shook his head regretfully. “A neighbor’s daughter in Sheffield—Iris Ravensworth was her name. Her father finally sent her to live with an aunt somewhere.”

The pain so obvious in his kind face told Bethia that he was not fabricating this in an effort to lessen her guilt. He went on. “The reason I say
somewhere,
Miss Rayborn, is that Mr. Ravensworth refused to inform even our father where she was sent for fear of Douglas finding out. He was but seventeen.”

He could produce one hundred such examples, and Bethia knew she would still regret writing that letter. But she did feel somewhat better. Better enough to know that it was wrong of her to take advantage of Reverend Pearce’s state of bereavement for her own consolation. She was about to thank him for his kindness when his eyes assumed a faraway look and he began speaking again, softly, as if more to himself than to Bethia.

“I understand how his mind worked. Our parents indulged us to the point where we had no strength of character for dealing with refusal.”

“And yet you became a minister,” Bethia said, not certain if she should insinuate herself into his musings.

His smile was touched with more irony than sadness. “I actually chose the church because I thought it would be easier than selling insurance. Then I met God along the way.”

“He changed you,” Bethia said, chill bumps prickling her arms.

“God, and my wife, Agatha. She threatened to go back home to her parents until I grew up.”

From somewhere in the ethereal recesses of Jay’s Mourning Warehouse drifted the sonorous tones of Westminster chimes in a long-case clock. Mr. Pearce patted her hand. “Well, I’ve much to do. We’re having a memorial Saturday.”

Bethia took the hint and rose to her feet so that he would feel free to do likewise. But she had to ask. “How is Lady Holt?”

He got to his feet, hesitated. “Not well, I’m afraid.”

She felt the sting of tears still again. How would she feel if something happened to Danny?
Poor Muriel.
“If only there were something I could do.”

“Just pray for her. I telephoned Jewel and Catherine a little while ago. They’re probably with her as we speak.”

“Would you extend . . .” Bethia swallowed. Extend what? Her condolences to the family? Jewel and Catherine and Aunt Virginia would accept them, yes. But Muriel . . . probably never.

She had to try. “May I write to her?”

“Yes.” He opened the door for her. “Do that, if you wish. It may help.”

“Thank you for being so kind, Reverend Pearce,” she said, offering her hand as they reached the pavement, wishing there was something she could do to lighten his burden, as he had so lightened hers.

He took her hand, patted it. “Ah, but it’s no sacrifice to be kind to someone as gracious as yourself, Miss Rayborn.”

Just as they were turning to go their separate ways, Bethia heard him speak her name.

“Miss Rayborn?”

“Yes?” she said, facing him again.

“I haven’t thought about this in years, but . . . when I was a boy, your family had a gardener by the name of . . .”

“Mr. Duffy,” Bethia supplied.

“That’s it.” He pursed his lips remorsefully. “I’m afraid I once kicked him in the shin, when he was only trying to protect our horses. Will you please convey to him how terribly sorry I am?”

She nodded. “I will.”

“Or perhaps I should ring him.”

“He doesn’t really use the telephone. I’ll deliver the message. You have enough on your shoulders right now.”

Relief washed over his face. “Thank you, Miss Rayborn.”

As Bethia walked toward the underground station, automatically circumventing lampposts and people, she prayed silently.
Forgive me for lying, Father.
There had been enough talk of death. She could not bear to add to it.

At Royal Court, Grady ceased packing papers into a satchel and came over to take her hands. “Will you sit down, Bethia? I’m afraid I have some sad news.”

“I already know,” she said as her throat tightened. “I happened upon Bernard.”

“You’re not to go blaming yourself for anything.”

She did not have the strength to bear another discussion of the degree of her innocence in the tragedy. So she nodded and said, “Thank you, Grady.”

He studied her face suspiciously. “Go on home, Bethia. I’ll send word up to wardrobe.”

“Thank you,” she said again.

By the time she reached Hampstead, Aunt Virginia had telephoned with the news.

“Such a pity,” Mother said.

That afternoon she took a walk down Cannonhall Road, to the churchyard of Christ Church. Fresh Michaelmas daisies fanned out in purple glory from a stone crock before Mr. Duffy’s headstone.

