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

by Christina Britton Conroy

  Jeremy shook his head. “Eddy!”

  The stage-manager ran on-stage. “Yes, sir.”

  “Please send Mr. Cook to Mr. Bates’s office. Keep Mr. Adams here, and send the others home.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Jeremy’s heart pounded. “Trust me, Eric. Very shortly, all will become clear.”

  A few minutes later, Rory Cook stood to attention as Eric and Jeremy walked up the stairs. Rory smiled hopefully. Jeremy gave a cool nod and went inside. Eric said, “Mr. Cook, please come in.”

  Once inside, with the door closed, Jeremy hissed through clenched teeth. “How dare you! You insolent brat. After all I’ve said.”

  Rory lurched back in his chair. “We never spoke of this, sir.”

  “After all I’ve written, then. Have you no respect?”

  “I’ve only the greatest respect, sir. I tried to do everything you teach. Wasn’t I any good?”

  Eric spoke up. “You were splendid.” He sat behind his desk. “Sit down Jerry and tell me what the bloody hell this all about.”

  Rory sat up. “Well sir…,”

  “Not a word.” Jeremy glared at him and turned to Eric. “Mr. Cook, as he now calls himself, is a first-class student reading Law at Oxford. While he has a great academic interest in the theatre, and…” he gritted his teeth, not wanting to admit, “…considerable talent as an actor, he is not, and should not ever, become accustomed to living as a poor man. Since he would be joining us as an apprentice, receiving no wages, life here would be quite impossible.”

  Eric looked at the beautiful cut of Rory’s suit and the neat trim of his hair. This was not a chap who could share a bed with other penniless apprentices. “Mr. Cook, your audition was very good and I want you to join our company. If you came aboard, how do you propose to live?”

  Rory swallowed. “My father gives me a generous allowance, sir. More than enough to live on.”

  Eric nodded. “And this allowance will continue, if you left Oxford?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Eric smiled. “Well then, Jerry. I see no problem.”

  Jeremy glared. “You have informed your father of your intension?”

  “Not yet sir. I, I thought it premature, in case you didn’t want me, there would have been no need…,”

  “No need to upset you father.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And now there is?” Rory shuddered as Jeremy plowed on. “The prospect is not pleasant. The idea will not be happily received.”

  “I have no idea, sir. Truly.”

  “Come now. A lad of your intellect? I am sure you know your own father well enough to anticipate his reaction to this proposal.”

  Rory stared at the floor. “I must try, sir. Please, just let me try.”

  Eric asked, “How much time will you need?”

  Sweat beads popped out on Rory’s brow. “I believe there is a 7:00 train. I could be home late tonight and speak with my father tomorrow, unless he’s away, then I may have to wait until the day after.”

  Jeremy’s edict was firm. “Forty-eight-hours, Mr. Cooking… Mr. Cook.” He checked his watch. “It is now 4:52. You are to report back to Mr. Bates on Thursday by 5:00, but I sincerely hope that you will not. If you have not returned by that time, that other chap will be engaged in your place. Eric, is that agreeable to you?”

  Eric shrugged. “I had hoped to get the new man on stage by next week, but I’ll wait a couple of extra days.”

  “Is that agreeable, Mr. Cook?”

  “Yes sir. I’ll be back Thursday, before 5:00.”

  Nottingham

  The train pulled into Nottingham station at ten minutes before midnight. Yellow gaslights shed ghostly beams over the narrow platform.

  “Mister Rory? Is that you, sir?” A carriage driver searched through the fog.

  “Here I am, Olins. Glad you got my wire.” They walked to the waiting carriage. “Is my father at home?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s expecting you.”

  “What’s his mood?”

  “Well sir, to be honest,” he spoke as an old friend, “grain prices are not what he would like.”

  "Damn!" Rory beat a fist against his thigh.

  They reached the house and a young footman opened the door. “Welcome home, Mister Rory. Cook’s waited up. . .”

