But From Thine Eyes

by Christina Britton Conroy

  Elly shook her head tearfully. “No.” She looked to Katherine for support. Katherine’s complexion had gone white. She shrugged noncommittally. Elly looked at the steaming tea, then at Isabelle. She clenched her jaw. “Yes!”

  “Good girl.” Sighing with relief, Isabelle took Elly in her arms, and held her for a long time. The girl’s racing heart slowed, as she drew strength from the older woman. Isabelle released her, and handed her the teacup.

  Staring at the murky brew, Elly recited, “Romeo, I come! This do I drink to thee.”

  The older women laughed at Elly’s humor and courage.

  Without another word, Elly took a deep breath and drank the bitter potion.

  Chapter 10

  It was dark when Rory and Elly walked up Charles II Street toward Mrs. Potter’s boardinghouse. She felt like Cinderella after midnight. The pumpkin had been left in a mansion at Hamilton Place and wicked stepsisters waited upstairs. Rather than racing to her rescue, Prince Charming Rory was counting the hours until he could move out. Looking up, she was relieved to see that the windows of her room were dark. Perhaps Meg and Peg were still away.

  If she lived through tonight, tomorrow held three new adventures: 10:00 costume shop, 12:00 wig shop, 1:00 acting class. First thing tomorrow she would have to find boiling water and brew her dreaded elixir.

  Rory carried a shabby suitcase Isabelle’s maid found in a storage room. Inside were one of Elly’s clean frocks and the package of rags. Elly wanted to run back to Isabelle, now. She wanted to be little Bella, hugged tight in her mother’s arms. Rory put down the suitcase and took Elly’s hand. “What happened tonight?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Before tea, you were a butterfly. I thought Sir William was going to order you served on toast.” She laughed nervously, and he pulled her closer. “After Lady Richfield took you upstairs, you were totally different. What happened?”

  She shook her head, took the suitcase, and hurried into the house.

  Peter, Mrs. Lynn, Lester, Todd, Meg, and Peg warmed themselves around the meager drawing room fire. They exchanged greetings, and Elly met Peg’s icy glare. Hiding the suitcase behind her coat, she lit a candle stub, climbed to the attic, and left the case in a corner.

  Back down stairs, the door to her room creaked as she opened it, tiptoed in, and shut it behind her. She planned to undress, hurry into bed, and pretend to be asleep when the other girls came up. The room was dark, but her candle flame easily lit her way to the wardrobe. A soft hiss made her jump. She looked around. “Hello?” All she could see were dark shadows. “Is anyone there?” She moved her candle, looking in all directions.

  “Hiss-s-s-s-s!”

  Elly froze. Her skin tingled with cold. “Who’s there? ...Please! …Is it Peg? ... I mean, Marguerite?” Shivering, she looked around again, then hurried toward the door.

  The hissing voice was in front of her. “What in bloody ‘ell you doin’, Princess?”

  Elly lurched back, her throat was in her mouth.

  The voice seemed to be moving. “I cam up t’ see ‘ow you was makin’ out, and you become invisible. Bloody enchantment i’ was, Princess… Where y’ been?... Eh?”

  Elly couldn’t see more than a few feet on either side. She could hardly breathe. “I can’t see you. The light’s very bad.”

  “The light’s all righ’. I’m just invisible, like you.” The voice was very close and Elly looked around frantically.

  “That’s Peg isn’t it?” She tried to smile. “Marguerite?” There was no response. “That’s your witch voice, isn’t?” She turned in circles. “You were marvelous in the play.” There was no sound, and her own voice crackled with fear. “I saw it twice... I didn’t get a chance to tell you… You’re a wonderful actress… Marguerite? ...Where are you? ...Why are you doing this?” She laughed nervously. “Isn’t Hide-And-Seek a children’s game? Is there another candle?”

  A huge flame exploded in front of her face. She screamed and fell back onto the floor. Thick smoke filled the air and the stink of burning oil made her cough. All at once, four lit candles floated in midair. Peg was in the center -- like a dark goddess.

  Seconds later, the door burst open. Rory rushed in, saw Peg surrounded by fire, and Elly on the floor.

