“Why, you fraud,” I teased. “Telling me to—”
Preston suddenly looked quite serious, and it crossed my mind that he might have spent the last few decades chasing barmaids because he was actually afraid of catching a good woman. I was not the only one who felt safer at arm’s length.
“I will make you a deal,” I said as lightly as I could.
“What?”
“I will leave the door open if you will.”
He gave me a rueful smile. “Well, kid, when you put it like that . . .”
Chapter 25
Worth the Candle
Tuesday afternoon, Hetty agreed to meet the duke for tea at my house. “Agreed” was a pale word for it. She’d have walked through the fires of Hell, and who could blame her? A chance to break a good and interesting story, make a connection with British aristocracy and impress her editor? Any reporter who was compos mentis would have jumped at it.
She arrived a half hour before the duke was due, so I could bring her up to date on what I knew, and also give her a sense of how to treat him. There’d be no point to any of this if it all fell apart, after all.
“No Montezuma?” she asked, looking around the parlor.
I shook my head. “The last thing we need is him piping up in the middle of the interview.”
“Isn’t that the truth.”
“So have a seat and we’ll talk.”
“What do I need to know about dukes?” Hetty asked as she made herself comfortable on the settee, smoothing her neat gray skirt. She was in her usual simple serge suit, but she’d put on a shirtwaist with a lacy collar in honor of the duke. She didn’t have to tell me that she’d carefully thought it out, deciding in favor of a businesslike suit, instead of a perhaps more elegant dress, to set the right professional tone. Her wire-rimmed glasses gleamed, and were actually staying in place for once. And, of course, there were no visible ink stains, though she admitted she’d already gotten one on the cuff of her shirtwaist and had to tuck it up into the jacket sleeve.
“Well, dukes in general tend to be stuffy old men. Let’s stick to this duke,” I said, taking a sip of my tea. I’d chosen a very simple lavender-and-lilac sprig-print day dress, and even though I certainly could have used the excuse to wear one of my spring hats, I was taking the hostess’s privilege and going without. Etiquette notwithstanding, I feel silly wearing a hat indoors.
“Does he have a name?”
“Not that you’ll ever use. Or me, either.” I shrugged. “He’s not as much of a stick as most British aristocrats, but if you want him to be comfortable and talky, you’ll observe the forms.”
“Of course.”
“You’ll quote him as Gilbert Saint Aubyn, Duke of Leith. Probably ‘the duke’ on second reference. He’s from the north of England, so you may notice a faintly different accent.”
Hetty nodded, watching me carefully.
“You don’t have to curtsy.”
“Like I would!” she snorted.
“Americans,” I continued rather stiffly, “are not expected to curtsy to British—or any other—aristocrats or royals, for that matter, even though many do.”
“I’d hope not. We fought a war for that.”
“Well, exactly. Try not to remind him of it, though.”
“All right. What else do I need to know?”
“Most of us ordinary mortals are expected to address dukes as ‘Your Grace.’ ”
She snickered. “‘Your Grace,’ really?”
“Really, Hets, that one’s an absolute requirement, so make yourself sound comfortable with it.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
I glared at her.
“Just trying it out. If you married him, would I have to call you that?”
“You’d call me ‘crazy,’ because that’s what I’d be.”
“Ah.” Hetty’s face turned serious. “Tell me about the poor dead sister.”
“Cousin. Lady Frances Saint Aubyn. Don’t ask me how she was a ‘Lady.’ It’s a courtesy title, and something to do with the family tree.”
“Please don’t make me figure that out.”
“Don’t worry. Lady Frances is accurate, and that’s all you need.”
“Saint A-u-b-y-n?”
“Yes.”
“She sang as Violette Saint Claire, right?”
“Right.”
Hetty looked thoughtful. “A lot of people who use false names choose something with an echo of their true name. She fits the pattern.”
“Interesting.”
“Pretty brave when you think about it. Running off from a safe and comfortable life in England to America, all alone, to sing.”
I nodded.
“Was she good?”
“Good enough to work for me,” I said carefully, “and good enough to get an offer for a season in Philadelphia. She was on her way.”
Hetty’s no fool. “What are you holding back?”
“Nothing, really. She was very young. We didn’t know what she would turn out to be.”
“Who does at twenty?”
“Twenty-one, I think.”
“I’ll check the records. Either way.”
I nodded. “You couldn’t pay me enough to be twenty-one again.”
“But the men love the pretty young dollies. At the peak of their loveliness, they say.” Hetty’s mouth had a bitter twist that negated the joking tone.
“Fools.” I shook my head and poured some more tea. “He’ll answer your questions about what kind of girl she was. I don’t know much more.”
“No heart-to-heart talks or velocipede afternoons?”
“Not even close. She pretty much kept to herself.”
“All right.” Hetty took a few notes and contemplated. “So it was poison?”
“Ruled accidental, as you know. And we recently discovered that she was apparently using a patent medication with nicotine in it. So it might really have been an accident.”
“There’s enough nicotine in patent medicines to kill?”
“Mr. Chalfont says nicotine’s a close thing, anyhow, and a small woman who mistakenly took a larger dose might get enough to do it.”
