Paint the Wind

by Cathy Cash Spellman

  The theatrical manager named Sidney Glick was the man the two show biz bibles, The New York Dramatic Mirror and The Theatre Magazine, claimed had unearthed more great female talent than any ten others; he'd seen Fancy three nights running at Tony Pastor's, before leaving the scribbled note she now held in her hand. The top half of the door to his office was of frosted glass, behind its fuzzy distortion she could see a bustle of activity.

  Fancy took a deep breath, straightened her audition dress, and walked inside.

  A small dog in a clown collar leapt up at her, yelping, a pair of twins in identical striped suits blinked their identical blue eyes, a small child with a bow in her ringlets and the kind of stage mother Fancy had learned to detest, all sat on hard wooden chairs before a Cerberus of a secretary, who guarded the manager's door.

  Warily, Fancy introduced herself and sat down to wait her turn to see the man who could change her life.

  "Fancy," Sidney Glick intoned. "Fancy Deverell." He drew out each syllable. "The name has class, kid. I like it." He sat behind a shabby desk, a sour-smelling cigar clenched in his teeth, his feet occupying the top of a pile of disheveled papers. Fancy thought he looked like a toad.

  "I received your note, Mr. Glick," she began. There was something unhealthy about his face, as if he'd lived under a rock for long periods, far from sunlight.

  "Yeah, yeah. I caught your act at Tony's. Thought you had something... sex appeal, pathos, you know. You had those suckers crying in their beer. That orphan routine is a great gimmick, kid. I gotta hand it to you, that's a new one on me and I thought I'd seen 'em all."

  "I've never had a manager, Mr. Glick."

  "That's why your career is in the crapper, kid. You get bubkes in this town without a manager."

  "I like Mr. Pastor," Fancy said defensively, feeling soiled by being near the man.

  "So you'd like to stay in vaudeville 'til you're old and baggy, right? You wanna be meshugge, I got no time for you."

  Fancy held her temper. "Why did you ask me to come here, Mr. Glick?"

  He removed his feet from the desk and leaned forward intently. "You ever heard of Augustin Daly, the big producer?"

  "Of course I've heard of him, Mr. Glick. He puts on the most lavish productions in New York. I'm not naive."

  "Maybe yes, maybe no—that we don't know yet. But Daly's got a new play, just finishing auditions. He's got great plans for this play, Fancy Deverell, and it just so happens there's a role in it would fit you like a sausage skin. If I happened to be your agent, that is... which, as of this moment, I'm not." He leaned back in the swivel chair, then rose and walked up close to where she sat; she could smell his rank breath as he leaned near to her.

  "It could be, I would want to become your agent," he said provocatively, reaching out to touch her. Fancy recoiled. He reached again for her hair, and she sat very still as he played with a long, dark ringlet. "If I did that, it could be I could get Daly to audition just one more actress for this role and I could put some muscle behind getting him to like you a lot....

  "You suit yourself about this, Fancy Deverell, but you consider real good before you get uppity with Sidney Glick. There's nothing you get in this world without you give something back, understand? I'm a real simple kinda guy. I get you a shot at a role that could make you a star—you, a nobody from Hicksville, Vaudeville, U.S.A.—and what I get in return is I get to fuck you. It's real simple." He dropped her hair and walked to the door.

  "Now you go home and think about it real hard. Ask around. See if your pals at Tony Pastor's don't think Sidney Glick can open doors for you. Then you come back here and we play a little hide-the-salami and everybody wins."

  He opened the door, dismissing her with a curt nod. As Fancy rose to leave, her teeth clenched in impotent rage, another ingenue was already walking into his office.

  The fury that knotted Fancy's belly propelled her along the busy streets with an overpowering urgency. Revulsion, nausea... not even the auction had made her feel so soiled. Tears of outrage streaked her face as she made her way to the park bench, too angry and agitated to go home.

