Not From the Stars (His Majesty's Theatre Book 1)

by Christina Britton Conroy

  “Of course.”

  Elisa watched Annie hurry away toward Lillian’s rooms. She was limping in pain.

  When Elisa arrived downstairs, Sir John was chuckling happily and sipping sherry with her father. Elisa was pleased his mood was good, but wondered why. He looked Elisa up and down, smiling with yellow teeth. Her father looked at her, then at Sir John. Both men laughed in a way that made Elisa cringe. She lowered her eyes and said nothing.

  Sir John turned to Roundtree, “Well, I’ve worked up an appetite.” He looked around, “Where’s that giddy sister of yours?”

  Lillian scurried down the stairs looking white as a ghost. She silently nodded to the men, and led the way into dinner.

  The meal was as Elisa expected. The men seemed to forget ladies were at the table. Since Elisa was never addressed, she never spoke. Her aunt usually dared interject a few comments which were either ignored or snubbed. Today, she was also silent. Elisa guessed it had something to do with Annie.

  Elisa was ravenous, but cut socially acceptable tiny bites of food, and tried to ignore both men, laughing so raucously food fell from their mouths. Roundtree’s hair and moustache were cut short, but Sir John’s hair was long. Greasy strands stuck to his sideburns.

  Pudding was served, and the ladies were finally able to excuse themselves. Before they could leave, Sir John spoke to Lillian. “That girl Annie, I have a button for her to sew. Send her to me in the guest bedroom, in a half-hour.” He turned away, as a footman offered a box of cigars.

  Lillian spoke for the first time. “Annie is ill. I have sent her to bed.”

  Both Sir John and Roundtree stared daggers at her. Elisa knew something terrible was happening, but had no idea what. She watched Sir John choose a cigar. His former good humor was gone.

  He practically growled, “Then you will have to sew the button.” He pointed with the cigar. “Half - an - hour.”

  Tears filled Lillian’s eyes. “Yes, Sir John. Half-an-hour.” She sped upstairs.

  Elisa hurried to follow, but Roundtree called her back, “Elisa.”

  She stopped, whispering, “Yes, Father?” She lowered her eyes.

  “Go take one of your walks. Stay away for an hour.”

  Sir John slightly shook his head and Roundtree corrected himself. “Stay away for two hours.” He pointed a finger. “Do you hear?”

  Elisa was frightened. “Yes sir. Two hours.” She curtsied, raced for her coat and hat, and hurried outside, through the narrow woods and onto the bright moors. She marched for a quarter hour before she stopped and rested on a rock. Watching contented sheep graze on the scarce grass and thorny bushes, she wondered why she had been sent away. Was Annie really ill? Why was Lillian afraid to sew on a button, and why did both men want her out of the house?

  When Elisa returned, Sir John’s motorcar was gone. She sighed with relief. Her walk had been so pleasant, and she was so tired, she forgot she had been sent outside. Now, slowly approaching the house, she became fearful. Was Annie truly ill? Had anything happened when Aunt Lillian sewed Sir John’s button?

  She hung up her coat and listened. There was no sound. Usually her aunt chatted as the servants prepared tea. Elisa was hungry again, but there were no familiar sounds of cutlery and dishes being set. The house was eerily silent. She hurried to her aunt’s bedroom. The door was open. She was surprised to see Lillian’s maid bathing her aunt’s face with a cool cloth. A bruise was forming across her eye and cheek.

  Elisa was horrified. “Auntie, what’s happened?”

  Lillian started to cry, and the maid soothed her. “There, there, now Miss Lillian.” She smiled at Elisa. “Yer auntie’s taken a fall, ‘tis all. She’ll have a nasty bruise for a week or so. Then, tha’ won’t even know ‘tis happened.”

  Lillian clasped her knees together and sobbed into her pillow.

  The maid blinked back tears. “Miss Elisa, y’d best get yer tea below stairs w’ t’ servants. I know y’ dan mind.”

  Elisa backed away. “Of course I don’t mind.” She hurried downstairs.

  The other servants sat around the table whispering angrily. They saw Elisa and stopped. She was frantic. “What’s happened? Please tell me. First Annie took ill, now Auntie’s had this fall…,”

  The cook coughed a laugh. “Fall is it? That’s what they told y’?”

