Love's a Stage (7 page)

The other young women on the stage must be auditioners also, decided Frances. Their poise bespoke The Professional. And their appearance? It bespoke a word Frances was much too inhibited to have ever uttered. Red-tipped toenails peeped from the glittered thongs of their sandals, though the theater was cold and haunted by sucking drafts. Rouge was smeared gaudily across the young women’s cheeks and their eyelashes were suspiciously profuse.

Mme. Dominique—ignorant that Frances would wear one of her creations to audition for London’s most prominent theatrical company—had dressed Frances more
à la jeune fille
than
femme fatale
. Frances’ own gown of lemon India muslin with a skirt embroidered in white was pretty in its way, but it was neither so startlingly low cut nor so gracefully clinging as the gowns of the women before her. Some of the young women had gone so far toward the display of their charms that they appeared to have worn nothing at all beneath their gowns! Frances was forced to avert shocked eyes. The young actresses had carefully fashionable coiffures that were styled with crimped curls stacked high at the crown, testimonials to the talents of their hairdressers. Frances knew her own long soft brown hair tied neatly with a yellow satin ribbon must look dowdy and childish in comparison.

It was not surprising that Frances began to wonder what naïve confidence had encouraged her to hope that she could gain admittance to so rarefied and alien a world as the London theater. A few of the actresses had turned to direct curious hostile glances at her, and well they might! Who was she? A parson’s daughter from a fishing village whose most outstanding public appearance had been caroling on Christmas Eve. She had nothing to offer this intense breed of artistic sophisticates. In over her head, Mr. Rivington had said, and he had been right.

A loose-limbed man in his early thirties crossed the stage from the opposite wing. He talked to one of the actresses, bending forward to hear her replies and nervously stroking his lank dark hair off his forehead. After a moment, he gave the girl a familiar pat on an area objectionably low on her back and walked over to Frances.

“Everyone I expected to come has already come,” he said. “So. I’m Charles Scott, assistant manager. Who are you?”

In yesterday’s unmerited spirit of optimism, Frances had planned to use a false name on the theory that if it somehow came to pass that she was introduced to Edward Kennan, he wouldn’t (if he were, in fact, the Blue Specter) be able to connect her with the man that he had caused to be falsely imprisoned. Brightcastle was the name she had chosen, Miss Brightcastle being the maudlin heroine in the serialized romance from
Lady’s Monthly Museum
that Pam read to keep her sisters amused during Tuesday evening mending. Easy enough to think of a pseudonym yesterday. Today under the skeptical gray eyes of Charles Scott, Frances felt like a fool and an imposter to give it utterance. Still, she screwed her courage to the sticking point and said:

“Frances Brightcastle.”

“Well, well. Brightcastle. Never heard of you, my dear,” he said shortly.

“John Rawson sent me.” John Rawson was the theater manager who had been, according to Mr. Rivington, recuperating from influenza at his country home in Surrey. It was safe enough, surely, to give his name.

Scott raised his eyebrows cynically. “I had a letter from him this morning and he didn’t mention you.” His tone made the words a challenge.

Rivington, predicting some variant of this reaction, had advised her to shrug. She did so, feeling awkward.

“Little liar,” observed Scott. “But I don’t care. It’s nothing to me, if you want to parade your stuff on the boards. You can go on last. Don’t get your hopes up, though. We’ve about made up our minds to give the part to Theresa Sea—the redheaded piece who’s singing.”

He left her abruptly. Frances took several steps forward along the curtain edge until she could see into the sunken area in front of the stage. The singer had been playing toward a group of men and women seated there. Frances could see no one among them who might have been Edward Kennan, but her attention was momentarily caught by a beautiful woman standing at the end of the row. The woman was reed-slender with gypsy-black curls lifted off a high, proud neck. A gown colored the tone of a pale alexandrite was draped off her sloping shoulders and molded carefully over her shapely form on its way to the floor. She was standing behind a seated man, her elbows resting lightly on his shoulders, her long hands loosely clasped. Even at the distance, Frances saw the sparkle of the diamonds that adorned her fingers. The man in front of her had golden hair, a uniquely rich color that caught the light from a taper burning at the stage corner. As Frances watched, the woman leaned forward and blew gently on the golden hair, sending it rippling like a rye field kissed by the summer breeze. Turning so that Frances saw his face, he shared a lover’s smile with the woman behind him. David, thought Frances, almost gasping the name aloud. David, David, Mr. David. There was no mistake. He was the man who had helped her find her way to Aunt Sophie’s house.

