by Megan Chance
“Don’t believe it.”
“Well, then … what about Mr. DeWitt?”
“I’m not telling him the truth about what we’re doing, am I? Nathan is his patron too. I don’t know that Sebastian wouldn’t tell him what we’re up to if he knew. Hell, I would. And … he thinks Penelope’s a villain. He won’t like our plans. He would hate what we mean to do. He might even decide.…” She made a sound like a laugh, half-aborted, humorless. “No, I can’t trust him. Only you. I would hate it if it wasn’t for the fact that I think it’s the same for you.”
“Don’t be absurd. We only trust each other because we must. There are others I trust. Of course there are.”
“Really? Have you told someone else you’re alive?”
“No, but I do have friends—”
“Here in Seattle? Or perhaps you left them behind in Chicago? I suppose there are people there you still write to? Perhaps someone who might come visit you in exile?”
My throat tightened. I could say nothing.
She went on, “Well, I suppose that might be so. But I confess I didn’t see any friends of yours among those at the ball tonight. At least, if they were your friends, you might want to think about getting new ones. You should have heard Jack and Brody talking about the rumors they’d heard. Now that you’re missing, it seems you’re quite the topic of conversation. And they’re not speaking of you with admiration.”
“I don’t imagine so,” I said quietly.
Her voice went equally quiet. “There’s more to it than that sculpture, isn’t there?”
I was like any other woman of my class, skilled at shutting doors I didn’t want opened, at discouraging intimacies with condescension and hauteur. I could have done so now. But I didn’t want to, and I didn’t know why that should be. Perhaps it was because she was right; she was the only person I could trust—the fact that she was tied to me only by necessity didn’t make that any less true. Perhaps it was because of what we’d put in motion tonight, what had left me too stirred to sleep, the risk, the danger. Or perhaps it was only that it was late, and the thrill of tonight had faded to a dull thrumming in my blood, and I wanted someone to share it with, to laugh with over what had been dared, and there hadn’t been someone like that in so very, very long.
“Posing wasn’t all of it,” I admitted. “I had a … reputation in Chicago. I—I’ve never had much patience with convention. Or for doing what was … expected. I was a bit notorious, I’m afraid.”
“Is that why your father sent you here?”
I took a deep breath and lay back, looking at the darkness above my head. The hurt was still there, no matter how I tried to erase it. “I thought my father admired my daring. I thought he was proud that I wasn’t like everyone else.”
“That must be the reason he wants to put you into an asylum.”
“Perhaps I wasn’t seeing things clearly.”
“Perhaps not.” There was compassion in her voice. “You wouldn’t be the first.”
“After I married, he expected me to be a respectable wife,” I went on. “He told me so more than once, but I didn’t allow myself to believe it. I should have known better. I think … I must have always known the truth, because when I think back on my girlhood, I realize I kept the worst of it from him.”
“Like what?”
“Shall I tell you the whole list?”
“One or two things would be enough, I think.”
“Well, let’s see. At fifteen I wagered with a friend that I could sneak into the bedroom of a boy we knew.”
“Did you?”
I smiled at the memory. “I masqueraded as a maid. And stole his shaving razor to prove I’d been there.”
She laughed. “You’ve been slumming for a long time then.”
“It was hardly the worst of it. The truth is that the risk was everything. I’ve always liked gambling. I won a hundred dollars on a race once. Papa didn’t know about that either.”
“You wouldn’t be the first woman to gamble.”
“No. And I suppose Papa might have laughed that one away. Until he found out I was the one racing the carriage.”
“You could drive?”
“I asked a friend of my father’s to teach me—in return for … well, a few kisses was all it took.”
“Really? I never would have expected it of you! How did your father not find out?”
She was impressed, and I basked in it. “I threatened to tell everyone he’d seduced me. My father would have destroyed him. I was only sixteen.”
“I’d fucked two managers by then. Not that it helped.”
“At eighteen, I lost my virtue to a writer visiting my father’s house. But he was the only one I … well, until Nathan.”
“But you loved them both.”
“Yes. You never loved any of your managers?”
I felt her hesitation. “I regretted it mostly, especially when it didn’t work out as I wanted. Which was often enough, I promise you. They’re all bastards, you know. What you were doing and what I did—they were different things. I wasn’t doing it because I liked them or because I liked fucking. Mostly I hated that they had power over me, and I had to do what they wanted. And then I felt like a fool when it didn’t make any difference. When I have my own company …”
“Your own company?”
“It’s what I mean to do when this is over. With the money. Start my own company where I’m not beholden to managers or other actors. And … I mean to ask Sebastian to be the playwright for it.”
