But From Thine Eyes

by Christina Britton Conroy

  He held them tighter and inched closer so that his knee touched her leg. “‘Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell, Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,’”

  “Will you stop this!”

  “‘Or say with princes if it shall go well, By oft predict that I in heaven find.’” He gripped her hands, and stayed perfectly still, until she looked at him. His voice was a velvet whisper. “‘But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, And, constant stars, in them I read such art As truth and beauty shall together thrive, If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;’”

  Tears filled her eyes, and she tossed her head.

  “‘Or else of thee, thus I prognosticate: Thy end is truth’s, and beauty’s doom the date.’” He stood, took her in his arms, and kissed her with all the passion he possessed. They held each other for a long time.

  When they finally relaxed, she stepped away, wiping her eyes. “That was a great scene, Jerry.” Her voice cracked, “That was brilliant.”

  “That wasn’t acting. Can’t you tell the difference?”

  He reached for her again, but she pulled away, shivering. “I’m cold, let’s go back.” She was out the door before he remembered the ring in his pocket. He followed her back to the dining room.

  The fire roared, fresh candles burned gaily, and Max had set the table for pudding. The sudden brightness stung their eyes. Simon and Evan were on the floor, making tin soldiers fall from a toy hot-air-balloon.

  When Simon looked up at Jeremy, his playful smile dropped. “Who died? Or was it something I said? Am I being evicted?” He stood up.

  Evan watched, but stayed with his toys.

  Katherine put her arms around Jeremy’s waist. “Jerry’s terrified that I’m going to marry you and leave him.”

  Evan’s mouth dropped open and he sat up.

  Simon panicked. “Looking at you now, I’m terrified that you won’t.”

  She smiled. “Don’t exaggerate, Simon, you’re not terrified.”

  “You don’t know how I feel.” His chest rose and fell with quick breaths.

  She sat in her chair at the table. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “That wasn’t a flippant proposal, Kathy.” He sat next to her, gently held her shoulders, and looked into her eyes. “I agonized over it for a year. You really have been all over the world, in my mind.”

  She stroked his manicured beard. “I believe you, darling. I never thought it was flippant.” He kissed the palm of her hand.

  Jeremy sat in his chair. The two men studied each other. Jeremy leaned back, closed his eyes, and sighed deeply. “I’ve been dreading this moment for fifteen years. I never thought it would be you.”

  Simon comically twisted his neck and looked over both shoulders. “Who were you expecting then, Henry Irving?” They all laughed.

  Max appeared from the kitchen. “If everyone’s back, perhaps it’s time for pudding.”

  “And Christmas crackers.” Evan jumped from the floor and ran to the basket of paper cylinders. With an excited smile, he chose a bright blue one, offered his mother one end, and firmly gripped the other. They both pulled and laughed as it went off with a loud, BANG!

  The doorbell rang and Max tottered from the kitchen. “Can’t imagine who that is. We’ve already had Father Christmas.”

  A moment later, Eric Bates swept into the room. His face was flushed and his hands were shaking. Speaking quickly, his voice sounded high and strained. His sentences ran together. “Sorry to bother you lot, but…” He stopped, surprised. “Oh, hello Simon… Jerry, Kathy… we’ve got a disaster on our hands.” Katherine joined him on the sofa. He sat, shivering. Everyone else was silent, waiting for him to continue. “Two Scotland Yard officers just paid me a visit. On Christmas night. We have a houseful. Hilda’s fit to be tied.

  “A few hours ago, Peg McCarthy burned down Mrs. Potter’s boarding house. Mrs. Potter jumped out a window and died hitting the pavement. Two elderly ladies were there. They’re unharmed, just homeless. Apparently all the actors were away.” He stopped for breath. “Then, early this morning, Tommy Quinn had a murder in his brothel: the seventeen-year-old nephew of a Duchess. Peg and Tommy seem to have run off together.”

  The blood drained from Jeremy’s face. “Holy Mother of God! What were they doing together?”

  “Apparently she serviced his customers.” Eric shuddered. “God knows what she did for them. Nothing conventional, I’m sure.”

  “Where are they now?”

  He shrugged. “No one knows. I was hoping you might.”