  Peg held out her arms and smiled. “Hello, Rory.” Her diction was suddenly upper-class.

  He ran to help Elly as Todd, Lester, and Peter hurried through the door. They all stopped dead, watching the unholy vision.

  Peg forced a theatrical laugh. “Hello chaps! I’ve been showing Miss Fielding some of Jamie Jamison’s Pyro-Magic. Do you want to watch the show?”

  Elly stared straight ahead, her face deathly white. She felt herself being lifted up, and heard Rory say, “Get her out of here.” Todd carried her downstairs. Lester followed.

  *

  Peter picked up a blackened torch. “Peg! You stupid fool! You could have burned the house down.”

  Rory ran to open the one unbroken window. A cold blast whirled the smoke in ghostly circles. He turned back and saw Satan’s black-eyed mistress, surrounded by flames.

  Peter said, “Come on, old chap, let’s not make matters worse.”

  “Not to worry, Peter. I’m not going to kill her. Not just now.” Rory’s beautifully modulated voice made Peg gasp.

  Peter rushed to him. “Rory boy, enough bad’s been done tonight…”

  “Not quite enough…”

  The color drained from Peg’s face. She stepped backwards, knocking over a chair and a jar of kerosene at her feet. It spilled on the floor and nauseating fumes filled the room. She threw back her head and smiled. “Why Rory, you look like a wolf tonight.”

  “And what are you?” He started toward her and Peter stepped between them.

  “Come on Rory, boy. Keep your wits about you.”

  “Don’t worry Peter. I have no intention of swinging from a rope in Newgate. Not for this piece of filth. Be a good chap and give us a bit of privacy.”

  Peg cocked her head. “That’s right Peter. Be a good chap and leave a couple lovers to have their final quarrel.” Batting her eyes at Rory, she put her foot on the overturned chair and raised her skirt above her knee.

  Peter stepped back, his hands protectively in front of him. “You’re both mad.” He backed from the room and stumbled down the stairs.

  Without taking his eyes off Peg, Rory crossed the room and shut the door. He started towards her and she ran around the other side of the bed. She spread her legs, casually rotating her hips. “Was I too much for you? Maybe you need virgins to prove what a big man you are.” He continued towards her and she flattened herself against the wall. “I wasn’t going to hurt the little bitch. I just wanted to scare her.”

  “Why? She’s done nothing to you.”

  “Nothing! Is stealing a lover nothing?”

  “A lover? We were never lovers. We fornicated like a couple of dogs.”

  “Is that what it was to you? To me it was love!” She screamed out a sob, and sunk into a dejected heap. The four floating candles flashed murky shadows across the room. When she raised her head, Rory caught his breath. Her high brows had softened. The sharp creases around her lips puckered in a childish pout. Tears spilled down her cheeks. “Why dan’ y’ luv me anymore?”

  Despite the cold, perspiration ran down Rory’s back. “I’m sorry it went so wrong, truly… I am truly sorry… I never meant to hurt you. I was nineteen, a frustrated university boy. You were so pretty, so devil may care, so exciting. I loved it. But it wasn’t love.”

  “I’ was t’ me.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair, collecting his thoughts. “Peg… what about Elly?

  “Wha’ about ‘er?”

  “She’s done nothing wrong. Does she have to be punished, because I love her?”

  Like a little girl, Peg sat up and crossed her legs under her. “Do y’ really luv ‘er?”

  “Yes!” His heart raced. He was short of breath. “I’ve never f
elt like this about a girl, not ever.” He gasped, amazed at his own words. “I would die for her.” He glared at Peg. “Tonight, I almost killed for her.”

  Her eyes filled up again. “It’s really over, i’nt it.”

  “It’s been really over for a long time.”

  “An’ I never knew i’.” She shrugged her shoulders, stood up, and wiped her face with her skirt. “Well, there’s nothin’ fer me ‘ere. Guess I’ll go find me a bloke.”

  “Don’t be stupid, it’s too late, it’s not safe.”

  She laughed. “All of a sudden ‘e’s worried if I’m safe?” She started to go and he caught her arm.

  “You won’t find a decent man at this hour.”

  “Well, if I’m filf, wha’s the difference?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I was angry. Just promise me you won’t hurt Elly.”