I was surprised, though I supposed I shouldn’t have been, not now that I knew her passion for acting. The passion Sebastian DeWitt had once told me about, I remembered, the thing I hadn’t believed, and now I found myself saying, “What if I helped you finance it?”
A pause. “Why would you want to?”
“Because it’s what I do. It’s … well, Mr. DeWitt called it my gift, and I suppose it is. In Chicago, I introduced artists to the society that would fund them and make them famous. I was good at it too.” I tried to find the right words, to make her understand. “I had thought to do the same with Mr. DeWitt here, before all this with Nathan … and … well, it occurs to me that together, we could make him a star. You’re his muse, and I’m his patron. You could act in his plays, and I would provide the money for production. With your talent, and mine, we could become a force, Mrs. Wilkes. Mr. DeWitt is the key, but what you and I could do with him.…”
My words trailed off in the darkness. I could not think of what else to say.
“This is no passing fancy, is it?”
I shook my head. “There have been many of those, I’ll admit. But this isn’t one of them. As much as you love acting, I love this. I always have. Mr. DeWitt knows it too.” I hesitated. “So … do you think the idea has merit?”
“Yes,” she said softly. “Yes.”
I let out my breath in a little laugh.
She said, “You know, what we’re doing … what we’ve been through … it seems strange to have you keep calling me Mrs. Wilkes. My name’s Bea.”
“And I’m Ginny,” I told her.
“Ginny,” she said, as if she were trying out the taste. “Well, I should get to Sebastian. He’s waiting up.”
“Don’t worry. It won’t be long until we both have what we want.”
“Yes.” Nearly a whisper. She rose. “Good night, Ginny.”
“Good night, Bea,” I said, closing my eyes. For the first time since I’d left the Wilcox house, I felt I could sleep.
Chapter Thirty-one
Beatrice
So there we were, making promises to each other, and the damn plan was as risky as ever. But now it was about more than money. It was about my company, about Sebastian, about the lives she and I meant to start, the lives we’d always wanted. I crept from the tent feeling as if I wasn’t so alone. And maybe I didn’t like her so much yet, but I was beginning to feel as if we were somehow … lashed together. That one of us couldn’t run without the other stumb
ling after. It was reassuring somehow. And my weariness was gone; in its place was this whirring little energy.
When I reached Sebastian’s tent, I lifted the flap and stepped in, and there he was, slumped over the papers on his makeshift desk, sleeping, his shirt open, his pen still in his hand, the oil lamp burning.
I glanced at the pages beneath his head—more of Penelope Justis, a new scene. It was all I could do not to read it right then. But there would be time enough for that later. What I wanted now was something else.
I lowered the flame until it was quiet and dim. Then I lifted the pen from his fingers, setting it aside. I pushed aside his hair and leaned close to whisper in his ear, “Bastian.”
He stirred, licked his lips, blinked once, and then his eyes were open, blue tonight in the half-light. He straightened, raking his hair back. “You’re here. What time is it?”
“I don’t know. After two, I think.”
“How was the party?”
“Boring.”
“And the tableau?”
“The high point of the evening, of course. Everyone was very entertained. And inspired enough to donate.” I pushed the crate aside and pulled up my skirt to straddle him. His hands went to my waist, pulling me close.
“Was Langley there?”
“Of course he was. Why do you ask?”
“Because you’re not with him.”
“No.” I kissed his jaw. “He was drunk and grieving.”
“And you couldn’t comfort him?”
I kissed the corner of his mouth. “I’d no wish to try. I’d rather be here with you.”
He laughed softly. “ ‘For ne’er was flattery lost on poet’s ear.’ ”
“It isn’t flattery. It happens to be true.”
“What really happened tonight, Bea? I think it wasn’t as boring as you pretend. You’re practically vibrating. Besides, I know you’d never lose an opportunity to keep Langley close.”
I pulled away, disconcerted. “How grasping you think me.”
“How grasping you are,” he said, pulling me back, tightening his hold on my waist. “Tell me what happened.”
“Nothing. Nathan was too upset. He told me to go home.”
“Upset over what?”
“As I said, he was grieving.”
“With all his peers about, commending him for sponsoring such a charitable enterprise? I doubt it. And he’s a politician.”
“Which means he doesn’t mourn?”
Impatiently, Sebastian said, “Langley’s never shied from appeasing his vanity or his desires. And after such a self-congratulatory night, I’d think he would be looking for a reward. Which would be you. And given that you’ve never said no to anything that advanced you—”
“That’s not true!” Though it was, of course it was, and I admit it bothered me that he knew it. Or perhaps it bothered me that he didn’t seem to mind.