  “Bloody hell!” Suddenly sweating, Jeremy wiped his brow. “I hope Tommy stays clear of me. On second thought, if he did come to me, I’d give him money enough to get to the continent.”

  Simon snorted, “You can’t save him this time, Jerry. This won’t be a few months in Reading Gaol. If he’s involved in a murder, it’ll be the gallows.”

  “Dear God in heaven.” Jeremy put a hand over his mouth.

  Katherine was shaking. “I can’t believe it. Peg was always wildly eccentric, but a torch in Elly’s face, and now arson, and…”

  Jeremy snorted a laugh. “For years I’ve been trying to get Hilda to move the apprentices into a decent boardinghouse. Now she’ll have to.” He stared at the floor. “I’m still trying to fathom Tommy with Peg. What a horrible waste. They’re such great talents.”

  Simon gasped, “‘Great talents’? They’re murderers, Jerry.”

  He held up his hands. “No, they are not. They are foolish and reckless and they pick the wrong friends. Damn! Perhaps they do belong together. Was anyone else involved?”

  Eric stood up. “Archibald Perry was at Tommy’s, with a houseful of other men. They’ve all been arrested. I didn’t recognize the other names. Sorry you lot, but we’ve got a houseful. I’ve got to get back. I wouldn’t have had to come over, if you owned a bloody telephone.” Now he was shouting.

  Jeremy glared at him. “I will not give up my privacy and allow one of those repulsive contraptions into my house.”

  “Oh, never mind. Bye all. Oh and, yes, um… Happy Christmas.” He started for the door then swung back. “Oh, I’ve notified Peg’s cover for the Second Witch, but I don’t have anyone for The Magistrate to cover Beatie. None of our women can pass for sixteen. Can Elly Fielding do it? I know she’s not ready, but better her than Eddy in a wig.”

  Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “No, she cannot do it, not yet. But, as you say, better her than Eddy in a wig. I shall coach her myself.” He paced aimlessly, his mind filled with terrifying images of Tommy and Peg swinging on the gallows.

  Eric nodded. “Thanks, Jerry. See you lot tomorrow.” Max held the door as he hurried out.

  Simon looked at Jeremy. “Since when does an actor-manager coach understudies?”

  Jeremy snapped back, “She is absolutely green and has not had the chance to learn bad habits. If I coach her now, it may save me a lot of grief later. Besides, it will give me something to do. This lack of employment is driving me mad.”

  Katherine laughed sadly. “Can you believe that, Simon? He considers eight performances a week a lack of employment. God forbid the man should have a leisure hour in the day. So Jerry, that means you’ve finished staging The Tempest on paper?”

  “Yes. The joy is over and the drudgery begins.” He stared into the fire.

  Simon raised an eyebrow. “What’s he on about?”

  Katherine sighed. “Jerry’s imagination is his playground. Perfect imaginary actors give perfect imaginary performances. Unfortunately, he expects human actors to be clairvoyant, immediately reproducing what is in his mind. When we can’t do it, he rages into black moods and we all suffer.”

  Simon curled his lip. “Sound’s charming. Remind me never to work for him.”

  Jeremy sneered, “Please excuse me.” He started toward his room and Evan chased after him. He hugged the boy long and hard. “It’s all right, Evan. I am not going anywhere. And neither are you.” He glared at Katherin
e and Simon, and took to his bed.

  Chapter 15

  Saturday, December 26, 1903

  The day after Christmas, the apprentices moved into a very pleasant boardinghouse. There was no matinee, so Elly Fielding left her few belongings, hurried to the theatre, and spent three hideous hours mending costume tears. Finally released, she carried all the costumes downstairs. It took twelve trips. When she dragged the last few as far as stage level, she collapsed on the stairs. They felt heavy as lead, piled across her lap. She leaned back and closed her eyes.

  “MISS FIELDING!”

  Waking from a deep sleep, she jumped up and spilled four expensive garments onto the feet of Eric Bates. “I’m sorry sir!” She was grateful when a man behind Eric helped pile them into her arms. She stared into the laughing blue eyes of American journalist Sam Smelling.

  “Hi, Elly.”

  She smiled back. “Hello, Sam.”

