by Megan Chance
How strange he was, how fervently he spoke. I’d met hundreds of actors and playwrights, but I’d never known anyone like him. “How am I to do that?”
“Run your lines with me,” he urged in a low voice that went through me the way my teeth went through those candied apricots, sheering just that smooth, and my breath went all jumpy and short. “You’re very good at tricks. I can help you to let the truth show instead.”
He had me off balance again. This one you should run from, and damn but wasn’t that the truth I should be listening to. Still, he knew just what to say. He knew what would hook me. The thought of being better grabbed tight, and I found myself saying, “All right. When?”
“How about now?”
“We can go to my hotel,” I heard myself say. “It’s—”
“Foster’s. I know.”
“How do you know that?”
He smiled. “Shall we go?”
And that was how I ended up taking him back to my room. There, he opened the window and let in the afternoon, and my thin and faded muslin curtains fluttered in the little breeze and the air smelled like horse manure and piss and sawdust and smoke with that lilt of salt mud. Sebastian DeWitt took off his coat and sat on that faded red settee and I sat on my bed and ran lines with him.
And that was all it was, just that simple, except that he made me laugh out loud once or twice when he spoke Marjory’s lines in this breathless, little high-pitched voice, and once, as he spoke Keefe, he leaped from the settee and raised his hand over me as if he held the knife that Keefe nearly plunged into Penny’s breast before he realized who she was, and it was such a sudden movement I gasped and fell back with a startled little scream, and he smiled with satisfaction and said, “Perfect!” and I liked pleasing him much more than I should.
By the time we reached act four, he was lounging on the end of my bed while I sat at the head. I spoke the last lines of the scene: “I would do anything you asked of me, my love—anything at all,” and when I said the words it was as if I’d become Penelope Justis, and he was Keefe Hart, and he looked up at me just at that moment and the breeze stirred his hair and I was caught by his eyes. I mean, I was caught, you know, when I’d always thought that was just a stupid saying, and I don’t know what I might have done or said, but suddenly there was a loud and blistering curse from someone in the street below, and it cut the moment dead, and Sebastian DeWitt laughed and looked away, and I laughed too, but I was thinking What the hell are you doing? I felt how much I liked him as this purely dangerous thing. He reminded me of everything I wanted, everything the years had taken away from me, and I forgot how hard those things were to have and to hold on to. With him, I was just Beatrice Wilkes, who loved acting more than anything in the world.
But that was the lie. That Bea was long gone, and DeWitt was right when he said I was afraid to have her back. I was afraid, and with good reason. I couldn’t afford to be that person again.
“It’s—it’s getting late,” I said when we’d done laughing. “I need to think about getting back to the theater.”
DeWitt nodded and rose, stretching his arms over his head so his untucked shirt rose high on his thighs, as casually and intimately as if we were lovers, and I had to look away at the image that brought into my head.
He went to the window and looked out and said mildly, “I’ve been thinking … I know someone. Someone who can help us both.”
“Help us both do what?”
“Show the world what we can really do.” He didn’t turn from the window, and he spoke the way someone might speak of God. “If you can make Penelope Justis come alive the way I saw today, this woman could take us very far.”
“Woman?” I was suddenly jealous, and don’t think I didn’t know how stupid that was.
He nodded, turning now to look at me. “It’s her gift—to bring artists out of obscurity.”
And maybe she had other gifts as well. Ones that made him talk like that. “I don’t imagine she would care to do much for me, Mr. DeWitt. But you … no doubt that’s a different story.”
He smiled and went to his coat, getting more wrinkled and disreputable-looking by the minute where he’d thrown it haphazardly on the settee. “Leave that to me. Just remember what’s at stake, Mrs. Wilkes. That’s all I ask. Give me something to work with.”
He went to the door, and I was suddenly, stupidly afraid I wouldn’t see him again. “Wait, Mr. DeWitt. Do you … could we do this again, do you think? Run lines, I mean.”