  “I ain’t promisin’ you shit!” She ran past him, into the hall, and down the stairs. Grabbing her coat, she growled like a deranged tiger and charged out, into the night.

  Rory hurried to the four floating candles. Up close he saw that they were suspended by threads attached to the ceiling. He blew them out, raced downstairs, and found Elly on the drawing room sofa, covered with a pile of coats. Lester knelt beside her, rubbing her hands.

  Rory sighed, “Peg won’t be back tonight.”

  Lester gave a twisted smile. “That’s good news. But how do you know?”

  “She’s gone to find a bloke. If she comes back, it means she couldn’t find one. She’ll stay away, if she has to sleep in the street. How the hell did she learn Pyro-Magic? Jamie Jamison refuses to teach anybody.”

  Elly was barely aware of being carried to bed. Meg tucked her in, got in herself, and snuggled protectively. Mrs. Potter was right. It was warmer sleeping with someone else.

  *

  Peg left Mrs. Potter’s boardinghouse, running at full speed. Sure no one was following, she took a minute to catch her breath, and read the street signs. She wandered a few more blocks, then made a beeline to the only place she was sure to find a hot meal and a clean bed. It was a half-hour’s walk before she saw the dimly lit pub sign: THE PINK KITTEN.

  Chapter 11

  Tuesday, December 22, 1903

  The morning air was crisp, the sky was blue, and Elly had a spring in her step. Refreshed after a good night’s sleep, she put yesterday from her mind, and dove into today’s adventures. She stopped at The Actress and Villain and asked Timmy for a cup of hot water. Taking her cup to a back table, she opened a sachet, and dropped in the herbs. The smoky aroma wafted up. “Come, vial. What if this mixture do not work at all? What if it be poison?” She shivered, grateful for Isabelle’s packet of clean rags. Taking a deep breath, she stirred the herbs, let them settle, then swallowed the bitter tea in large gulps.

  The stage-doorkeeper gave her directions upstairs to wardrobe. The large room had sparkling white walls and long windows. Bright sunlight shined through at sharp angles. Two long tables, one clean, and the other stacked with bolts of bright fabric, stood side-by-side. Racks of costumes from the two current productions stood against two walls. Elly walked to a third wall, covered with detailed watercolour costume designs. On one side were earth-tone sketches from Macbeth and contemporary designs for The Magistrate. On the other side were fantastically bright sketches for The Tempest. Walking from picture to picture, she marveled that this two-dimensional medium created an illusion of three-dimensional life and movement, then laughed at her observations. Robert Dennison was a good art teacher.

  “Ah! You’re Elly Fielding.” A tall, very thin woman in a straight black frock stood in the doorway. Unnaturally black hair framed chalk-white skin. Enormous darkly painted eyes and blood-red lips all seemed to curve into a thin smile. Her imposing figure reminded Elly of the witch from Snow White. She was followed by a short, stout woman, wearing an oriental print swirling with purples and electric green. Her gray hair was wildly streaked with red. The tall woman’s eyes sparkled. “I’m Veronica Wallace, costume designer. This is Connie Vickers, the wardrobe mistress.”

  Elly’s throat felt dry. “Yes ma’am. I was told to report for duty.”

  “We won’t have any piecework for apprentices until rehearsals for The Tempest begin, but I’m glad you’re here.” Both women looked Elly up and down. Veronica nodded in approval. “O’Connell chose well. You’re taller than I’d like, but your shape is perfect.” Connie nodded in agreement, then beamed at Elly, making her feel uncomfortably like a prize poodle.

  Veronica motioned Elly over to a long table and opened a portfolio. “We can get measurements for your costumes. Come, look at these.” She took out four magnificent water colours and laid them side by side. “Aren’t they exquisite?” Four sensuous nymphs danced across the pages. They appeared to be naked, covered only by the flimsiest pastel gauze.

  Connie took a note pad and slung a tape measure around her neck. “You can’t wear a corset under these costumes, so we’ll need to get your true measurements.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” Elly stood like a mannequin as the older women undressed and measured her. Connie called out numbers and Veronica wrote them down. They were finished in minutes.

