Love's a Stage (6 page)

Frances arrived home to find a note from Henrietta saying that she had gone to carry the dinner roast to the public bake oven. Mr. Bilge was shifting guiltily on his perch; a claw-shredded copy of
The Whole Duty of Man
lay at the base of the bookshelves. Frances set the book on a table, casting a look of misgiving at the parrot.

“There, now, that wasn’t the right thing to have done. I suppose, though, that you were only bored. Poor Mr. Bilge, was that it? I wonder how parrots like to be entertained. Pretty Polly?” she suggested.

“Bah!” said the parrot.

“If you find my conversation too insipid, perhaps you’d like a breath of fresh air!” Frances went to the window and worked open the sash. There was a rustle behind her, and a flap. As Frances turned back toward the parrot, he leaped from his perch and swooped airborne past her and out the window.

“Mr. Bilge! Come back!” cried Frances. As fast as she spoke, the parrot disappeared from sight.

Frances leaned out of the window, looking frantically up and down the street at the stone block of houses opposite, at the shifting kaleidoscope of traffic in the street beneath. An elderly blind man was strolling under her window, escorted by a pretty girl in a scarlet spencer jacket. There was a resonant thunder as a wagon heavy with newly minted bricks lumbered past, the smocked driver giving an idle pat to a long gray dog at his side. Next door, three workmen were trying valiantly to deliver a pianoforte through the narrow doorway of the house. London was preening itself outside her window; but the parrot was not. For all Frances knew, Mr. Bilge might already be winging his way back toward the Orient! Throwing open the wardrobe door, Frances grabbed her old cloak, let herself out of the apartment and ran down the open stair.

As she was reaching for the front door handle, the door to her right opened and the man her aunt had described as “young Rivington” stepped into the hallway.

In the more detailing light of day, Frances saw the shapely mass of brown curls, the cornflower-blue eyes. The red dressing gown was gone; a white linen shirt lay open at the neck; tan breeches were drape-molded to his narrow hips. A silk kerchief was knotted carelessly about his exposed throat, and Mr. Bilge, looking ridiculously smug, was perched high on one of his wide shoulders.

Rivington gave Frances a quick, teasing smile.

“Looking for someone?” he asked.

Memories of last night’s shame lent a light rose cast to Miss Atherton’s cheeks, much to her discomfort. She wondered what whimsy of sentiment should cause her to blush;
she
was the injured party!

In the easy intellect of Rivington’s glance and in his athletic unselfconscious posture she found his family resemblance to Mr. David, rather than in any similarity of features. It was only to be hoped that Mr. Rivington did not share his cousin’s want of principle. Intolerable to think that Mr. David might have repeated the tale of the offer he had made her to Rivington; perhaps they had laughed about it together. Intolerable, indeed! And how in the world had he come by the parrot?

Civility forced her to say, “Yes. I had opened the window and he swooped out before I had a chance to as much as take a breath. Thank you.”

The blue eyes shot her a glance. “For what, returning him? Henrietta won’t thank me, I promise you. When I returned him yesterday, she said that this time she’d hoped he’d met his end in some vagabond’s stewpot.”

Frances found no satire in the vivacious blue gaze. She relaxed slightly.

“This time?” she queried.

“Mr. Bilge has made more escapes than the Merry Men of Sherwood Forest. He sits on my ledge pecking at the pane until I let him in.” Sliding his wrist to the parrot’s feet, Rivington allowed the bird to step stiffly onto the soft white fabric of his cuff. He stroked the parrot’s head lightly with the back of his hand. “A funny fellow. Seems not to care for women.” The grin was wicked. “Too much time at sea. Sometimes these old sailors get a little odd.”

Frances permitted herself a responsive smile. “Henrietta did say that she thought Mr. Bilge something of a misogynist.”

“A virtual Simon Grump,” agreed Rivington. “When Henrietta tried to take him from me yesterday, the Honorable Bilge commanded me to throw her in the brig.” Rivington lifted one tan-trimmed boot to the bottom step. “I’ll carry him upstairs for you, if you like. He may be content with that.”

Frances began to follow Rivington up the stairs. “That’s very kind of you. In the future you might find Mr. Bilge a reformed character. I intend to teach him some more civil expressions; last night before bed I spent the better part of one half hour repeating ‘pretty boy’ to him.”