  “Thanks, but I don’t need anything. He glanced at his dusty boots and chuckled silently. An elegant row of shoes and boots waited in his dressing room. After today he might be a penniless beggar, but he didn’t have to look like one. "Olins, stay with me for a bit. The other servants can go to bed.”

  Minutes later, they carried a steamer trunk from the attic. “Going on a trip, sir?”

  “Just getting some things for school.” The trunk was quickly packed with most of Rory's clothes, labeled and sent to London.

  He wasn't able to get his father's ear till dinner the next evening. It was the sort of meal Rory remembered. His mother was wrapped in aqua silk, emeralds and pearls. She sat at one end of the large polished table, tasting everything, but eating very little. Rory, handsome in evening clothes and miserably nervous, gulped his food without tasting it. The Squire, austerely elegant, ate heartily, while keeping up a constant monologue. He expected his wife and son to listen attentively, laugh at his jokes, agree with his opinions and offer none of their own. With military precision, a team of servants served and cleared five courses.

  The meal ended and the Squire turned to his son. “Come along, boy. Let’s have a smoke and you can tell me whatever trouble you’re in.”

  His mother sat to attention. “Trouble? Rory, darling, you never said you were in trouble.”

  “There’s no trouble, Mother.”

  The Squire pushed away from the table. “Whatever it is, I’ll see it right.”

  Rory sheepishly followed his father to the smoking room. The Squire puffed contentedly on a large cigar. The smell made Rory gag.

  The Squire sat back. “So, is it a woman?”

  “No! No, sir.” Rory was taken by surprise. “Nothing like that.”

  “It’s certainly not your academic work. By God, the glowing reports I receive from your dean. It seems they expect you’ll be running the place one day.” He puffed proudly. “Wouldn’t be bad for a chap in your position. Certainly make your mother proud.”

  Rory flinched. “I hate it, sir. I’m sorry, but I truly do.”

  “Good, then you’ll excel just to finish faster.” He smiled and flicked an ash. Rory rolled his eyes, but his father pretended not to notice. He leaned back, examining his cigar. “You were a remarkable little boy.”

  Rory looked up.

  “You probably don’t think I noticed the way you struggled to keep up with your brothers. Even as a little mite, you fought and scratched and used your wits to get whatever they had.” He laughed. “You weren’t about to, ‘wait until you were old enough,’ for anything.” He slapped his thigh. “You were so damn good at everything. You’ve always made me proud.”

  Rory was amazed. He had never heard his father talk like this.

  The Squire puffed on his cigar. “I’d never tell your brother,” he flicked another ash, “but I wish you were my heir.”

  Rory gasped.

  “Jamie’s a good lad. He’ll do fine, but, my God,” he puffed contentedly, “what you could do with this estate. Ah well,” he shook his head. “It wasn’t to be. Since God’s not given you a fair share, you’ll need a rich wife.” He sat back, waiting. Rory looked miserable but said nothing. The Squire poured them each a glass of port. “So, if it’s not a girl, who’s Peg McCarthy at His Majesty’s Theatre?”

  Rory gasped and put his head in his hands.

  “You didn’t really think my servants would allow an expensive steamer trunk to leave this house without informing me?”

  “It’s a long story, sir.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Rory told his story. The Squire listened calmly, without comment. He seemed to understand
his son's passion and his longing. Rory finished and the Squire casually drained his glass. “Your mother’s been waiting too long. Let’s go and join her.” He did something he had never done before. He put a hand on his son’s shoulder, looked him in the eye and spoke softly. “I’ll say this once. Tomorrow you’re back at Oxford, or you’re out of this family, forever. Your university fees are paid until the end of the semester. Go back and we’ll forget the entire incident.”

  *

  Thursday at 2:00, Rory’s train pulled into Oxford Station. He'd have to pack his clothes and books, find a porter and get back in time for the 3:30 to London. He'd leave his cases at St. Pancras, grab a cab and report to Eric Bates before 5:00. The only thing his father had allowed him to take out of the house was a battered school bag. Into it, Rory had rolled a clean shirt, three collars, underclothes and ties. In his pockets were gold cufflinks, jeweled studs, tie pins and a few pounds his mother had filched from her husband’s dresser drawer. She had no money of her own.