  Elisa sat down beside her. “Please tell me…,”

  All the servants shared a look and shook their heads. The cook patted Elisa’s hand. “Nowt t’ worry. Sir John Garingham’s nowt be back fer a long time. Tha's all tha need to know.”

  Chapter Twelve

  December 1899

  Sir John Garingham stayed away for two years. His unwelcome return coincided with Elisa’s fourteenth birthday. Her Aunt Lillian planned a party. Sir John sent Elisa a new frock with matching slippers, stockings, gloves and, for the first time, a corset. Elisa had grown several inches that year, and was very thin.

  “I had hoped the discomfort of a corset could wait until you were older,” Aunt Lillian said, “But…,”

  When the whalebone harness was pulled from its box, Elisa shuddered. “Is this more of the misery of womanhood?”

  Her aunt smiled and weakly nodded. A few weeks before, Elisa had woken in the night with fierce pain in her stomach. Blood seeped between her legs. She thought she was dying.

  “Women suffer, child. Now you know. The pain and blood will come every month, for the rest of your life,” her aunt had told her.

  Since no further explanation was given, she thought womanhood was a curse.

  When Elisa was dressed in the new ensemble, Aunt Lillian started to cry. Elisa was only aware that she could not breathe. Her head felt light and she thought she would faint. She managed to gasp short breaths. “Whatever is the matter now, Aunt? Don’t I look well?”

  Her Aunt wiped away her tears. “You look beautiful, Elisa. You look like a woman, so much like your…,” Lillian ran from the room weeping. Elisa and the housemaid shared a sad head shake, watching the sweet demented lady go.

  The maid puffed Elisa’s sleeves and made finishing touches to her hair. Very carefully, Elisa took short breaths and walked downstairs to greet her guests. Young girls from the village church giggled as Elisa showed off her new womanly shape.

  Her father and Sir John smoked cigars and watched the silly girls from an adjoining room.

  *

  Roundtree smiled. “She’s growing up, Sir John.”

  “Indeed she is. She’s lovely.”

  “Worth the wait?”

  “She’d be worth it if she were ugly as Beelzebub.” Sir John’s eyes lingered on her budding young breasts, pushing against the soft fabric. Letting his glance play down across her impossibly tiny waist, he took in her slender hips, wondering if soft red hairs were sprouting between her legs.

  Roundtree guessed his friend’s fantasy. “You don’t have to wait ‘til she’s eighteen. That factory merger, last week? The owner’s daughter was sixteen.”

  “I read about it. Her father arranged it.”

  “Well?” Roundtree swaggered.

  Sir John raised an eyebrow. “I’ve invested this much and waited this long. I’m not going to do something stupid and ruin it all. I don’t need some German relative turning up, challenging my claim to her estate. Also, I need her mature enough to give me healthy sons. I don’t want her dying, like her mother. I won’t feel really secure until I have two sons to inherit.”

  A pretty maid carried in a tray of food.

  Sir John looked her up and down. “What’s her name?”

  “Agnes.”

  “Have you had her yet?”

  “She’s new. Gave me the run around.”

  Sir John smiled. “Good. I like women who are very willing or very unwilling. Otherwise it’s no fun. What happened to Annie? I liked her.”

  “Got in trouble. I chucked her out.”

  “Too bad. She fought like a tiger.” Garingham puffed casually on his cigar. “Gone to
the workhouse?”

  Roundtree shrugged. “Who knows where these girls go. Couldn’t give her a reference, in her condition.”

  After tea, the guests played hide and seek. Elisa hid in the pantry. Sir John followed her. Hearing footsteps, she turned, laughing, expecting a girlfriend. Sir John leered over her, backing her into a corner. He had not touched her since that morning, years ago, when he dragged her away from Pony Billy’s cart. Now, his hands reached around her waist. His fingers squeezed the whalebone. “How slim you are. I can reach my fingers all the way around.”

  Elisa lurched against the wall. “It’s the corset, sir. I’ve never worn one before.”

  He pushed his knee between her legs. One hand held her arm like a vice while the other slipped over her breast. His mouth pressed against hers. Struggling to get away, she felt his tongue push against her pursed lips.