“And did he say it?”

“No,” admitted Frances, opening the door to her aunt’s apartment. She led the way to a small sitting room that housed the parrot’s perch. “And he didn’t relish me saying it to him much either. I’m afraid he has a shockingly irascible temper.” Frances watched Rivington settle Mr. Bilge and then said, hesitantly, “A fault for which I am in the greatest sympathy, being something of a tinderbox myself. I don’t know what you must have thought last night. . . .”

“I thought you were magnificent. And I thought you must have had a very good reason for being in a temper.” He gave Frances a playful shrug. “No, don’t bother to show me out, I know the way! Good afternoon!”

He had not quite reached the door when Frances called out, “Mr. Rivington?”

Whatever Mr. David’s reason (for Frances was unwilling to credit him with a shred of gentlemanly reserve) he seemed not to have shared what had passed between them with his cousin. If Mr. Rivington knew about the insult she had received, surely there would have been the vestige of strain in his manner toward her, at least a hint of sympathy, or amusement, or disgust—depending on his disposition. Miss Atherton assured herself that whatever curiosity she felt about what had been said between Mr. David and his cousin concerning her was due only to a very natural dislike of becoming the subject for crude jesting between two young men of fashion.

She gave herself a mental shake and determined to push the whole episode from her mind. Her paramount consideration must remain with her pursuit of Edward Kennan. Let Mr. Rivington become her first source of inquiry!

“If you have a moment?” asked Frances, trying to keep her tone casual. “I should like to know . . .” No, that wouldn’t do, much too direct. She had better offer some sort of explanation first. It would sound more natural. “This is my first visit to London and there are so many things that I’d like to see! For instance, the world of the theater has always fascinated me.” Never in her life had she felt more awkward. Frances could only hope that, in time, lying would come more easily. “One hears so much of the great Edward Kennan. Where would I be able to see him?” There. It was out. A little too abruptly, perhaps, but there was nothing she could do about that now. Still, Rivington seemed to find nothing odd in her wish.

“That’s easy enough to do,” he replied promptly. “Kennan’s company is at the Drury Lane Theatre—they’ll open a new play in a fortnight with Kennan in a leading role.”

A fortnight! Each day’s delay marked one day longer of her father’s confinement. “I can’t wait that long,” said Frances with dismay. “That is,” she added quickly, “I can’t wait because I may have to leave London by then!”

A smile returned to his crisp blue eyes. “If it’s so urgent then, I could introduce you.”

“You could?” gasped Frances, horrified that she might have gabbed her interest in Kennan to one of his friends. She mustn’t take the chance, not the slightest chance, that Kennan would be put on his guard. “Do you know Mr. Kennan well?”

Frances was not a swooner, but so intense was her relief, she felt something approaching one when Rivington said:

“No. I see him at parties once in a while. He’s not someone I’d care to spend a lot of time with. His head’s more swollen than a goose belly on the day before Christmas. I do know him well enough to introduce you.”

“An introduction is not quite what I would like, Mr. Rivington,” said Frances, after mulling the idea in her mind. “What I need is to meet Mr. Kennan without his becoming aware that I want to meet him.”

The blue eyes shone with laughter. “I think that David was right about you.”

Miss Atherton froze. “Indeed?” she inquired, her back poker-stiff. “In what way, may I ask?”

Observing without comment the effect David’s name had on her, he strolled to Frances and gave one long brown curl a gentle tweak. “Merely that you are a very unusual girl.” He studied her for a moment and then said, “This is important to you, isn’t it? Very important? Not just a fascination with the theater, either, is it?”

“That’s all true,” admitted Miss Atherton, vexed at being so easily seen through. “I
hope
I can trust you, because this is a matter of the utmost gravity.”

Grinning, he said, “The
ut
most?”

“Yes, the utmost,” returned Miss Atherton, nettled. “If you can’t help me, it’s all very well—but I wish you would not stand there making fun of me. I am quite aware that the more seriously I take myself, the more people like to tease me. I can’t help that, because I’ve had a great many things on my mind lately. Under more normal circumstances, I’m as ready to enjoy a joke as the next person.”