Frances felt a sharp internal constriction, as though a small earthquake had lodged its epicenter in her middle. Again, as with the first time she had seen the man, Frances was forced to confront the rather frightening revelation that she, that paragon of self-command, could be susceptible to a powerful physical attraction. No one, not her silly sweet-tempered Mama, nor her dedicated, intellectual Papa, had prepared her for the possibility that a young lady of hitherto unassailable virtue could be affected in that way by a gentleman she barely knew and who, moreover, had proven himself to be undeserving of her trust and friendship. Somehow, it could be no comfort that the beautiful woman behind him was obviously a victim of the same ailment.

The “redheaded piece” finished singing, and after exchanging a few words with Scott, came to stand near the iron fire curtain, tapping her foot impatiently as the next hopeful took the stage.

“I beg your pardon,” Frances said to her, “I wonder if you know who that man is there, in the pit? The blond man?”

The actress regarded Frances with an expression that Frances’ brother Joe would not have hesitated to characterize as snooty.

“That,” she said, in a voice that informed Frances that she found it painful to have to converse with so ignorant a hayseed, “is Lord Landry. I trust you recognize the name?”

Frances did of course. Lord Landry was the premier playwright of the modern theater. One saw his name in columns of literary review, where he was hailed as the new Molière, the new Sheridan. He was an aristocrat, a man so wealthy that it was unnecessary for him to set his hand to work to command life’s every luxury; he wrote for the sheer joy of it and donated what he earned from his writing to a charitable foundation for retired actors and actresses. It had always sounded so good, in the shallow and fawning news coverage. Frances found herself staring at Lord Landry in blank astonishment.

“I would have thought,” she said, “that a famous playwright would be an older man.”

“Stately, with a touch of gray at the temples?” responded the actress. Her smile was a sneer, but as she turned from Frances to look at Lord Landry, her smile became wider and more natural. “Beautiful, isn’t he?”

Useless to deny it, Lord Landry was beautiful, or whatever its male equivalent.

“And the lady he’s talking to?” asked Frances, promising herself this was the
last
question she would ask about Lord Landry. “That’s not—good heavens—that’s not his
wife?
”

“You are green, aren’t you? He hasn’t got a wife. That’s Sheila Grant. Yes,
that
Sheila Grant, Drury Lane’s leading lady. She and Landry have been lovers for years. She adores him, but so many other women do, too. No one’s been able to hold him exclusively.”

“A reprehensible history,” said Frances with some heat. She could connect them now—the man who had helped her find her aunt’s home and Lord Landry. A playwright? Yes, she could believe it. The lively mind, the ready wit . . . she reflected bitterly that he was probably cataloguing her in his artist’s mind for some future satire. Prudence Sweetsteeple, the village bumpkin. And she would have to audition in front of him. It was no good to hope that he had forgotten her. Frances did not flatter herself that she would long hold a place in his memory, but only two days had passed. His clever mind, no matter how promiscuous, would retain her image for that long at least. She could leave the theater, nothing prevented her, yet she had not seen Kennan. Surely that was, must always be, her primary objective. The longer she could make an excuse to remain at the Drury Lane, the greater the chance she could see Kennan.

But displaying her meager talents before Lord Landry would be a severe trial. Frances had come to London with the resolve to do whatever was necessary to restore her father’s freedom. Never had she suspected, however, that her courage would be challenged in quite so personal or humiliating a manner. Anything for Papa’s sake—but oh, how Landry’s brilliant green eyes would sparkle with laughter at her expense.

She waited behind the veiling fire curtain, hoping Kennan would arrive, hoping she would be able to have a look at him, before she botched her audition and had no further excuse to remain at the theater. The girls before her went one by one through their paces, with each depressingly adept at comedy, tragedy, the opera. It was not easy for Frances to mount the stage when Charles Scott called her name. She had brought Juliet’s dying speech to read, the morose mood of which was well suited to her current humor. This, unfortunately, didn’t seem to help her speak the part with anything approaching realism. Perhaps it was the effort she had to make to avoid looking in Lord Landry’s direction; her voice sounded artificial and nervous, even to herself, and her emphasis seemed to fall on the wrong words.