  That loathsome son of a bitch stood between her and everything she'd ever wanted. She didn't have to ask anyone whether he could get her the audition, everybody in New York knew Glick pulled the strings that opened the doors to major Broadway shows. He not only got you the audition, he pressured the producers; if you came to an audition with his imprimatur, you were damn near assured of the job. She shuddered inwardly at the thought of his crassness, the physical ugliness that had made her want to run as far as she could. The idea of his touching her intimately was unthinkable....

  But so was the life that stretched before her if she didn't do as he asked. She'd feared she might have to sell her soul to get what she wanted; now she knew it would be her body that was forfeit.

  Fancy put her head down in her hands and cried until the dark had fallen all around her. She barely made it back to Pastor's in time to cover her red-ringed eyes and nose with makeup for the eight o'clock show.

  She'd have to make a fast decision; how many tailor-made roles would there be on Broadway in a single season, and waiting out another wasted year was more than she could bear.

  "How do I know you can deliver what you say, Mr. Glick?" Fancy stood in his office with her back to the door.

  The man's expression was contemptuous and lustful, simultaneously. Fancy saw it with a kind of studied detachment; she would go inside herself to stay away from him. Only her body would be dirtied and that could be washed clean.

  "You wouldn't be here if you didn't know I could get you what you want." He walked around the desk and leaned against it.

  "You really think you're something special, don't you, Fancy Deverell... better than me, it's right there on your arrogant kisser."

  Fancy watched him with the intense fascination of a mongoose in the cobra's lair. Your body is your own, Magda had said eons ago... but that wasn't true today, she had come here to sell it to this revolting little man in return for a future that was bearable.

  "I've accepted your terms, Mr. Glick. I don't have to like them."

  He laughed, an ugly, callous sound. "You don't have to like it at all, Fancy Deverell... but you better make damned certain I like it." He locked the door behind her and unfastened his belt and trousers.

  He moved to the couch and sat back, reaching inside his pants to liberate an organ far too large for his puny body. He laughed at the revulsion on Fancy's face and beckoned her toward him. Like a sleepwalker, she moved in his direction... he reached out and pulled her roughly to her knees in front of him. She let herself be pulled.

  "Make me want to do you a favor, kid," he said as he grabbed a fistful of her hair and pushed her face toward the pole of flesh that protruded from his pants.

  Fancy Deverell of Beau Rivage quelled her urge to throw up, and bent her dark head to the revolting task, with all the skill she could muster. Her only revenge would be in making sure the bastard would never forget.

  Sidney Glick looked up from his sexual stupor when the act was complete.

  "Holy shit, you got real talent, kid, you could—"

  Fancy, already on her feet, cut him off.

  "That's my part of the bargain, Mr. Glick. Now you fulfill yours."

  "Or what?"

  The beautiful young woman locked his eyes with her own.

  "Or I'll cut your heart out," she said deliberately.

  Sidney Glick tucked himself back in his trousers. This one was very interesting. He could make a lot of money from the career of an interesting woman, and the only thing he liked better than sex was money.

  "Four o'clock, Friday at 237 West Forty-fifth. My secretary has the script on her desk. Learn the role of Laura and meet me there."

  Fancy nodded and headed for the door. She'd done what she had to do and she hadn't let him see what it cost her.

  She hurried home. Inside her room she tore at her clothes and threw them from her body, grateful
that Aurora was out with the boardinghouse owner's daughter, so she was alone. She felt dirty, injured... the water from the old pipes clanged and hissed into the porcelain tub. Fancy vomited into the commode, then sank to the floor beside it, a broken child whose limits of endurance had been reached. What lower act than this could Fate demand of her? What would Atticus say if he knew the price she was willing to pay to win?

  THE WAIF OF WINCHESTER IS A WINNER

  She's a waif, this tempest-tossed Miss Deverell. A waif with eyes that hold fathomless sorrow, a mouth just tremulous enough to make us long to save her, just brave enough to make us applaud her heroism. No man could fail to be moved by the nuances of this performance. The tiniest gesture does not escape her unerring eye... the prostitute's arms folded protectively over her belly, when the wicked madam speaks of her unborn child... the pathetic mime of the homeless girl folding her worldly goods into a knapsack to move on, once again to nowhere. One cannot forget such perfection of detail, one cannot help but be moved by the sensitivity of one who looks like an exquisite child, but seems to know more of suffering than a single lifetime could provide.

