by Jan Constant
‘ ‘Indeed! ’ ’ Emma thought deeply for a few minutes, wondering how best to enlist the aid of the little inn servant. “Can you keep a secret?” she asked thrillingly, at last.
“Yes’m,” answered the child promptly, laying a finger alongside her nose. “Eyes open, mouth shut, says Old Beerbelly.”
Recognizing the landlord without difficulty from his nickname, Emma smiled encouragingly and decided to embroider the truth only a little, just enough to rouse the sympathy of her listener.
“Sir Julian is taking me away to London against my will,” she declared theatrically. “He is about to carry me off and keep me a prisoner.”
“Ooh, miss,” squeaked the little maid. “It’s like one of Rourk’s plays! And Sir Julian looks such a bang-up, proper gentleman. Is he really kidnapping you?”
Emma hesitated only a second, fighting with her conscience. “Yes,” she said emphatically, abandoning the truth. “I pleaded with him last night, but he said that I was in his power and nothing would prevent him having his way!”
‘ ‘Well, I never did! Who’d have thought it? Does Old Beer- belly know as you’ve been ravished in his inn?”
“R-ravished! ” Looking down into the intent gaze of the younger girl, Emma closed her mouth over the indignant denial, realizing that sympathy was her only means of enlisting the help she needed. “N-no, I shouldn’t think so.” “He could be in the plot, you know,” the other said, confidentially. “He’s a wily old devil. You can count on me’m. I’ll get your things hid away, never fear.”
Emma dropped the shilling into her palm. ‘ ‘If anyone asks you, you haven’t seen me.”
“Mum’s the word,” she was assured, and, entering wholeheartedly into the intrigue, the maid led her down the back stairway and through various dim passages until she opened a narrow door onto a squalid street, much different to that on which the inn fronted.
Seeing Emma hesitate, the girl patted her arm encouragingly. “I daren’t leave the inn, miss, but I’ll stay here till you’re at the comer if you like.”
‘ ‘You’re very kind, ’ ’ Emma told her. ‘ ‘What’s your name? I’ll need to know it when I come for my baggage. ”
“Maria, ’m.”
“Well, thank you, Maria.” The older girl smiled before squaring her shoulders, then stepping off briskly in the direction of the High Street.
“Rourk’s Theater” was not hard to find. In a side street just off the main road and near to the Cathedral, Emma found a tall, narrow building with a shallow flight of steps leading up to a pair of dark red doors. Above them “Rourk’s Theater” was proudly picked out in gold, and on either side bills advertising the week’s performances were prominently displayed.
As she was hesitating, unsure whether to knock at the imposing doors or seek a side entrance, the doors opened and a small, smartly dressed man appeared, pausing on the top step to take snuff and survey the street below.
“Sergeant Rourk,” Emma cried, recognizing him at once.
Hearing his name and old rank, he turned his head, taking an unwary amount of snuff at the unexpected sight of Emma and sneezed several times before he could gather himself enough to blow his nose and hasten down the remaining steps to her side.
“Miss Beringer, by all the gods!” he exclaimed, seizing her hand and pumping it up and down enthusiastically. “What thoughts—what memories! You’re a joy to behold, if I may be so bold. What brings you here—is the major with you?”
Emma’s smile faded, and she could only shake her head. Used to what such silences portended, Tom Rourk patted her hand sympathetically and, without more ado, contrived to whisk her up the steps and into his office.
Considerably to her surprise, Emma found herself seated in a shabby, but comfortable, armchair, sipping sherry and nibbling ratafia biscuits, while Sergeant Rourk surveyed her benignly.
“Oh, Sergeant Rourk, can you help me?” she asked, and launched at once into her tale, finishing: “So you see, I cannot be beholden to such a horrid man. You know that my father would never have left me ward to such a person. . . .
I am sure that Sir Julian is not at all suitable for such a position.”
