They call her Dana (48 page)

"Good leading men are hard to come by," Jason told her. "Mike's a pleasant fellow, natural and unassuming, down-to-earth. You'd never take him for an actor. No temperament whatsoever."

"Just quick on the trigger," she said.

The wry smile widened on his mouth, and amusement actually sparkled in the gray-green eyes. Loose-limbed, lanky, he lounged there across from us in those disreputable clothes, and although I disliked him intensely, I had to admit that he was utterly intriguing. Laura had told me that he wrote all the plays they performed himself, so he must be very gifted, I thought. You would never guess it from the looks of him.

"Has Jackson done all the booking?" she inquired.

Jason nodded. "Everything's set up. He did unusually well for us, got us three full weeks in Savannah this time."

"What about Atlanta?"

"Afraid not."

"It figures," she said.

"One day we'll play Atlanta," he promised her. "One day we'll take over the National Theater for the entire season. I'm going to write a play that'll bowl them over. They'll be clam-

oring to have us. One day Donovan's is going to be the most famous company in the country.''

"And one day pigs will undoubtedly sprout wings and fly. What are we doing this season?''

' 'Sweetheart of the West, The Captive Bride—iVs new, I just finished the last act three weeks ago, marvelous part for you, a wicked courtesan determined to marry the heir, poisons all the competition, gets impaled in the last scene. We're also doing Purple Nights, Lord Roderick's Revenge—''

"r/i^r old turkey?"

"Audiences love it. It's a very well-made play. Lena Marlow, The Three Musketeers—''

"The Three Musketeers?" I interrupted. "I read that novel. I loved it. Alexandre Dumas must be very pleased to have it on the stage."

"Alexandre Dumas doesn't know anything about it," he informed me, "and you keep quiet about it."

"You mean you—you just stole his book and turned it into a play?"

"I prefer not to use that word. My version is much better than his, more passion, less swordplay. Milady de Winter seduces all the musketeers."

"It sounds like a winner," I said dryly.

"Everyone's a critic," he grumbled.

Laura and Jason continued to discuss business, and I looked out the window at the rain-swept streets. Memphis seemed vast, much more spacious than New Orleans, with wider streets, the houses and buildings not so crowded up. Through the swirling gray sheets of rain I saw lots of greenery and lofty trees and old frame houses set back behind lawns with picket fences in front. Life here must be more casual, more neighborly, I thought. It was hard for me to believe that I was in Tennessee, even harder to believe that I had just been accepted as the new ingenue in Jason Donovan's theatrical company. What would he do to me when he discovered I couldn't act? I preferred not to think about it.

The rain hadn't slackened a bit when, ten minutes later, the carriage came to a halt in front of one of the large frame houses with a wide verandah. The house was painted yellow, I saw through the rain, with white trim. Shrubs grew around the verandah, and two tall trees shaded the currendy sodden front

lawn. The driver climbed down from his perch and, holding the huge black umbrella up, opened the door and hurriedly escorted Laura and me to the safety of the verandah. The umbrella protected us from most of the rain, although our skirts were splattered. Jason Donovan was left to bring in all our bags, and it served him right, I thought, following Laura into the house. We found ourselves in a cozy front foyer with mahogany wainscot-ting and a faded wine-colored carpet. Lamps glowed pleasantly despite the hour, revealing archways leading into other rooms and, at the rear of the foyer, a wide staircase with mahogany banister leading up to the second floor.

An excessively handsome, very young man was tripping nimbly down the steps, humming to himself. Seeing us, he stopped, slammed a hand to his heart and pretended to swoon. He had thick, floppy blond hair, merry brown eyes and a beautifully shaped pink mouth. His feamres were clean-cut and almost too perfect. Young men weren't supposed to be so absurdly good-looking. He wore black leather slippers, gray breeches, a white shirt and, over them, a maroon satin dressing robe with black satin lapels and cuffs, this outlandish garment tied loosely at the waist with a maroon satin sash. Recovering from his false swoon, he waved, blew kisses and tripped on down the stairs, hurrying toward us. He reminded me of a naughty seraphim. He couldn't be all of twenty.

"Laura!" he exclaimed in a surprisingly deep voice. "You're back! Have you any idea how I've missed you? Ail the long, lonely nights I've spent pining, with only my pillow for company. Quick! To my bedroom! We must recapture the splendor at once!"