  Knowing how ridiculous she looked, she waddled into the quick change dressing-room and hung up the clothes. That evening’s Macbeth was sold out. She knew she would never get a seat, and went into the house expecting to stand with the ushers. When she saw Simon Camden and Sam Smelling in Eric Bates’s box, they waved her up, and moved apart, so an empty chair sat between them. They were dressed in beautiful evening clothes. She wore a soiled school frock, so smiled back, pulled at the wrinkled shoulders, and shook her head. Simon gestured grandly, demanding that she join them. As the house went to black, she made a dash up the stairs and into the box. As the stage lights came up, she squeezed between the two men, glanced into Sam’s laughing eyes, and felt a giggle inside.

  Thunder crashed, lightning lit up the scene, and she turned to see Simon spellbound. Throughout the entire act, his eyes were glued to the stage. When Lady Macbeth entered, he beamed with love and pride.

  The First Act curtain fell and Simon stared at the dark footlights. Sam and Elly glanced at each other, waiting for Simon to speak.

  Finally, he sat back, scowling. “This is incredible. This production should be seen all over the world. It’s all-well-and-good for a limited London run to be sold out, but this is remarkable.” He stroked his chin. “Those two are extraordinary -- as good as any pair in the English speaking theatre. Damn!” He slapped his thigh. “The whole production’s absolutely fantastic. Jerry’s a genius. They say he’s a bastard to work for. So be it. If that’s what it takes, I applaud him.”

  Elly stared at Simon’s steely-gray eyes and glistening silvery-blond hair. He seemed powerful as a lion, and she longed to stroke his long silky mane.

  His eyes narrowed. “Sam, I know you love uncovering crimes of passion, but you write damn good commentary as well. Somehow the whole world must be told about this production. How can we make that happen?”

  “I’ve got some ideas, actually… but first, let’s find out what Eric Bates plans to do with it.”

  Simon blew in the air. “He’s provincial. He’s no plans at all. He’s ready to let this close and be lost forever.” He pounded his fist into the palm of his hand, shouting, “I won’t let that happen.” Elly lurched back and Simon chuckled. “I’m sorry. Did I frighten you?” Very gently, he ran the back of his fingers over her cheek, around her chin, down her smooth throat, and under her collar. Her eyes closed with pleasure and Simon chuckled. “Look at her blush. I love this girl.” When Sam lightly shook his head, Simon removed his hand, stood and stretched. “I’m parched, let’s find the bar.”

  Chapter 16

  Sunday, December 27, 1903

  Jeremy O’Connell found a copy of the Daily Mail on his dressing table. It was folded open to an article titled, A London Christmas Eve. A cartoon of a nose was next to the by-line, “by Sam Smell, ‘The Man With The Nose For News.’” He picked up the paper and was quickly laughing out loud. Sam’s description made him see Isabelle’s ball all over again. Sam poked fun at everyone, without being unkind to anyone. The only person he ridiculed was himself, an American bumpkin among upper-crust British society.

  Jeremy turned the page over, continued reading down the column, and caught sight of the art gallery notices. One read:

  Premier Exhibition:

  ROBERT DENNISON

  Oils and Pastels

  Gildstein Gallery

  January 5th - 10th

  This was the very Robert Dennison responsible for Elly Fielding’s flight to London. Whether Dennison had done her a service or a disservice, he was a school-master who had seduced a student.

  Jeremy was startled from his daydreaming when Eddy Edwards told him Michael Burns was out sick, and understudy Rory Cook could finally play the role he had covered for a year. Jeremy was sorry about Michael, but thrilled for Rory.

  As he expected, Rory’s performance was wonderful. At the final curtain call, the company of sixteen actors joined hands, bowing together. Jeremy turned and acknowledged Rory. Grinning from ear-to-ear, Rory stepped forward, raised both arms, and took a grand solo bow. The audience, other actors, and backstage crew screamed and applauded. Rory rejoined the line. The actors bowed together, as the stage curtain swooshed heavily to the ground.

  Immediately, Rory was smothered with kisses and congratulations. Jeremy hugged him like the proudest of fathers. Rory found Elly in the crowd, swung her around and kissed her. “I was so afraid you wouldn’t be here. Then I saw you and Sam, up in the box.” He kissed her again then pushed her away. “I’m sorry! I’m getting makeup on your frock.”