  Nor can one avoid alluding to Miss Deverell's beauty, for this poignant soul of a broken sparrow resides in the body of a bird of brilliant plumage. This tiny Circe, with the mane of shining ringlets and the body of Diana, will set many a heart a-flutter among the stage-door Johnnies before this season ends.

  And season it is, for The Waif of Winchester will run a good long time, if I'm any judge. Audiences love nothing so much as a good hard cry.

  Fancy put down the newspaper, tears of triumph blurring her vision. Her sacrifice had been worth it after all—she pushed the thought of Sidney Glick's naked body down, down deep into the place of horrors that must never be remembered. She had a terror of reviews, those terse cruel words that could dash your hopes to pieces and strangle your muse for the next performance. What if she'd done what she had to do to get this role, and then the newspapers had hated her? It had taken courage to read what the critic for the New York Sun had said about her... but oh, how the generous words soothed her soul and poured balm on the wounds of years of desperation and the memory of Sidney Glick.

  Sorrow was her metier... how ironic and appropriate. If audiences liked to cry, then, by God, she would give them a sea of tears to match her own. And in return, they would give her salvation.

  Chapter 49

  Fancy curtsied to the crowd with all the dignity of a grand duchess and blew kisses to the eager men in the gilded boxes. She breathed the full essence of adulation in; it coursed through her blood, warm as cognac. Because of her spectacular reviews, people had been lined up all around the block waiting for tickets to The Waif of Winchester. She'd hidden outside the theatre door to watch the scalpers charge outrageous fees for the chance to see

  Fancy Deverell perform and tried to make herself believe that the price she'd paid for this had been acceptable. Success was the best revenge.

  Fancy scrubbed the greasepaint off her face and fingered the small white card that lay on her dressing table. Jason Madigan, it read simply, but the substance conveyed by the creamy stock and lustrous engraving was another matter. It wasn't unusual for an actress to be invited out to dine by a stranger who'd seen her perform, but only the great actresses and great beauties garnered the attentions of the rich. Fancy had learned not to spurn the attention of the rich men who liked to be seen with beautiful actresses on their arms. There'd been more nights than one when she wouldn't have eaten at all had it not been for the dinner invitations of such men as this Jason Madigan; nights when she'd been grateful Aurora was fed at the boardinghouse as part of their room fee.

  Fancy hummed as she applied her lip and cheek rouge with care, and fluffed her abundant hair into the latest coif. The patronage of the powerful could cut ten years of struggle off her climb to the top. The world was what it was and she could lose no more time waiting and hoping.

  Fancy lifted the skirts of her gown above her ankles and looked with distaste at the mud beyond the curb. Great God! Would she never be able to forget what it felt like to have just one pair of shoes to her name?

  "Are we going far, Mr. Madigan?"

  "Just across the street to my carriage, Mrs. Deverell. But there's no reason you should have to ruin your slippers, just because my driver can't get closer in this crowd. If you'll allow me the liberty... ?" Jason lifted Fancy off her feet and carried her across the rutted roadway to his brougham with ease. He wasn't a tall man, but he was powerfully built.

  "How very gallant of you, Mr. Madigan," Fancy said, startled by the gesture; it was lovely and unexpected to be taken care of.

  Jason smiled acknowledgment; gallantry came easily when he was in a good mood. He'd seen her play on opening night and been won over by her unusually perceptive performance.

  "I thought we'd dine at the new Delmonico's, Mrs. Deverell. It's very pleasant and private." The deep voice was manly, Fancy thought, stealing a glance at him as he stepped into the carriage beside her. He wasn't handsome; his square jaw and matching body precluded that. His gray eyes were sharp as flint and watched the world with unwavering appraisal; his lips were thin enough to make it clear they'd brook no interference, and his jaw was tough as an anvil. No, it wasn't a handsome face, despite its sculpted silver brows that matched his lustrous crop of silver hair and the fine down-turned mustache, of a darker gray, that gave it stature, but it was the face of a man used to money and power. The fact that his behavior was decorous and courtly was welcome relief—Fancy hadn't been feeling kindly toward men, of late.