  Veronica watched Elly dress, and made notes. “Connie, how soon can we have her under-garment finished?”

  “End of the week.”

  “Fielding!”

  Elly snapped to attention. “Yes, Miss Wallace.”

  Veronica pointed to the rack of Macbeth costumes. “Take those down to the dressing rooms. The actors’ names are inside.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Elly looked over the rows of leather boots, doublets, voluptuous capes heavy as wool blankets, and tin suits appearing to be steal-plated amour. She lifted a costume off the rack. It was much heavier than she expected. “I’ll have to make a few trips.”

  She took two costumes and struggled out of the room. It took her fourteen gruelling trips, down-and-up the stairs, to deliver all the costumes. Her legs ached and her arms felt as if they would break off. Who did this job before I arrived? She needed to rest, but the clock was nearing 12:00. Soon she would be due in the wig shop. Her stomach growled and she banished the uncomfortable sensation. I’ll just have to last until Mrs. Potter’s delicious bread and lard at 6:00. A different sensation teased the lower part of her stomach. It can’t be. It’s too soon.

  The wig shop was above Eric Bates’s office and referred to as, the “peacock’s nest.” The only way up was a narrow spiral staircase. Elly heard tinny music as she climbed round and round, approaching the open door above. Inside, an elfin man used a tiny crochet hook to weave strands of white hair through a silken mesh. His short dark hair framed almond shaped eyes with extraordinarily long lashes. The room was small, and dozens of wigs stood in tight rows, three tiers high. A bowl of loose hair and a bowl of apples sat on the work table. He sang along with a phonograph:

  “My Sweetheart’s The Man In The Moon

  I’m going to marry him soon,

  ‘T would fill me with bliss just to give him one kiss,

  But I know that a dozen I never would miss….”

  He saw Elly, squealed, shot his arms in the air, and down again. “Miss Elly Fielding, come to see me!” She laughed and he giggled with delight. “I’m Eugene, the wig-master, but then I suppose Michael told you all about me.”

  Elly sat down. “No, I’m sorry.”

  The tinny, nasal voice on the phonograph droned on:

  “…I’ll go up in a great big balloon

  And see my sweetheart in the moon,

  Then behind a dark cloud where no one is allow’d,

  I’ll make love to the man in the moon.”

  Eugene fluttered both hands close to his face and let out a quick sigh. “Oh, my. It’s so like the boy to forget his friends.” Elly laughed again, but feared she was being rude. Eugene enjoyed it. “Michael thinks only of the lovely Sandra, and forgets poor Eugene.” He sighed long and loud, making Elly giggle even mo
re.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know who Sandra is.”

  “Don’t know who Sandra is? The love of his life? What does the boy speak of then?”

  She shrugged. “He hasn’t talked much about himself.”

  He pointed a finger. “Well, you see, my beauty, it’s like this: I have a huge flat and I let rooms. My lodger, the lovely Sandra, is presently on tour with the Pantomime. She’ll be Miranda, in The Tempest. A while ago, Michael moved in to be close to her. Don’t know why they bother paying for two rooms, if you get my meaning.” He put his hand over his mouth and giggled like a school girl.

  Elly felt herself blush. She liked this charming elf. “I was told to report to you for work.” She glanced at his bowl of apples.

  He caught her look, and handed her two. “I keep these for starving actors.”

  “Thank you very much.” She started to take a bite, but stopped as Eugene nearly pounced on her head.

  “Ooh, I must see that hair!” Lightning fast, he removed her hairpins and released the copper mass. It cascaded across his arms and he ran his fingers through the thick folds. She tucked the two precious apples into her bag, as he combed her hair and wound it in different shapes, making delighted squeaks with each new style. “Hello, what’s this then?” He was suddenly serious.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  He looked at the right side of her face and examined the hair closest to her forehead. “You either have a devilish curling iron, or you’ve been standing too close to fires.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your hair is singed, just on one side.”

  “Is it really?” She was alarmed. “Is it bad?”

  “Not to worry, I can fix it in a jiffy.” Shears and comb in hand, he deftly snipped the hair around her face. He painstakingly trimmed up, down, and across the bottom. When he finally stepped back, and she could finally turn and look in the mirror, she was thrilled.