“It beats me why he should have acted in such a way,” observed the actor-manager, eyeing her worn, demure bonnet and serviceable gown in a puzzled way. Remembering the red bonnet, which now appeared odious in her eyes, and the clinging, damp folds of her dress, Emma had the grace to blush and, mistaking the cause of her embarrassment, Tom Rourk made haste to put her at ease. “You mustn’t take on, Miss B, if you’ll allow me to say so. Some men only have to see a pretty girl to feel frisky. Don’t go thinking anyone will imagine that you led him on. Tell me how I can help you.”
Turning the full force of her pleading blue eyes upon him, Emma clasped her hands and leaned forward. “Do you remember our camp theatricals?” she asked eagerly.
“To be sure I do. They were what started all this,” he jerked his head at their surroundings.
“And I was good, wasn’t I? They all said that I was the best Desdemona they’d ever seen.”
Following her line of reasoning, Tom Rourk looked at her warily.
“Please, please, dear Sergeant Rourk, give me a part in your theater. ”
“It’s not for the likes of you. You’re a lady, Miss Beringer,” he protested.
“Pooh! Who could be more ladylike than Mrs. Siddons?” she pointed out. “Just a little part,” she coaxed, “to see how I do.”
The actor began to shake his head, and she hurried on: “You can’t turn me away. Think of old times ... for my father’s sake. I need the money, Sergeant. I’m destitute . . . and have only my bad guardian to go back to—and you know what that means.”
Tom Rourk looked harassed, running his fingers through his thinning hair. “As it happens, an actress has left me in
the lurch—but it’s a breeches part,” he said, thinking to deter her.
“I’ll take it,” Emma cried, not too sure what was meant but determined to gain her desire. Jumping up, she bestowed a quick hug on the gratified actor. “You are kind, Sergeant. I knew I could depend on you. When do I begin?”
‘‘Tonight. We’re doing ‘The Sultan’s Slave.’ It’s one I wrote myself—a jolly Tar is captured by the Sultan of Morocco—it’s very popular. You’d take the part of the Princess of Morocco’s page—you don’t say much, just ‘Yes, oh mistress’ and ‘I obey, Your Highness’ and so on.” He paused, adding delicately, “You’d have to show your legs in satin breeches—and the audience doesn’t care for a shy actress!” “Pooh,” said the aspiring actress, who had never been shy in her life. “I’ve worn breeches for riding since I first climbed on a horse, so that won’t bother me.”
Tom Rourk refrained from pointing out that the circumstances would be decidedly different, instead taking her to view the stage and get some idea of what was expected of her.
‘ ‘Here’s the book, ’ ’ he said, giving her a motley collection of pages. “Read it, and you’ll understand the plot. How are you fixed about lodgings? Do you have somewhere to stay?” Emma shook her head. “No—my bags are at the George, but I can’t stay there.”
“My wife and I have a room to spare—we usually take a lodger. You can stay with us, if you want. Bed and board and half a crown a week is what I’ll offer you. ”
Emma was so relieved that she readily agreed to his suggestion without any real idea as to whether she was being offered a paltry sum or real wealth.
“Right!” The actor nodded. “Curtain’s up at eight o’clock. You be here an hour earlier—”
“I’d sooner stay here now and read your play, ’ ’ Emma put in, remembering that Sir Julian would no doubt be touring the streets looking for his errant ward.
Sergeant Rourk was indifferent. “As you will,” he said, preparing to leave himself. Tapping his hat into a rakish angle, he straightened his somewhat frayed cravat and shot out his shirt cuffs from the sleeves of his jacket, which Emma no
w saw was rather threadbare. Concluding that acting was not well paid, she looked round with new eyes, noting the many signs of lack of cash.
“I’ll leave you to the Green Room,” Tom Rourk told her, making a jaunty bow. “My good lady will show you how to apply your greasepaint. She, of course, plays the princess.”
After he had left and she had time to realize how empty was the building in which she waited, Emma half wished that she had not elected to stay in the theater. Curling up on a well-worn chaise longue, she studied the closely written pages given to her by the actor and, after some time, decided that the convoluted plot was impossible to follow. Sam Bowling, the hero, appeared much given to heroic speeches and cries of “Have at thee, sir,” and “Take that, you villain,” while the Princess of Morocco took every opportunity of swooning. Nevertheless, she decided, if the many stage directions to “fight” were anything to go by, it was a very thrilling play.