  A girl’s voice called, “Elisa! Game’s over. Sally’s turn.”

  Startled, Sir John stood back.

  Elisa flew past him and sped upstairs to her aunt’s room. When she calmed enough to explain what happened, Lillian sadly shook her head. “He’s your betrothed, dearest. He has the right.”

  Elisa was appalled. “What do you mean, he’s my betrothed?”

  Her aunt wrung her hands. “He is a very wealthy man. He has been supporting us since before you were born.”

  Elisa grabbed the bedstead for support.

  Lillian wrung her hands. “We have nothing. Nothing at all. I’ve told you about darling Charlie, our blessed older brother.”

  She walked to a large family portrait that hung over the hearth. Elisa knew she was about to hear an old story. Lillian’s father and mother sat in front of four children. Charlie and Lillian, half-grown, were slender and redheaded, like Elisa. Their younger brother Anthony had dark hair. The smallest child and a baby in her mother’s arms had died and were never spoken of.

  Lillian smiled and pointed to her elder brother. “Charlie was very clever with money. If he had lived, all would be well. He was an engineer, working on the Suez Canal. After he was killed in an accident, Tony inherited. He gambled, then drove the estate to ruin. Now, the farm earns almost nothing. I had no dowry. I could never marry and had to stay here. My darling, you also have no dowry. If it weren’t for Sir John Garingham, we might be in the poorhouse. We owe him everything.”

  Not believing any of it, Elisa waited until the guests had gone and braved asking her father. He was annoyed. “Of course, you stupid girl. Why do you think he’s spending so much money on your education? You’re going to school in the fall. You’ll stay there for four years, then you’ll marry him.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Oxford, September 1901

  Rory Cookingham bent over his study desk, meticulously copying the last sentences of his fifty-five page paper on the 1861 Offense Against Young Persons Act. He carefully dotted the last period. Perfect! He stretched, rubbed his sore eyes, stared in a mirror, and shuddered. He was nineteen, short and blond, and looked like an exhausted schoolboy.

  He moved back to his desk and carefully proofread the page. “…after lengthy consideration for…” He tensed. That should have been, “…lengthy consideration of…” He would have to rewrite the entire page. Was it worth it? He clenched his jaw, Yes! He crumpled the otherwise perfect page, tossed it into his overflowing trash basket and began copying the perfect letters, again.

  At four-thirty that afternoon, bathed, shaved, and dressed in a beautifully tailored suit, Rory tied a neat ribbon around his pristine academic paper. The cover, and each of the fifty-five pages, looked like they had been professionally copied. Every margin was perfect. Exactly the same number of lines was on each page, and there was not one single ink smudge, anywhere.

  Very happy, he tucked the manuscript under one arm, took his small traveling bag, and walked outside double-quick.

  Rory’s tutor, Frederick Brown, was past middle-aged, short and round. Rory had never seen him without smudged spectacles and a soiled academic gown tossed over a frayed suit.

  “Ah, Cookingham! What bit of entertaining perspicacity have you brought me today?” The tutor’s eyes sparkled as he took the manuscript and read the first lines. “Capital! This will be my evening’s read. If only the rest of your class was up to your speed. We spoke about your accelerating. Anytime you like, I’ll speak to the dean.”

  “Thank you, sir, but I’m in no hurry to leave Oxford.”

  “Really? I would have thought…,”

  “To be honest, sir, once I leave these ivy covered walls, I’ll have to accept a tedious position, sit at a solicitor’s desk ten-hours-a-day, six-days-a-week, for a starting wage smaller than my current allowance. Completing my assignments early allows me free time I may never enjoy again, for the rest of my life, so I am in no hurry to earn my degree.”

  “Ah, that puts the situation in a new light. You can easily continue your studies and become a teacher.”

  Rory grimaced. “Again, sir, with all due respect, the celibate life accompanying the profession…,”

  “…definitely has its shortcomings.” Brown laughed.

  “Also, sir, my whole life, I’ve been accelerated beyond my age level. It was fine, when I was a boy. Now, I dread growing up.”

  “How old are you, Cookingham?”

  “Nineteen, sir. I won’t be twenty until June.”

  “With the plan I had in mind, you would have been one of the youngest students to degree, ever. You could easily continue. Eventually go for the silk.”