Her amber eyes widened. “But that’s a scandal.”
“You know there can be anything in those bottles. Think of the soothing syrups they sell to help babies sleep.”
“And the ones who don’t wake up from the opium.” She nodded. “But still, Ella, the patent medication is the hook here.”
“What do you mean?” I remembered Preston’s comment about an investigative piece and the germ of an idea sprouted.
“Well, it’s interesting that the dead girl turned out to be the runaway cousin of a duke. Good story, for sure. Our readers will lap it up—and forget about it. But if she died from an accidental overdose of something that’s on their own dressing table?”
“We aren’t sure which one it was. She had a box from something, but it was old, and who knows?”
“But you know there is some beauty tonic with nicotine in it?” Hetty asked.
“Yes. And that’s enough of a start for a good exposé, isn’t it?”
“Surely is.” She nodded and I could see her wheels turning. “I’ll do some research. That’ll be our second-day story. And a good one. ‘Duke’s Cousin Killed by Dangerous Beauty Treatment.’ Maybe girls will stop playing with those things.”
“I could not agree more.” A quiet, unmistakable voice from the doorway.
“Miss! He’s here!” Rosa proclaimed needlessly, appearing behind Saint Aubyn.
“I figured that out.” I rose and walked over to him. “Your Grace.”
We bowed, no handshake, as usual, and I hoped Hetty picked up. I’d forgotten to warn her about handshakes.
“And may I present Miss Henrietta MacNaughten from the Beacon.”
Hetty stood and bowed gracefully. She didn’t curtsy, but I could tell she was thinking about it. I could also tell she was enjoying a good look at Saint Aubyn. As she absolutely
should.
“Nice to meet you, Your Grace.”
“A pleasure, Miss MacNaughten.”
We sat, and I poured, swallowing my smile at the memory of Marie’s taking over during his first visit because I was still in breeches.
Once all were appropriately refreshed, the silence descended, thick and uncomfortable, as everyone waited for everyone else to speak. In theory, Hetty should simply start in with her questions. In practice, Saint Aubyn probably expected to take charge of the event.
“What do you want to know about my cousin?” he finally asked.
“Anything you’d like to tell me. Let’s start with how she left to come here.”
“All I know is that one morning, her mother came to me in a panic. Frances had gone, leaving a note that she was following her talent, and a few small valuables were gone, too.”
And one not so small valuable, of course, I silently parried. I assumed he wasn’t mentioning the necklace for reasons of his own, so I didn’t say anything.
“Naturally, we looked for her, and asked after her in opera circles in London and Edinburgh, without success. We eventually figured out that she’d left the country, but weren’t sure where she’d have gone. Since she spoke French and Italian, she could have gone to the Continent equally well.”
Hetty nodded and took notes, keeping her eyes on his as she let him spool out the story.
“It was about two years after she left that we got the letter from the coroner of New Haven. She’d died in a mishap on stage, and they managed to trace her true identity by finding a few papers she’d left with her booking agent.”
I remembered the letter of thanks the New Haven coroner had sent Henry, and once again, I wished I’d done more. I wondered if I’d ever stop feeling that I’d failed her.
Violette Saint Claire started out the same as every other Juliet, except Canadian—we thought. Very pretty and young, of course; shy, at first, like everyone is in their first lead. We were playing opposite each other, which meant we had to develop some kind of rapport, at least on the stage, so I did what I always do with new young singers: I told funny stories about my own awkward moments. Usually, my tale of losing my balance as I climbed over the balcony, tripping over my sword and sliding on my cape to land in a graceless heap at Lentini’s feet is enough to thoroughly break the ice.
Not with this girl. She laughed politely, said she was glad not to have to manage a sword and left it at that. I assumed the reserve was just shyness and hoped it would wash out with time.
Soon after, I decided to try a different tack. Since I’d never played Canada, I asked her about it during another rehearsal break. After just staring at me for a second, as if she never expected to be asked about her homeland, she gave me a few sentences about the cold and the provincial fashions, then quickly changed the subject.
Now, of course, I know why. Back then, I’d taken it as a very clear snub, which I put down to pretour nerves. I gave her a wide berth for the first few weeks. In the early performances, she was very good, if clearly unused to large, appreciative audiences. At one point, I saw her pale and shaky backstage, taking deep breaths just before going on.
I went over to her, put a hand on her arm and offered a little reassurance with a wry grin. “They can’t kill you. And it’s not you, anyway. It’s Juliet.”
She returned a wobbly smile, then turned in a perfectly fine aria. Looking back, I wonder what might have happened to cause the upset.
At first, I thought the over-acting might be a way of fighting stage fright. So one night before the show, I asked her to my dressing room for tea and a chat. Once again, though, it was very hard to get past the first few sentences and develop any kind of rapport. As gently as I could, I urged her to back off the overacting a bit, and to relax into the role.
Mostly, she just nodded and looked at me. I remember thinking that even though she seemed respectful, there was a definite undertone of disdain there. As if she knew more than I did, as if she were better than the likes of me. Of course, considering her true pedigree, she might well have thought she was.