Growing tired of inactivity, she decided to explore the theater and, wandering backstage, was amazed to discover the gaudily painted backdrops representing various scenes suspended from the roof. Ropes and pulleys supplied their maneuverability, while heaps of furniture and props were waiting in the wings. A stormy seascape was already in place, a few judiciously placed spars and suitable flotsam were obviously intended to suggest a shipwreck.
Advancing to the front of the stage, Emma stared out at the rows of empty seats, trying to imagine what it would be like facing an audience other than one made up of friends, which was all her previous experience had been.
Her toe caught a little metal shield, and, looking down, she saw that she had knocked against a short but stout candle
speared to a heavy iron saucer. A thrill shot through her as she realized that these must be the famed “footlights” which all aspiring actresses had heard about. Feeling very professional, she returned happily to the Green Room, her head full of notions of the fame and fortune which would undoubtedly be hers.
Sometime later, when she had been obliged to assuage the pangs of hunger by dipping into Mr. Rourk’s jar of ratafia biscuits, she heard the front door open and the sound of approaching footsteps.
Tom Rourk led a large, florid lady into the room. Holding her fingers in the manner of a courtier, he presented her to Emma.
“This is Miss Beringer, who I was telling you of, my love,” he said. “Miss Beringer—my good lady and principal actress of this company of mine.”
The two women exchanged genteel bows, Molly Rourk taking a quick assessment of Emma as their fingers touched.
“Mr. R tells me that you are wishful of a stage career,” she declaimed thrillingly, every syllable carefully enunciated. “Of course, you must realize that, as yet, you are a mere novice on the stage of life, as it were.”
“I am sure that you can teach me a great deal,” replied Emma diplomatically.
“I was never one to stint myself. Talent is given to a few to give pleasure to many, I always say. Yes, my dear child, I shall give you advice and teaching—and in return, I shall expect you to realize that Rome wasn’t built in a day and that all comes to he who waits.”
‘ ‘In other words, Miss Beringer, don’t expect to run before you can walk,” put in Sergeant Rourk.
Emma, who had been entranced by this flood of clichйs, could not resist joining in. “I shall be as good as gold, I promise, and am truly grateful for the opportunity to sit in your shadow!”
For a moment she thought that she had gone too far, but
Mrs. Rourk smiled benignly. “Very prettily put,” she approved. “Now, dear child, come with me, and I will arrange your costume and show you how to apply your greasepaint and powder.”
When at last Emma waited in the wings to make her entrance, she was clothed in a blue satin suit in the fashion of fifty' years ago with tight breeches, silk stockings, and a fitted jacket, her sole concession to Arabia being a pink silk turban with a large blue glass jewel set in the shining folds. Under the layer of makeup her face was stiff and uncomfortable, and she felt it was a good thing that she had little to say, as she was uncertain whether she could open her mouth or not.
Molly Rourk was attired in the height of fashion in a high- waisted gauze gown of shimmering pink, a fine veil covered half her face, and pink pantaloons, gathered at the ankles, completed her ensemble. Mrs. Rourk was a decidedly ample woman, and she reminded Emma vividly of a large pink cloud hovering in the wings. She dwarfed her slim husband, who had blacked his face, added a pointed black beard and mustachios, and arrayed himself in yellow turban and emerald green jacket to his knees—beside his splendor, the hero in a sailor’s blue jacket and white trousers looked very ordinary.
Dazzled by noise, lights, and excitement and the overpowering smell of greasepaint and old perfume, Emma could remember none of her instructions and was almost surprised when Molly Rourk dragged her onto the stage, towing her in her wake like a ship in full sail with an attendant rowing boat.
Their entrance was greeted with sighs and whistles, which the Princess of Morocco accepted as her due, but which her page, unhappily conscious of her revealing costume, found decidedly embarrassing. Pushed and pulled, thrust here and there, Emma abruptly began to have doubts about the desirability of a stage career and greeted the fall of the curtain at the end of the first act with relief.