“As I said before: whenever you want, Mrs. Wilkes. You’ve only to ask.” He gave me this beautiful seductive smile that said he was hoping for something more than just running lines, and I was so flustered both at the smile and at the way it dropped through me that I could do nothing but sit there and watch him close the door.
Chapter Twelve
Geneva
Over the next few days, my cough worsened; it required that I stay home from two functions, which was probably a fortuitous occurrence, as it would lessen the gossip about my late-night café visit with Sebastian DeWitt. It also meant I could not see him, as I most certainly would have done otherwise, which I regretted. It even occasioned a letter from my father alluding to my “illness,” though it seemed so out of character for my father to concern himself over a small cough that I supposed it could have been his newest way of referring to the scandal in Chicago, as if it were some disease I’d managed, against all odds, to recover from. It was just like Papa to label something unpleasant with euphemisms until he came to believe them true. Years from now, I suspected, Papa would frown at any mention of Marat and say, “Wasn’t that when you had the cholera, Ginny?”
Nathan was more solicitous and kind than he’d been in years, and I no longer doubted he truly meant the words he’d spoken the night of our dinner with Sebastian DeWitt. One morning, as we breakfasted together, he said, “Robert Stebbing said the most astonishing thing to me last night—he said that James Reading had suggested you try acting.”
Reading’s suggestion had nagged at me since Julius Caesar, but I hadn’t dared mention it, and now I treaded carefully. “Yes, he did. He said it was the most exciting thing he’d ever done. Better even than climbing Mount Rainier.”
Nathan laughed. “Of course Reading would say that.”
“He was quite sincere, Nathan.” I coughed delicately into my napkin.
His gaze became sharp. “I do think it’s time Dr. Berry took a look at you.”
“Don’t be foolish. It’s getting better every day.”
“You won’t be able to attend the Memorial Day parade if you aren’t recovered, and—”
“I pooh-poohed Mr. Reading’s idea, of course, but … I admit it’s tempting.”
“—as it is the inaugural parade, I think we should be there.” Nathan stopped and frowned. “You admit that what is tempting?”
“James Reading’s idea that I should take to the stage.”
Nathan looked surprised. “You’re taking it seriously?”
“Of course not. But … there’s no doubt it would help make the play a great success. The Stebbings and the Dennys did come to see Mr. Reading in Julius Caesar.”
“Not to put too fine a point on it, Ginny, but Reading is a man.”
I tried to smile. “I realize that. I wasn’t suggesting I do the same. It’s only that the part of Penelope haunts me. I’ve thought of little else since I read it.”
“Penelope?”
“From Mr. DeWitt’s play. Don’t you remember? Penelope Justis. I think I could do it well, with Mr. DeWitt’s help, of course, and with that and your connections at the Regal—”
“Reading’s a laughingstock, as I think I’ve already told you.”
I shrugged, attempting a casualness I didn’t feel. “Yes, of course. Still, it didn’t keep society from flocking to the theater. I can’t help but think how much it would help Mr. DeWitt. People would come just for the gossip, but they’d be swept away by his words. You and I could be re
sponsible for introducing an American Shakespeare.”
“Yes, but at what cost?”
“How can it be more than I’ve already paid? You’ve said it yourself, Nathan. They hate me. They will never accept me. In one sense, that could be an asset. My notoriety means the play would earn a fortune. But I understand. Neither you nor Papa could like it, and I’ve promised to be good—” I had to stop to cough. When I looked up again, I saw how carefully Nathan was watching me.
“I want Berry to see you. I’ll bring him by this afternoon.” I ignored that. “I want to help you, Nathan. You must believe I do.”
He sighed. “As usual, Ginny, you go too far.”
I had not realized how much I’d hoped for him to agree. I was so disappointed I could not look at him.
He said quietly, “I do want you to be happy, Ginny, but this—”
I glanced up, my hopes flaring again. Nathan looked troubled. “Slowly, remember? Slowly.”
But all I heard was the maybe he did not have to say.