  He smiled sadly. “I’d love to become a barrister, but I’m a third son. My father won’t pay for me to study any longer than necessary.”

  “Pity.” Brown saw Rory’s traveling bag. “Off for a week end?”

  “Yes sir. To visit my aunt.”

  “Really?” He winked and whispered. “Well, I hope your aunt is twenty, pretty and willing.”

  Rory choked on a laugh.

  “Well, off you go then.”

  At seven-thirty, Rory escorted a saucy shop girl toward the huge white stone pillars framing the ornately carved entrance to His Majesty’s Theatre. Rory and his young lady were not dressed in formal eveningwear, so he bought tickets high up in the gallery. Even there, the seats were plush red velvet, the banisters polished, and the trimmings glistening gold.

  The curtain rose and he was entranced. An Italian city spread before him and richly clothed citizens went about their business. After chuckling at the silly opening, he was quickly involved in the story. When Katherine Stewart entered as Kate, he stopped breathing. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her shrew was ferocious, but vulnerable. Every expression, every subtle inflection of her voice wrenched his heart.

  Jeremy O’Connell entered as Petruchio and Rory felt himself pushed back in his chair. He had never felt such power exude from a man. When Jeremy and Katherine were on stage together, the walls stretched to contain their energy. They were certainly in love. No one could pretend that kind of passion.

  For days after, Rory thought only of the world on stage at His Majesty’s Theatre. With no social connections in London, he could not meet upper-class young ladies. Deciding solitude was preferable to the company of uneducated shop girls, he returned alone, week-after-week, to see Jeremy O’Connell as Ulysses, Volpone, and the Captain of H.M.S. Pinafore. O’Connell could even sing.

  Every time Rory saw a play, he hurried back to Oxford and borrowed a copy from the college library. His fascination grew. How did O’Connell harness his passions, his rage? How did he cry on cue? How did all the actors create life from dry words?

  Ready to explode with questions, he made a bold move. He wrote Jeremy O’Connell a letter.

  Chapter Fourteen

  London, December 1901

  During the reign of Queen Victoria, the great actor-manager Herbert Beerbohm Tree built Her Majesty’s Theatre. King Edward was crowned in 1901, and the name became His Majesty’s Theatre. When Tree took his acting co
mpany on an American tour, Eric Bates’s penny-pinching wife Hilda saw an opportunity to make money, and leased the magnificent theatre.

  Blissfully, if temporarily performing on that glorious stage, Jeremy and Katherine became gigantic stars, drawing large salaries as well as a percentage of the ticket sales. “O’Connell and Stewart” become household names, and audiences thrilled to see a happily married couple revealing their love, playing theatrical characters.

  At thirty-nine, Jeremy O’Connell was handsome, strong, and the happiest of men.

  He had even grown to like Eric Bates. Although Eric had little imagination, under Jeremy’s direction, he became an excellent character actor. Hilda Bates brilliantly handled the finances, allowing Jeremy freedom to manage everything artistic.

  Shortly before Katherine’s son Evan was born, Jeremy moved them into two wonderful flats, one above the other, in a fashionable part of town. Each flat contained a large drawing-room and master bedroom, a guestroom, a study, kitchen and servants’ quarters. Katherine’s flat was upstairs, Jeremy’s was below, and Evan had a room in each. There was a staircase running between the floors, with doors at the top and bottom. Simply by closing the door on their floor, they insured privacy.

  Simon Camden dashed into town every couple of years and bedded down with Katherine. Other than that, she happily nurtured now eight-year-old Evan, lived like a nun, and frequently cuddled with Jeremy in his large downstairs bed.

  From the first, Evan was a sensitive, precocious child, and the delight of Jeremy’s life. Strikingly handsome, blond and blue-eyed like his mother, Evan was an exact miniature of her. He looked as much like Jeremy as Eric. As far as their adoring audiences knew, Katherine and Jeremy were happily married, and Evan was their child. Their bohemian community included every vareity of family unit. From birth, Evan had been told the his "Uncle Eric" was his real father, and Eric's daughters his half sisters. Evan was a very happy child, adored onstage and off. He appeared in every possible boy’s role and was becoming a fine actor.