“Hello, Mr. Duffy,” Bethia said. “Reverend Pearce asks your forgiveness for his kicking you when he was a boy.”

She was perfectly aware that the tenderhearted old man was nowhere near the churchyard. He was probably happily tending celestial gardens. But hopefully God, who heard everything, would pass the message on.

Twenty-Two

“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die . . .’ ”

Bernard’s voice filled the nave of Holy Cross Chapel in the village of Gleadless, five miles south of Sheffield. Father’s associates at Sun Insurance in Sheffield were there. Aunt Virginia and Uncle James, Catherine and Hugh and their three sons. Jewel and Grady. Christina Smith and Georgiana Crane, cousins-twice-removed on Mother’s side, with their husbands and children.

Mr. Rowley, manager of Sun Insurance in London, with his wife.

Father had said it was decent of them to come, considering Mr. Rowley had been forced to give Douglas the sack for missing so much work. It was only for her father’s sake that Muriel had not ordered the couple to leave; however, she had treated them with no more than icy civility, even when Mrs. Rowley gushed that she had enjoyed
Lady Audley’s Secret
so much that she bought tickets for her grown children and their spouses.

“ ‘. . . time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance . . . ’ ”

With typical British ingenuity, the mourning industry marketed black handkerchiefs that would not stand out against mourning clothes. Muriel watched her mother beside her, so frail and crooked, wipe her lined cheeks with one, watched her father blow his nose into another.

We don’t even have a body to bury,
Muriel thought. No grave to visit. He lay in ground that had never been home to him, surrounded by strangers.

After the memorial, people came to her parents’ house. Servants passed around trays of little sandwiches and cakes. At length the men gathered in the sitting room, the women
in the parlour. Both rooms were equally somber, but at least some of the men had the distraction of their cigarettes and pipes. And then the guests left, a few at a time, their relief to be doing so visible through the cracks of their somber veneers.

Through it all Muriel’s parents moved about like sleepwalkers. Mother’s doctor had given her a sedative this morning, but even Father’s motions and speech were sluggish. Wednesday morning, Jewel, Catherine, and their families left again for London, and Uncle James left for the school of which he was headmaster outside Hath ersage, though Aunt Virginia stayed on. Without the distraction of so many visitors, sadness pressed down upon the house and settled into the corners.

Only the children were spared—Georgiana, and Bernard’s little Sally. Nanny Prescott and Agatha kept the two out in the garden as much as possible. Muriel envied their innocent ignorance of the trag edy.

Condolence letters arrived daily. Bernard and Aunt Virginia were the only ones to open them, though occasionally Mother would have one read aloud to her, then dissolve into tears. Muriel could not bring herself to read any, for what could anyone write that would make her grieve for Douglas any less? Bernard was mindful to inform her whenever a letter arrived from someone of her acquaintance, such as cast members from the Royal Court, Richard Whitmore, and even Charlotte Steel. Incredibly, there were even letters from some of Muriel’s neighbors on Belgrave Square.

Thursday morning, Muriel pretended to sleep while listening to Aunt Virginia dress. She was grateful when her aunt crept out of the room they shared without attempting to rouse her. She would stall going downstairs for as long as possible. Wallowing in misery left very little energy for comforting her parents, and the thought of fac ing everyone at breakfast was too fatiguing. But it was impossible to drift back into sleep again, now that the torturous thoughts were stirred
into activity, so she sat up against her pillows and worked on her lines from the playscript of
The Ticket-of-Leave Man.

“Come in,” she said a half hour later at the odd knocking that seemed to come from the bottom part of her door, as if from the toe of a shoe.

“Can’t.”

She pulled on her wrapper and crossed the room. Bernard stood in the corridor, balancing a tray upon each hand. He lowered one to show her a small pot of tea with cup and saucer and two thick slices of buttered toast resting upon a napkin. “Thought you might be hungry.”

“You dear,” she said, truly touched. She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

“Careful now,” he said, but with a pleased smile.

Muriel took the tray. “Who’s the other for?”