  It was a short walk from Oxford Station to his residence. He ran upstairs two at a time, started to put the key in the door and stopped. A note was tacked to the door.

  By order of the purser:

  This room is to remain locked until further notice.

  Rory blinked, tried his key and pounded the door. His heart raced as he leaned against the wall, frantically deciding what to do. He couldn't go to London with only the clothes on his back. That was impossible. His father had won. Exhausted, he sighed deeply and slowly walked toward the purser’s office. He'd wire his father. They would unlock the door. He could simply relax and continue his studies. It was simple. Each slow step seemed like a walk on hot coals. His heart pounded. Sweat ran down his neck. When he was almost at the office, he froze, then started running in the opposite direction. Within sight of the station, he could see the 2:30 train ready to leave for London. Holding his book bag like a rugby ball, he charged the last two hundred meters, and leap onto the moving train.

  Chapter Seventeen

  July 1903

  Robert Dennison waited for the headmaster of Heathhead School to return from lunch. He sat on a hard bench in a long hall in the administrative building, clutching his art portfolio and breathing hard. Nervous sweat soaked his shirt, and he laughed at himself. He was twenty-six-years-old, applying for a master’s position, but felt like a schoolboy waiting for a canning. At worst, the headmaster would send him packing, and he would have to seek employment elsewhere.

  A gray-haired, well dressed, bearded gentleman walked up, offering his hand. “Mr. Dennison? I’m Dr. Theodore.”

  Robert sprang to his feet, smiled anxiously and shook the hand. “How-do-you-do, Headmaster?”

  “This way, please.” Dr. Theodore walked into his large study, then moved behind his desk.

  Robert hastily followed. Quickly as possible, he opened his portfolio, pulled out two miniature landscape oil paintings, and placed them on the desk.

  Dr. Theodore looked startled. “I’m sure those are very pleasant, but I have little knowledge of art. A colleague has assured me that the Academie Julien is a fine school, so your accreditation is more than adequate.”

  “Thank you, sir, but I didn’t only study at the Julien. I was a private pupil of Paul Serusier. The brush strokes on this canvas show his influence. The technique is very different on this second canvas, which I painted in the style of the Acadmie…,”

  “Thank you,” the headmaster interrupted. “Please sit down.” He sat behind his desk, ignoring the paintings.

  Robert apologetically tucked his canvases back into his case.

  “My secretary has informed you of the wage and responsibilities?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you find them satisfactory?”

  “Yes, sir. But, I haven’t seen my lodgings or the art studio.”

  “Of course. You will find the first masters’ house immediately to the right, when you leave this building. The art master’s room is on the top floor. Next to the masters’ houses are academic buildings, then lodging houses for the boys. The art studio is on the other side of the river. That is the girl’s side.

  “When you cross the footbridge, the chapel and great hall will be on your left. Nine lodging houses will be to your right. Past the last house, just before you reach the woods, you will find the art studio. It is a small stone structure with large windows. You cannot miss it. After our interview, you may tour the grounds at your leisure.

  “Most of the staff are away on holiday. They are a friendly lot, so feel free to ask questions.” He looked at the frayed cuffs on Robert’s suit and the rough cut of his hair. “Should you desire an advance on your salary, to better prepare your wardrobe, my secretary will arrange it.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Robert felt himself color. He had washed and shaved that morning, but his suit was shabby, and his shoes were lined with cardboard.

  The headmaster folded his hands and pursed his lips. “Mr. Dennison, I will be direct. Heathhead School educates upper-class boys who are too slow to be accepted at Harrow or Eton. While we provide an adequate education, we do not pretend to compete. Some of our boys continue into our college or other universities. Most go home to work in their families’ businesses, are commissioned into the military, or the church." He shrugged with boredom. “While we try to keep enrollment at four-hundred, ten years ago, admissions dropped dangerously low. To keep the school from closing, my predecessor opened our doors to a small number of young ladies. Our girls’ school now has nearly ninety students and a twofold purpose. Number one: it has kept us solvent. Number two: since most of these boys are not society’s choicest, it provides them with a selection of eligible young ladies.”