I’d forgotten about the doctor, but of course Nathan had not, and that afternoon, he was home early from work, Dr. Walter Berry in tow.
Dr. Berry was nearly as wide as he was tall, the buttonholes of his vest strained so it looked like a breath might pop the buttons loose to go rolling across the floor. He was gray and balding, with muttonchops and a thick mustache, as if to make up for what wasn’t on his head, and round spectacles perching on a rather bulbous nose.
“My cough is really so much better,” I protested. “I hardly notice it at all.”
“Whatever possessed you to go out so late in the evening, Mrs. Langley?” he asked, peering into my face as if he were searching for the secrets of the Egyptians.
“An enjoyable play,” I told him. “Good company.”
“My wife often has trouble remembering that things have consequences,” Nathan put in.
I looked at him over Dr. Berry’s head. “Lately I’ve been such a recluse that it seemed impossible to consider them.”
Dr. Berry took my wrist, feeling for my pulse, which obliged by fluttering and leaping. He frowned and looked at me. “Have you been nervous recently, Mrs. Langley?”
“I’ve recently moved to a new town, Doctor. I admit there are times I’ve been anxious.”
“Have you taken laudanum?”
I shook my head.
The doctor sat back and considered me. “You might want to try a few drops in the evening to quiet your nerves, and also for your cough. In fact, I consider it quite necessary.”
“Well, for the cough I will oblige you,” I said. “But I’m already feeling so much better.”
“You must not overdo it, Mrs. Langley. Rest is the best prescription.”
“I’m afraid I won’t have much time for rest these next months.”
The doctor frowned. “You should curtail your charity work and your functions, madam, or I cannot guarantee a good outcome.”
“But I’ve so much to do. And I’ve spent so many months already resting. I vow I’m quite tired of it.”
“My wife was very active in the arts when we were in Chicago,” Nathan said smoothly. “And she has hoped to do the same here.”
Dr. Berry’s frown intensified. “I cannot advise it.”
Before I could respond, Nathan said with a smile, “She’s discovered a new playwright, doctor, and I’m afraid there’s no gainsaying my wife when she discovers new talent. The rage to present it to the world is quite … unstoppable. I myself am only grateful that her despondency these last months has seemingly passed.”
“I see.” The doctor put his stethoscope in his black bag and took out a small brown bottle. The laudanum he’d spoken of. He handed it to me and rose. “Well, Mrs. Langley, my advice remains the same. Rest.”
“I appreciate your concern, Doctor. I do. But activity is the best remedy for a restless mind, is it not?” I waited while Nathan showed him to the door. I heard their low murmurs, the clap of one man’s hand upon another’s shoulder, and then the door closing, and Nathan’s footsteps back to the parlor.
“Are you reassured as to my health?” I asked.
“I only wanted to be certain the cough was not something worse,” Nathan said. “And as you aren’t as ill as I’d feared, I’ve a surprise for you.”
“A surprise?” I gave him a wary look.
“I spoke to Greene today. He would be delighted to have you join his company for the production of Penelope Justis.”
I stared at him uncomprehendingly. I could not possibly have heard him correctly.
He frowned. “Did you not hear me, Ginny?”
“You … you want me to take to the stage?”
“Well, no, I don’t want it,” he said. “But as you seem to have your heart set upon it—”
“But what about Papa? And … you said it was too fast,” I said.
“I changed my mind. You’re right about the financial benefit, and Reading did it, after all, why not you? Perhaps his support will bring in the rest of society, as you said. And I’ll deal with your father. He did put you into my hands, and as this is my decision, he can’t complain.”
“But … what of your concerns? Your political career. Appearances?”
He smiled grimly. “What I’m more concerned with now is money. In this town, it matters more than what society thinks, and there’s no business leader who doesn’t respect it. Make me a fortune with this play, Ginny, and I’ll be looking at a city council seat before the end of the year.” He frowned. “I did think you’d be happy at the news. If you’re not, I can tell Greene to—”
“No!” I jumped from the settee, rushing into his arms. His reasons seemed good enough, whatever else had moved him, I had no wish to protest. Nathan had used me before to gain what he wanted, and this at least was what I yearned for. I took it in the spirit of a gift, a promise, the compromise he’d spoken of. “Oh thank you, Nathan! You cannot know how glad this makes me.”