Despite all of that, we were still on the road together, and we still shared the experiences of the company. Probably the best night of the tour was the snowstorm during the Boston stand. After the show, the cast stepped out of the theater to find that there were no hansom cabs in sight, so we had to walk to the hotel.
The streets were nearly deserted, and the fluffy snow glittered in the gaslights as the lot of us slipped and slid on what sidewalks there were. It was not a short walk, and soon the young singers of the chorus were looking scared and cranky. Anna and Louis were just exhausted, desperate to get back to the hotel, where the nursemaid was watching the Morsel. Violette gazed up at the sky and muttered the same curse I was thinking.
It was very cold, the one thing I cannot stand because it brings back memories of my last winter with my mother.
That’s when Tommy threw a snowball at me.
Our eyes met, and we started laughing. I grabbed up my own handful of snow and threw it right back at his head—and before you could say “Molto Presto,” our entire elegant opera company was in the midst of a truly hilarious snowball battle.
Soon Violette yelled, “Girls versus boys!” and the distaff side unleashed a merciless onslaught. Naturally, we won.
Covered in snow, laughing like fools, we finally made it to our hotel. The staff took pity on us and sent a huge tray of cocoa and cookies to my suite, and we stayed up into the wee hours, drinking and eating and telling funny stories. Violette happened to end up sitting beside me, not saying much, but joining in the laughter and camaraderie. Her eyes were sparkling, and her black hair curled damply around her flushed face.
As we relaxed and joked in the lamplight, I really thought she and I might become friendly, if not exactly friends. That girl, the girl we saw that night, was someone I would want to know, and work with again.
Until the next performance, when she once again showed up in the full flower of overacting, and brushed off my very careful comment with a curt “Yes, Miss Ella.”
After that, I left managing her to Tommy. He didn’t have much success, either, and we decided to just ride out the tour. We both knew we were missing something, but with everything else that happens on the road, we didn’t have much time to think about what it might be.
In retrospect, I wonder if the overacting was a kind of cry for help . . . and if she was afraid to get close to anyone, for fear of giving away her secret.
My mistake, I think, is very simple. I never asked the next question, never said the next sentence. She pushed me away and I let her, because I was busy, because she made me uncomfortable, because I did not want to give her the chance to insult me. Instead, I left her out there alone.
From now on, I ask the next question.
Saint Aubyn was still explaining to Hetty what happened. “So, after the funeral, I came here to find out what might have led to this.”
Hetty chewed on the end of her pencil. “With Miss Shane’s help.”
“Yes.” His eyes lingered on me for a moment.
“What was she like, your cousin?”
“Determined. Talented. What’s the word you Americans use for spirited women? Fiery?”
“Feisty?”
“Yes, that.” He smiled ruefully. “And absolutely in love with her music. I’m sorry I didn’t see how important it was to her. I wish we could have found some way for her to continue without running away.”
Hetty’s eyes were sharp on him. “Could you?”
Saint Aubyn sighed. “Her mother would have said absolutely not. And I imagine I would have agreed. Knowing what I know now, I believe I would have helped her find a way.”
“Knowing . . . that she died?” Hetty asked carefully.
“No. Actually knowing singers, knowing what kind of people they are, and knowing how they live.” He looked around the parlor. “This is hardly a den of iniquity.”
She laughed. �
�You haven’t been here when Tommy, Yardley and Father Michael are having a three-way checkers tournament.”
“Duly noted.”
They smiled at each other for a moment, and I knew this was actually going exceedingly well.
Hetty pulled it back. “Do you know what patent medicine she was using?”
“No. Only that she was using something with nicotine.”
“And that . . .”
He nodded. “An unfortunate accident.”
“Would you say people need to be much more careful about patent medicines?”
I knew what she was doing, and I suspected he did, too.
“Indeed. I would suggest parents of young ladies take a very good look at what’s on the vanity table. And I’d suggest young ladies ask their chemist before they take anything.”
“‘Chemist’?”
“A ‘druggist,’ ” I translated. “British.”
“Ah. Are such things available over there?”
“Yes. Probably just as dangerous.” He shook his head. “I will be looking into the laws covering them when I return.”
“Can you do anything about it?”
Saint Aubyn smiled faintly, then responded far more gently than the question deserved. “Yes, Miss MacNaughten, I am a member of the House of Lords.”
Hetty flushed, and I quickly jumped in. “My fault, Hets, I didn’t mention that part, did I?”
“You left that out.” To me, with narrowed eyes. To Saint Aubyn: “I apologize for my ignorance. I’m quite sure you aren’t prime minister, at least.”
“No.” He gave her a real smile at the parry. “Nor even in the government. But I do have a certain access to the levers of power, which I will be happy to use to prevent another family from knowing this pain.”
Even though I am a diva and not a reporter, I know a quote when I hear one. Hetty, of course, took a moment to make sure she got it precisely right, then nodded to the duke.
“I believe I have what I need,” she said. “Anything you would like to add?”
Saint Aubyn thought for a moment. “Many young ladies would like to be more beautiful. It shouldn’t cost them their lives.”
A Fatal Finale Page 19