“Father.” One hand free, Bernard reached into his coat pocket. His expression grew anxious. “This came yesterday. I wasn’t sure if you were ready for it.”

“Who is—?” Muriel noticed the Hampstead return address and shook her head. “Thank you for breakfast, Bernard. But I’m not interested in anything she has to say.”

“Please, Muriel. What can it hurt to read it?”

“I can’t believe you’re
still
taking her side,” Muriel said. She jos tled the tray, causing a couple of drops of tea to leap from the spout. “He was your brother too. Your
twin,
for mercy’s sake!”

“I miss him as much as you do,” Bernard said with eyes redden ing. “But I refuse to make a
saint
of him!”

At the sound in the corridor, Bernard turned, and Muriel looked over his shoulder. Father stood blinking at them, the suit he wore yesterday wrinkled as if he had slept in it.

“I heard voices?” he murmured.

“Just delivering some breakfast, Father,” Bernard said.

Muriel softened her voice for her father’s sake, took the envelope. “Thank you, Bernard.”

But once Bernard stepped away, Muriel closed the door
and tore up the envelope without breaking the seal. Bethia Rayborn could send a thousand pages, begging forgiveness on every line, but Muriel would never forgive her for the misery upon her parents’ faces for as long as she lived.

“I want the stockings rolled, not folded,” Muriel instructed her mother’s maid, Florence, on Friday evening. Tomorrow would be one week since the memorial, and she, Georgiana, and Nanny Pres cott would be leaving.

“Very good, Lady Holt.”

Aunt Virginia was putting one of Muriel’s hats into a box, while Mother sat in the corner chair. The two sisters hardly looked related; Aunt Virginia, softly rounded and energetic despite her gray hair, and Mother, thin and fretful. The only remnant of beauty remaining were Mother’s dreamy brown eyes, but even now, pain and loss often dulled them to flatness.

“You don’t plan to go right back to work, do you Muriel?” Aunt Virginia asked.

“I’m afraid so,” Muriel replied.

“Can you not stay longer?” Mother came out of her lethargy long enough to ask.

Aunt Virginia nodded. “I’m sure Jewel and Grady appreciate your dedication. But they would understand if you took more time off.”

“I’m needed there.
Lady Audley’s Secret
closes next Saturday night. And we’re in rehearsals for the next show.”

She actually looked forward to all of it. Working all day, sleeping all night would allow very little time for gloomy thoughts. And she needed applause like an addict his opium.

“Jewel says Muriel’s a big hit,” Aunt Virginia said, trying to brighten Mother’s mood.

“Yes?” Mother said, but her expression had faded again, and Muriel knew that her thoughts were a long way from the theatre.

An hour later, when the women were downstairs, Muriel thought over Aunt Virginia’s words. While she grieved Douglas with all her heart, she could not help but wonder how
the critics would react to her returning to the stage so soon after suffering another tragic loss. Words like
courage
and
dedication
popped into her mind, followed by a tremendous rush of guilt.

I’d give it all up if you could be back here, Douglas!

From out of the gloom another thought struck her. She had the power to avenge his death. Not in a huge way, but a little revenge was better than no revenge at all.

“I’m afraid I’ll need to stay another week,” Muriel said into the telephone mouthpiece Saturday morning. “Mother and Father are still having a difficult time of it. I should be here for them.”

It was the absolute truth, she reminded herself, which eased her conscience over manipulating her cousin.

“We understand,” Jewel’s voice said over the line. “Stay as long as you need to.”

Of course Jewel would say that. But Muriel knew her well and could hear the disappointment she was so carefully attempting to conceal.

“I suppose Miss Hill is delighted for this opportunity.”

“I wouldn’t say
delighted
 . . .”

“Oh, you know what I mean,” Muriel said. “How is she doing?”

There was a hesitation, then an overenthusiastic, “She’s quite capable. She’s learned a lot from watching you. Attendance hasn’t fallen as dramatically as we had feared.”

But it’s fallen, nonetheless,
Muriel thought, replacing the receiver. Her absence was felt. That was all she needed to know. By the time she sat out another week, Jewel and Grady would be even more com mitted to her staying on at the Royal Court.