  Elly laughed happily. “I don’t care a bit.”

  “Well, I do. I’ll change and see you at the ‘Lion.” He sped off stage and up the stairs.

  In a flurry of capes and scarves, wig-master Eugene pranced across the stage, spotted Elly, put his hands on his hips, and stamped his foot. “There you are!” He reached inside his voluminous drapes, pulled out a letter, and presented it with a flourish.

  She looked at the handwriting and gasped, “Thanks so much. I’m sorry I caused you trouble.”

  “Girls always cause trouble.” He flounced away.

  She raced after him. “Is Michael all right?”

  He kept walking. “Runny nose and sneezing. He’ll be right as rain come Tuesday. T’ra, darling!” He waved his hand and left the theatre.

  *

  Jeremy was nearly dressed when Elly appeared at his dressing-room door. “Miss Fielding. Our boy did well, today.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve never been so proud.”

  He smiled at Elly’s reflection while combing his hair. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  She handed him her letter. “Eugene brought this from Michael.”

  He took the envelope and read:

  Dear Michael,

  I cannot believe I will be in London in only nine days. I have seen the gallery notices with my name. It all feels like a dream. Mother has changed her holiday so I will be able to stay the full week, as originally planned. I so look forward to meeting Sandra, and letting you two show me the town.

  Do you remember my telling you about a runaway student? Her father telegraphed that she has gotten herself all the way to Paris. How’s that for pluck? Yours,

  Rob

  Jeremy tilted his head. “Well done. May I keep this?”

  “Please.”

  He put the letter in his pocket and crossed his arms. “So, Isabelle’s younger brother has bought you a bit of time, and it seems that Isabelle has some news.”

  “I know. She asked me to tea tomorrow.”

  He closed his eyes and shuddered. “We are all going to tea tomorrow.”

  She smiled at his clowning. “May I speak freely, sir?”

  “Of course.”

  She gazed up with moist green eyes. “I have been very happy since coming to London.”

  “Really? A lot of dreadful things have happened to you.”

  “Many more lovely ones.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Ever since I was fourteen,” she looked down at her hands, “since I learned I was betrothed to Sir John Garingham, I look
ed upon my eighteenth birthday as the day of my death -- the end of any possible happiness.” When she looked up again, her face was glowing. “I have already had eleven extra days. Eleven miraculous days I never thought I could have.” Jeremy looked horrified, and she stuttered, “D’Do I sound like a lunatic?”

  “No, not at all.” He wanted to reassure her, but could not think how.

  Embarrassed, she looked down and stayed silent. When she looked up again, she was blinking back tears. “I just want you to know, sir, that you are the first mature gentleman who has ever treated me with kindness and respect, and whatever happens to me, I will always be grateful.”

  “Thank you.” His inflection was flat. He leaned his elbows on his knees. “Now tell me what has happened. Why are you suddenly afraid?”

  Her voice was a tearful whisper. “Robert Dennison’s best painting, at least the one he believes to be his best, is titled Autumn Lady.” She swallowed. “It is a portrait of Elisa Roundtree.”

  “Is it a true likeness?”

  “It is quite perfect.” She hugged herself. “It is a most beautiful portrait.”

  “Painted by a man in love with his model?”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “Elly Fielding has not yet been on-stage. Few people know her, and she has powerful friends to protect her.”

  “A hundred people saw her at Lord Richfield’s Christmas party. It only takes one to see the portrait and ask a question.”

  “There must be fifty galleries in London, each giving twenty shows a year. While not impossible, the likelihood of someone recognizing Elisa Roundtree is slight. Anyone who might would probably think the likeness a coincidence.” He gazed at the ceiling. “Obviously you have not asked Dennison to withdraw Autumn Lady from the exhibit.”

  She shook her head.

  “Would he withdraw it, if he thought it might do you harm?”

  “I am sure he would, and in doing so, lessen his chances of success. I know little about art, but I do know that a single painting has made an artist’s career. He has worked very hard and very long. I won’t jeopardize his future.”