  The restaurant's opulent interior spoke of wealth and extravagance; she found that comforting and smiled at Jason. It pleased him to see that he'd delighted her with his choice.

  "May I ask you what business you're in, Mr. Madigan?" she began as the waiter poured their wine.

  Jason settled back in his chair to answer. "I'm in many businesses, Mrs. Deverell. Banking, for one thing. Mining, another."

  "Mining? What sort of mining?"

  "Whatever kind there is to be done, I suppose. Silver is where I made my first money. Then gold. Now I dabble in a number of such enterprises. Are you interested in mining?"

  Fancy laughed and shook her head. "Would you believe that you're dining with a sourdough, Mr. Madigan? I've done more mining than I like to recall. In Colorado—California Gulch, to be exact. I can't say it brought me anything more than experience and blisters."

  "Is that where you met Mr. Deverell? Aurora's father?" Fancy's face clouded. "How exactly do you know about my daughter?"

  "My dear Mrs. Deverell, I was enchanted enough by your performance last evening to make it my business to learn everything I could about you."

  "And what precisely did you learn?"

  "That you are obviously well-bred and probably from the South, but no one knows exactly where. That you have a small daughter so beautiful that theatrical agents would give you anything you asked if you'd put her on the stage, but you refuse to do so. That the whereabouts of your former husband is shrouded in impenetrable mystery, by your own design." He watched her shrewdly for signs of response or anger, but Fancy kept her face impassive, except for the barest hint of mirth at the corner of her mouth.

  "A little mystery is essential in a woman's past. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Madigan?"

  "When a woman is as lovely as you, Mrs. Deverell, a little mystery can only enhance her charm. That doesn't preclude my trying to satisfy my curiosity, of course."

  "Perhaps we should talk about your own mysteries, Mr. Madigan. How exactly did you get into the mining business?"

  "I worked my way through metallurgical college and engineering school when other men headed out to the hills with a tin plate in their hands. After Sutter's Creek, any fool could tell there was going to be more gold and silver found in the Rockies.

  "I made my way to Virginia City and the Comstock. Did day labor in the Ophir and Homestake. Learned to dig and to double-jack and all the res
t of a miner's dirty jobs, just to learn the business from the inside out." Fancy examined the man more closely and he watched her do so. He was of slightly more than medium height and stocky, but not an ounce of fat displaced the muscle of a body used to the tyranny of hard work and exercise. His success was not a fluke; she admired that.

  "Philip Deidesheimer, the country's leading authority on mining technology, took a liking to me. Deidesheimer was a graduate of the Freiburg School of Mines in Germany and had practiced his profession in California before coming to Colorado. It was he who developed the system of timbering in 'square-sets' that made mining the Rockies feasible. You do know about square-sets?"

  "Only by reputation, not personal experience, Mr. Madigan. The mine I worked was just a hole in the ground."

  "Square-sets are short, massive timbers, fourteen inches square and six feet long, mortised and tensioned at the end. They're assembled inside mine shafts to form interlocking cubes of immense strength to hold up the rock walls and ceiling. The resulting system is a honeycomb of uplifting timbers that can deal with the crumbling recesses of the Rockies. Square-sets are what made it possible to open the Comstock to extraordinary depths."

  Fancy took a sip of her wine and looked properly impressed.

  "Of course, you know that gold and silver are not the only wealth to be made around a strike, Mrs. Deverell. Once minerals are found, other needs mushroom... carts to carry ore, timber for square-sets, flumes to carry timber down from the mountaintops. Cartage, smelting, labor.... A man's got to be prepared to cash in on a boom, of course. And to be ready, he's got to have cash and he's got to believe it's going to happen. I'm a believer, Mrs. Deverell. I believe we walk into our own vision of the future, and my vision holds nothing but abundance."