"Your ardor overwhelms me," she said.

"You look ravishing, poppet, even if you are drenched."

"You look outrageous. Where'd you get the robe?"

"A lady friend gave it to me. Splendid, isn't it?"

"Blinding."

"How was our Melinda?"

"Sassy as ever. Running her own hat shop. Divinely happy to be away from Jason Donovan and company. Billy, I want you to meet Dana O'Malley. She's our new ingenue. This is Billy Barton, Dana. I told you about him."

"Lies," he said, "all lies. Don't believe a word she said. I'll marry you if I must, but I'd much rather have a mad, passionate

affair, beginning immediately. Let's haste to my bedroom. I'll help you out of those wet clothes and teach you the real meaning of bliss."

"I never sleep with men who haven't started shaving," I told him.

"I've been shaving for over a decade!" he protested.

"You started at age seven?"

Billy Barton grinned. "She's sharp, Laura. I like her. Welcome to the company, poppet," he told me. "I really should hate you, you know. Jason has finally managed to hire someone prettier than I am."

"That's debatable," I said.

"I do like her," Billy declared. "What fun to have someone lively to romance and terrorize onstage. Maisie had no wit whatsoever, and there was that unfortunate overbite. She managed to nab herself a rich banker, nevertheless. You, my lovely, will probably capture a king."

He gave Laura an exuberant hug and then, to my total amazement, hugged me, too, as friendly and inoffensive as a puppy. Theater people were certainly demonstrative and free with endearments, I thought.

"I'm on my way to the kitchen," he confided. "I hope to steal a snack before lunch. Breakfast was inedible, children. Soggy scrambled eggs and stewed mushrooms. Guess what we're having for lunch."

"Corned beef and cabbage," I said.

He arched a brow. "You're psychic?"

"I have a keen sense of smell."

At this point the front door flew open and a thoroughly drenched, thoroughly disgruntled Jason Donovan staggered in with our bags. The three of us stood watching as he dropped the bags, shook himself like a wolfhound and shoved dripping wet black locks from his brow. He grumbled. He glared. Billy scurried off through one of the archways, maroon satin flapping, and Laura tactfully informed her cousin that he was dripping all over the carpet. He shouted a reply that should have brought a blush to my cheeks. I had heard worse in the swamps, though not often. Laura merely smiled at his obscenity.

"Temper, love. So sweet of you to bring in our bags. You'd better run up and change into some dry clothes. Can't have our

resident playwright and manager coming down with pneumonia."

Jason spluttered another reply almost as obscene and marched past us, shaking water with every step. Laura followed him with fond eyes as he went up the stairs with, I thought, an unnecessary amount of stomping. I doubted seriously that any of his "artists" possessed a more volatile temperament than he did himself. I had the curious feeling that I had stepped into a madhouse.

"What was all that ruckus about?" a tiny, squeaking voice inquired.

I turned to see a tiny, round-cheeked, drab little woman standing in one of the archways. She wore a drab brown dress and had drab gray hair worn in a severe bun, but the blue eyes twinkling behind a pair of thick spectacles were unusually lively and filled with good humor.

"Jason," Laura said.

"Oh dear, look at my carpet."

"Jason," Laura repeated.

"What a relief. I feared it might be Theodore. I happen to know Bartholomew hasn't let him out since it started raining."

"Theodore is Bartholomew's dog," Laura explained. "This is Birdie. Birdie, I'd like for you to meet Dana O'Malley, our new ingenue. She's come with me from New Orleans."

"Enchanted, I'm sure," Birdie squeaked. "No overbite," she added, studying me closely. "I do hope you're comfortable here. Miss O'Malley. I'm afraid we're a bit short of help at the moment. My best girl quit last week. 'I came here to sweep floors and make beds, Miss Birdie, not to be pinched on the backside every time I turn around,' Adele told me as she handed in her apron."

"Billy?" Laura asked.

"Bartholomew," Birdie replied.

"Who would have thought it?"

"The new girl is built like an ox and unfortunately moves like one, too. She's terribly slow, but she has yet to complain of untoward behavior from one of the guests. You have your old room. Miss Laura. The one right across the hall from it was reserved for Miss Maisie. I'll have Bertha bring your bags up."