  Robert understood the headmaster's code: girls did not need to be educated.

  The headmaster droned on, “Upon graduation, many of our young ladies are betrothed to our young men… or other members of their families.” He sat back shaking his head. “Last year, one of our university bound men paid court to one of our girls. They adored each other. The parents approved and the match seemed secure. Much to her despair, practically on her wedding day, the bride discovered that she had been betrothed, not to her sweetheart, but to his older brother.” He sighed. “Oh well, no matter, back to you, sir.”

  Robert caught his breath. “How terrible… for everyone.”

  The headmaster shrugged it off. “We only engaged an art-master to teach our young ladies. Young men should be kept at their academic pursuits, and relax with the physical rigors of sport. Those who insist on quiet recreation are encouraged to study music. Singing can be beneficial for the lungs, and skill at the piano will always make one popular at parties. Spending days toying with paints and canvas, only to hang an ornament on the wall, seems a dreadful waste of time.”

  Robert’s whole body tensed, but he kept still.

  “There are, however, always a few boys who wish to study art. Their fathers select their classes and pay the fees, so they study what they please. We tried holding separate classes for boys and girls, but there were too few boys to schedule around their important classes.”

  Robert’s eyes widened. “So, my classes will be a mix of boys and girls?”

  “I know it is unusual, but there is absolutely nothing to concern yourself about. The art studio is one large room with windows on three sides. Everything that goes on inside is visible from the outside. The students feel rather like fish in a bowl, so there has never been any misconduct. Male and female students are all encouraged to associate at chapel, Sunday dinners, and special functions. Those are more than sufficient opportunities. You need not concern yourself about fraternization.”

  Like hell! Robert’s pulse quickened. He liked this less and less. First, he had been insulted, told his training and skills were worthless; next, he was expected to child-mind sexually budding adolescents using the studio as a rendezvous point. Either the headmaster was a very good liar or the boys were all nancies.


  He forced a good natured laugh. “Well, if I had gone to this school, I never would have left the art studio. How old are these students?”

  The headmaster ignored his joke. “Twelve to seventeen. Some turn eighteen during their last year. The boys that go on to the college are, of course, older.” The headmaster clenched his fist. “This year, we have a girl enrolled in college. I am dead against it, but my masters convinced me to let her try.”

  Robert left the headmaster’s office and carried his portfolio to the top floor of the master’s house. There were two attic rooms. One door had a name plate reading “Longworth.” The second door was open and had no name plate. He assumed it was the tiny room for the lowly art-master. The ceiling sloped, but he could stand upright and turn around without bumping into the narrow bed, the wash stand, or the wardrobe. An adequate supply of coal waited in the bin, next to the small stove, and the one window looked onto a huge elm tree. He nodded with approval. It was all right. He could live here.

  Taking his portfolio, he left the masters’ house and followed the headmaster’s directions. He passed ivy covered academic buildings and neat lodging houses, all cut from the same stone. They were framed by manicured gardens and lawns. The grounds were so beautiful, he guessed that the gardeners earned more than the art-master.

  To his left was the shallow river, separating the boy’s side from girl’s side. Across the river, he could see the stone chapel and the great hall. He walked across the narrow wooden bridge, then turned right, down a gravel path, past the nine girls’ lodging houses. Each house had a name over the door. The last one, Nicholas House, had a garden full of brilliant sunflowers.

  A slim woman, shorter than many of the tall flowers, wearing a long green gardening smock, was bent over, weeding. She and Robert exchanged greetings, as he walked by, and continued a hundred yards to the edge of a thick wood.

  Just as the headmaster had described it, there stood a small stone building with huge windows on three sides. A skylight glimmered on the slanted slate roof. It really was like a fish bowl. He guessed that the light inside would be marvelous. The gravel path faded into a dirt path, leading to the studio’s front door. It was locked. He left his portfolio and walked around the building, looking in through the windows.