“Oh, I’ve some idea,” he said, holding me briefly before he let me go. “You’re to meet Mr. Greene the day after tomorrow. Nine-thirty A.M.”
“Does Mr. DeWitt know?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“I hope I can do it justice. Certainly I can do better than that wretched blonde who was in Black Jack. Don’t you think?”
Nathan moved away from me and toward the decanters on the sideboard. “Oh, I’ve no doubt that you will simply overwhelm them.”
Beatrice
We’d been rehearsing Penelope Justis for a week when Brody waylaid me as I went to dress for that night’s performance. “Lucius is looking for you. He’s in his office.”
I sighed. Whatever it was Lucius wanted, I wasn’t in the mood to hear it. I was tired; Nathan had come twice this last week and kept me up late, and the other nights I’d spent memorizing lines for more than just Penelope Justis, because we were also doing The Last Days of Pompeii, and though we’d done it often, I’d never before played the Grecian slave girl.
I made my way down the narrow, obstacled hall toward his office and knocked on the door. “Lucius? It’s Bea. Brody said you wanted to see me?”
There was a moment of silence, and then Lucius said, “Come in,” in a rather labored voice that was unlike him.
At his desk, Lucius looked as tired as I felt, his hair standing on end as if he’d run his hands through it. There were none of his usual bad puns or references to honeybees. He only looked at me consideringly, which made me nervous, you know, because Lucius was always so full of bluster that it was his quiet you had to beware of.
He said, “I’m making a change to Penelope.”
I frowned. “All right. But why tell me? Where’s Mr. DeWitt?”
“It’s not in the writing, Bea. I’m making a change in the casting. Miss Jenks will go to Delia and the traveling parts. You’ll be playing Marjory.”
“Marjory?” I stared at him in disbelief. “You’re joking!”
“Alas, I’m not.”
<
br /> “It’s that bitch Stella, isn’t it? She wants to come back, doesn’t she? Well, she can’t have Penelope!” I slapped my hands flat upon his desk. Papers poufed and fell. “What happened? Did her tour fall apart? Let her go someplace else then! She can’t have Penny! She’s mine! She was written for me!”
“Bea.” Lucius put up his hand. “It’s not Stella.”
“Then who?”
“Langley came to me this morning.”
I was bewildered. “What has he to do with it?”
“It appears he’d prefer someone else in the part.”
It was as if he were speaking some foreign language. I’d just seen Nathan the night before last, and he’d said nothing of this. There couldn’t be another actress he’d taken a fancy to—he’d fucked me into the early hours just as he always did and told me he’d see me later in the week. I’d seen nothing different in him. I was confused; none of it made sense. “Nathan doesn’t want me to play Penelope? But … he’s the one who bought the play for me.”
Lucius squirmed. “Yes, well, it appears he’s changed his mind. He’s asked that we tutor his wife in the theatrical arts. And he wants her to play Penelope.”
“His wife?”
“Apparently Mrs. Langley has a hankering to set her foot upon the stage.”
“Let her go somewhere else then! Why didn’t you say no?”
“Does anyone ever say no to Nathan Langley, I wonder? Do you?”
“I don’t believe this.”
“He paid me five hundred dollars to have her here. Should I have turned it down?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what you should have done!”
“Why, when I’ve leaped to implement his every other suggestion?” Lucius gave me a bitter smile. “And you were happy enough to take advantage of it a few days ago.”
“God damn you for a faithless swine, Lucius! You can’t do this to me!”
“It’s not me doing this to you, my darling. It’s your paramour. He’s most convincing.”
“You could have given her another part.”
“Langley said this one. He bought it, after all. He can decide who plays it.”