He heard her out with an appreciative smile. “Why is it that I’m getting the notion that whatever it is you’re planning, you’re in over your head? Tell me, how far are you willing to go to implement this scheme of yours?”

Frances considered this. “I’d do almost anything.” After a moment she added, “Except murder someone. I wouldn’t do anything like
that,
of course.”

“My, my, you are determined, aren’t you? Very well. Let’s see if this appeals to you. Tomorrow afternoon the Drury Lane Company will audition for a new cast member—they need a female to fill their ingenue roles since Jeannie Milford eloped last week with Baron de Borchgrave. Kennan
may
come. It’s worth a try. Do you think you’d be able to pretend you wanted to audition?”

Miss Atherton’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. She brought her fist against her palm with a decisive smack. “Easily! Because I wouldn’t be pretending! I do want to audition. It would be the very thing! If I joined the company, I’d be able to see Kennan every day, would I not?”

“Most days. All cast members are required to attend every rehearsal. But will it do you any good to join the company when you have to leave London so soon?”

Frances looked at Rivington from under serious brows. “That, I’m afraid, was a lie.”

Frances found a promising ally in Mr. Rivington; sufficiently interested to offer some salient suggestions, sufficiently disinterested (or perhaps too well mannered) to demand explanations. She had taken the precaution of swearing him to silence. He had responded with the cordial proclamation that ravens were welcome to pluck out his eyes if he should utter a syllable of Frances’ interest in Kennan. Despite her reassurance on this head, however, it was inevitable that the weeds of doubt would begin to grow in Frances’ hastily cultivated plot, especially after Aunt Sophie’s forceful representations against it. Certainly there were respectable people connected with the theater! Aunt Sophie would not deny it, but she didn’t hesitate to add that by and large they were a
fast
group, immoderate in their use of laudanum and hard spirits. It was not the atmosphere for an impressionable young lady! Ignoring Frances’ protest that she was
not
impressionable, Aunt Sophie went on to say that, still worse, the theater was the hunting ground for the wolfish bucks of the aristocracy, who could be depended upon to evoke temptation in the most virtuous of feminine breasts. Since it was Frances’ considered opinion that if she could resist the temptation of a man as captivating as Mr. David, she was hardly likely to yield to what would surely be the inferior attractions of any other male that Fate should throw her way, Frances was able to dismiss this objective to her plans, telling her aunt simply that forewarned was forearmed. When Aunt Sophie pointed out that no upright youth was likely to take to wife a young woman who had mixed freely in so degraded a circle, Frances wondered aloud that her great-aunt could think so self-interested a consideration could inhibit her from her duty to dear Papa.

That was enough for Aunt Sophie! She said cordially that she guessed she’d done what she could to dissuade Frances from exposing herself to the Corrupting Influence of the stage and offered to drop her niece by the Drury Lane Theatre the next afternoon on her way to the corsetier.

*     *     *

The next day, when Frances arrived at the theater, she discovered the spare neoclassical façade that Mr. Wyatt had designed not many years ago in the wake of a disastrous fire to be rather disappointingly covered in the layer of dark chimney soot that disfigured the other public buildings she had seen in London. Aunt Sophie told her that the parish had the perilous task of scrubbing down St. Paul’s on an annual basis; most other architectural monuments, no matter the time and expense spent on their construction, were allowed to grow blacker and blacker. It was the way of a great city.

Frances dodged a brewer’s dray as she followed a tight side alley to the back door through which Rivington had advised her to enter.

She was admitted by a husky youth in knee breeches, who directed her up a wide circular staircase to the stage. Once at the top, a landing rank with the odor of tallow candles led to a large pair of open doors. Stepping through them, Frances found herself in the cramped stretch of the wings looking out toward the stage. To her right was the heavy iron curtain, widely touted as the latest in fire prevention. To her left and at the rear of the stage, a trio of carpenters were building a high scaffold, hammering and sawing thunderously under the direction of a harassed-looking man who was staring stark-eyed at an unrolled sheet of stage direction.

A group of some ten young women stood just outside the wing. They were a willowy, animated group, talking to each other with vivid sweeping gestures and affected voices, pointedly indifferent to a lively girl with auburn hair who was auditioning on the stage apron, giving a cheerful rendition of the popular ditty “Birds Can’t Fall and Fishes Don’t Drown.”