"The big one is mine," Laura said. "The other two are Dana's."

"Both of you could probably use a nice hot bath. I'll make arrangements."

"You're a darling, Birdie."

"I do try. I don't know why everyone objects to theatrical folk. It's a bit taxing, I'll admit, but so much more interesting than taking in dull spinsters and fussy old bachelors. I'm rarely bored."

She made a vague gesture and wandered away, and Laura and I went upstairs. The house was large and sprawling and redolent of camphor and beeswax, face powder and cooking, corned beef and cabbage prevalent at the moment. Blue wallpaper with faded purple flowers covered the walls of the upstairs corridor, and a shabby purple-gray rug covered the floor. The floorboards squeaked. The place was anything but grand, I mused, but it was surprisingly pleasant, particularly with the rain pounding on the roof. As we moved past an open doorway, a crisp, cracking voice called out to us, and we stopped. Laura smiled warmly as an old woman in a flamboyant purple frock came out into the hall.

I tried not to gape. Imposingly tall and as skinny as a bean pole, the woman had blazing red curls stacked untidily on top of her head and a ruined, sagging face garishly painted: eyelids deep mauve, cheeks bright pink, lips a vivid scarlet. The curls couldn't possibly be real, and the paint couldn't possibly conceal the cruel inroads of time, but there was something vital and youthful about her nevertheless. Her emerald-green eyes were shrewd, witty and intelligent, and although she might look like a painted old scarecrow, she exuded authority and a striking presence. Commanding was the word for her, I thought. There was no way you could possibly ignore her.

"You're back, I see," the woman said.

"Hale and hearty," Laura replied.

"I feared you'd succumb to the temptations of New Orleans, duckie. I was afraid you'd decide to abandon us and live in lovely sin with a handsome Creole dandy or some wealthy planter with a mustache. Knowing Melinda, she tried her best to match you up with someone."

' 'She tried,'' Laura confessed. "The Creole dandy had a wife and two children. The planter had a paunch. I passed."

"Very sensible of you," the woman declared "Don't despair,

duckie. One day your knight in shining armor will arrive right on cue."

Her voice, while cracking, had unusual resonance and, had she wished it to be, could have been heard all the way across the street. It was crisp and dramatic, despite the shaky tremolo, with an undeniable British accent. This must be Mrs. Helena Oliphant, Laura's beloved OUie.

"And who have we here?" she asked, examining me with those brilliant emerald eyes.

"This is my friend Dana O'Malley," Laura said.

Ollie extended a thin, wrinkled but elegant hand. "Mrs. Helena Oliphant," she said. "Delighted to meet you, duckie."

I shook her hand, slightly intimidated.

"We're going to need your help, Ollie. Dana has never even been inside a theater and—well, I lied outrageously to Jason and he has taken her on as our new ingenue.''

Ollie slowly arched one caustic brow. "There's a story behind this, I assume."

"I'll tell you everything later, love."

Those shrewd emerald-green eyes swept over me again, taking in each detail of my dress and person.

"So you want to go on the stage?" she asked crisply.

"Not really," I confessed. "This was all Laura's idea. I was prepared to go to work at an emporium in St. Louis, selling ribbons or gloves behind one of the counters.''

"And a shocking waste it would have been," Ollie declared. "You have incredible beauty and a very good voice. We'll have to work on projection, but I can foresee no problems there. No presence, not yet, too timid, unsure of yourself, but that can be fixed, too."

"In three weeks?" Laura asked.

"Shortly after I arrived in America with Sir Cyril Hampton-Croft's company and that rogue absconded and left us stranded in Washington, I opened a school for the spoiled, empty-headed daughters of diplomats who were always doing amateur theatrics. I taught 'elocution' and 'expression' and I turned a number of them into competent thespians—it was uphill work, children, believe me. We have much more to work with in this instance."

"You think we can do it?"

"Give me three weeks," Ollie said grandly, "and I could teach a block of wood to act. We'll do it, duckie. After all, our

Maisie was no Sarah Siddons. Any chit of a girl who can memorize lines and make herself heard onstage could do as good a job."

"My sentiments exactly, love."

"The company rehearsals don't begin until next week. We'll begin tomorrow morning—in the back parlor, I think. No one ever goes there, and we wouldn't want Jason to know what's afoot."