Seeing that she had no rival in the newcomer, Molly Rourk looked at Emma more kindly. “Well done, child,” she entoned. “In time you may well play a leading role, but now— the next act is more important, so follow me closely. The aristocracy, having dined, will arrive.”
“But they won’t know what has happened,” Emma pointed out. “How will they understand the plot?”
“Tush, child.” Her mentor smiled. “They come to be amused not instructed. Pretty sights and fine gestures will please them more. In all modesty, I can say that I am a great favorite—regard how I move and speak, nothing can teach you quicker how to go on.”
Taking her advice literally, Emma followed close behind, mimicking each larger than life, theatrical gesture and suddenly found herself enjoying the experience. Emboldened by a ripple of amusement which greeted a particular sweep of her arm, she attempted a little swagger in keeping with her breeches. Encouraged by the enthusiasm which this was accorded, she assayed a saucy wink and suddenly was aware that the audience was hers—unfortunately the intoxicating experience went straight to her head, and she began to play to the audience with all the abandon of youth.
Becoming aware that something was not as it should be, Mrs. Rourk turned to find the cause, when one of her dramatic speeches was greeted with laughter, and found Emma in full, but silent, mimicry. Quivering with outrage, the actress rounded on her page, who at that moment flung her arm wide as she made a particularly fine theatrical gesture. The large button on her wide cuff attached itself to Molly Rourk’s veil, which in turn was fastened to her pink satin turban. With one sweep of her arm, Emma dislodged the yashmak, pulling the headdress firmly down over the Princess of Morocco’s eyes, who gave a howl of rage and staggered blindly backward into her diminutive page’s arms. Emma tried bravely to support her, but despite her efforts, weight finally won, and they both slowly, but inevitably, toppled over.
As Mr. Rourk signaled frantically for the curtain to be lowered, his wife emerged from the turban and dealt Emma, who had managed to struggle free from the enveloping folds of pink gauze and rosy flesh, a resounding box on the ear, which promptly laid her low again. The curtain finally fell to the chagrin of a delighted audience, who had not expected to enjoy the play so much.
Tom Rourk rushed onto the stage and freed Emma from the grip of his enraged leading lady, who, deprived of her prey, took refuge in a noisy fit of hysterics.
‘ ‘I always s—said, Mr. R, that you couldn’t make an ear out of a s—sow’s purse,” she screamed, as he thrust Emma into the wings.
Taking his unspoken advice, Emma ran to the dressing room and, having reached her refuge, slammed the doo
r shut and leaned against it.
“Well done, Miss Beringer—I think even you have surpassed yourself tonight!” said a horridly familiar voice, and the tall figure of Sir Julian Leyton emerged from the shadows.
Chapter Three
Emma turned to run, but before she could make her escape a long arm reached out, and Sir Julian’s fingers hooked firmly into the back of her blue satin collar.
“Oh no, my dear,” he said. “I’ve spent all day hunting for you—I don’t intend to waste the night in the same way! ”
Wisking the turban from her head, he turned her to face him, and Emma was surprised to recognize a glimmer of amusement at the back of his dark eyes. Deliberately, he let his gaze slide over her, taking in the formfitting jacket and tight satin breeches, while she grew hot with embarrassment.
Shuffling uneasily, she wriggled in his grasp. “I’ll go and change,” she said gruffly.
“No need for that,” Sir Julian surprised her by saying. “Tom Rourk has lent me a cloak.” With the words, a long black cloak was tossed over her shoulders, and, enveloped in its smothering folds, Emma was lead relentlessly to the door.
“I can’t walk the streets like this,” she protested, digging in her heels.
“Oh, yes you can,” she was told softly.
Looking up, she found her guardian smiling in a way she could not like, his Satanic face in shadow, but his teeth gleaming in the candlelight. Abruptly deciding not to argue, she gathered the cloak about her with what dignity she could muster and, chin high, swept toward the door.
The damp night air was pleasant on her hot cheeks at first, but after a few minutes Emma began to feel as if the grease