It came as no surprise fifteen minutes later when the name Scott announced as having won the part was not her own; it went to Theresa Sea, as he had predicted earlier.

There was a chattering commotion. A spindle-legged buck dressed with foppish extravagance left his seat in the pit and came to give Theresa a congratulatory toss in the air. Disappointed hopefuls donned redingotes and bonnets, leaving the stage in groups of twos and threes. Taking what she prayed was an inconspicuous glance at the pit, Frances saw no Kennan. She was careful to take no interest in the fact that Lord Landry was no longer there.

She took as much time as she dared putting on her cape, tying the ribbons of her new pink and pine-green Breath o’ Life bonnet, watching the pit, hoping that Kennan would come. Soon though, even the group in the pit began to break up, its occupants drifting away chatting. It was apparent that Kennan was not coming to the theater today.

Theresa, standing with her waist cuddled by her skinny beau, finished a consultation with Charles Scott, who strode off to a portable desk in the opposite wing. A woolly-haired boy in his early teens appeared with a cup of steaming coffee. Scott flipped the boy a coin and stood sipping at the contents of the cup while thumbing moodily through the small mountain of papers strewn about on his desk. Hard coffee smell mixed with the odor of fresh wood shavings that were falling beneath the saw of a stage carpenter as Frances approached Scott.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Scott,” said Frances, at once wishing that she thought of another way than that prissily correct formality to begin the conversation. “I know that I didn’t read well this afternoon, but I’m positive that there must be something that I could do in your company. I’ve had experience in the theater . . .”

“My eye and Betty Martin!” flashed Scott, recognizing the lie. “Frankly, I don’t get the feeling that you’ve had experience at much of anything—you’ve been looking around like a barn mouse in a cat’s nest. Take my advice and go home to your mama.”

Frances indulged in some very unchristian thoughts about her attitude toward clever men before saying, “I would be happy for even a tiny part.” She held up her thumb and forefinger close together, demonstrating the insignificance of the role she had in mind.

“Miss Brightcastle,” Scott whispered in an attitude of lending a helpful hint, “even a tiny part takes talent. In the bit you chose, Juliet was dying; you read it as though she were already a ten-hour corpse.”

Frances bore the snub as well as she was able. “Perhaps you could use someone to do mending? I would be willing to work for very little money.”

“This city reeks with chits who are willing to do mending for very little money. I can’t help you.”

Scott turned from her to his cup and his pile of papers. While Frances might be Dogged Determination incarnate, she could recognize a lost cause when she saw one. Knowing herself to be dismissed, she turned to leave, and bumped suddenly and distressingly into Lord Landry. Her recall was quick and clumsy; she bounced back against Scott’s arm and heard him swear as hot coffee splashed on his hand.

“Miss Brightcastle,” said Lord Landry, laying an emphasis on her surname that told her clearly that he had not forgotten she had given him a different one not two days earlier. His knowing eyes enfolded her in their warm green glow. “How charming to stumble into you again.”

Frances saw Scott glance at her with some surprise and a dawning interest. He looked toward Landry to study the famous playwright’s expression with academic curiosity. Then Scott said:

“Friend of yours, Landry?”

A slow, sensual smile curled on Lord Landry’s lips. His gaze never left Frances’ face. “She might be,” his voice was gentle, “if she wanted.”

Fresh hot color swam to Miss Atherton’s cheeks. She almost choked on her fury, and when the words did come, they tumbled out in shaky haste. “It was bad enough that you made that offer to me in private! It’s nothing short of infamous that you should repeat it in public!”

Frances could see that her words had contained a misleading emphasis when Scott responded with barely lifted brows and drawled:

“Oh, I’m deaf, don’t worry; just like talking to a peach pit.” He gave Frances’ shoulder a squeeze with one wide, raw-boned hand. “You didn’t tell me you were Lord Landry’s friend, Miss Brightcastle. Naturally, that changes your situation.”