“Has he thrown you over then?”
“Of course not!”
“Then why did he turn you away? Come, come, out with it. I’ll hear the gossip from someone else anyway. Why was Langley upset tonight? Was he so struck by the profundity of my tableau?”
“He barely stayed to watch it,” I admitted sullenly. “He left just after Jack succumbed to the Indianola hurricane.”
A deep sigh. “He’s a philistine.”
“We all can’t be Ruskins,” I said nastily.
He raised a brow.
“I do read, you know,” I snapped. “In spite of what everyone thinks.”
“Everyone?”
“Mrs. Langley, you …”
“You spoke with Mrs. Langley about reading?” He looked puzzled.
Oh, perfect, Bea. I bit off the curse that rose to my lips and said quickly, “I didn’t have to. She made it abundantly clear what she thought every time she looked at me.”
He frowned. “Bea—”
“I don’t want to talk about her.” I leaned close, easing my hands past his open shirt, running them up his bare chest, over his shoulders, shoving his sleeves down his arms until his shirt pooled on the ground. I pressed against him and heard his little intake of breath.
“You can’t distract me,” he whispered.
But I could, and we both knew it. I took his hands in mine, and he did not resist me as I guided them beneath my skirt, and then he moved of his own accord, easing beneath the ample folds, running up my thighs to my hips, undoing the ties of my drawers, and I rose to let them fall and kicked them aside, and he undid his trousers and then I was straddling him again, and he jerked my hips down and worked me until I was moaning. He never took his gaze from mine, and it felt as if he was teasing my thoughts loose, tangling them, pulling them out to read for himself until I put an end to it and bent to trace the strong muscles of his throat with my lips and my tongue. Then his breath came short and his fingers dug into my hips and he groaned, and I cried out a little because it was over, and I didn’t want it to be. Nothing had abated, and I was afraid of that. I was afraid of what I wanted from him, of what he would demand.
He leaned his forehead against my breast. When he lifted his head again and said quietly, “Let’s to bed,” I saw with dismay that his questions hadn’t gone, and I felt this little clutch in my stomach that I tried to ignore. He wasn’t going to pursue it now, but he would, and what the hell was I to do then?
But I went with him to the bedroll, and we undressed and I let him hold me and when he was asleep I was still staring up at the canvas ceiling above, no closer to sleep than I’d been at the start, and so finally I eased away from him. I took his shirt from the floor and put it on, and then I sat down at the desk and picked up the newest pages of Penelope Justis.
I slept barely at all. After I’d read the new scenes Sebastian had written, it was all I could do to keep from rushing to Ginny’s tent to tell her what we must do next. When Sebastian finally woke, I yawned and pretended to just be waking myself and crawled from the bedroll to dress. “I’m going to the privy,” I told him when I finished buttoning my dress, and he nodded as he stumbled to the bucket to wash and I was out of the tent within moments. I had to force myself to remember to head off toward the privy, but the moment I made the turn I doubled back, hiding myself between the rows of tents. When I got to hers, I plunged in.
She was still wearing her chemise and sluicing her face with water. I said, “I haven’t got much time. I know what we must do next.”
She was very quick. “The play? You’ve read more?”
“Last night. Penelope tells Barnabus that her sister’s spirit must be put to rest, and because he hopes to exorcise her, he agrees to host a séance. But it doesn’t work. Instead, the séance only brings the spirit more fully into this world.”
She frowned. “How are we to do that?”
“I don’t know. But I have some ideas. And the first, unfortunately, means that I have to meet with Nathan to convince him to have a séance.” I took a deep breath. “I played a medium once. Delphinia Beaumont in Heaven’s Awakening.”
“A character in a play. It’s not the same thing as being a medium.”
“No, of course not. But at least I know what to do. How hard could it be just to light a few candles and say things like: ‘Can you hear me, Geneva Langley? Speak if you be with us.’ ”
She gave me a thin smile. “You have truly found your calling.”
“I only need to convince Nathan.” I sighed. “Lucius means to pay us something this morning for our efforts last night. Hopefully there will be something more than bread to buy with it. I’ll see what I can find to bring back to you.”
“Thank you, Bea,” she said softly. “That’s very kind.”
Said so sweetly. I tried to shrug it off, but I felt the heat of a flush. I said brusquely, “I need you to play your part, don’t I? I don’t think spirits swoon from hunger.”
She laughed. “I suppose not.”
Her laughter stayed with me as I left the tent and crossed the camp to Sebastian�
�s. Fearless. That’s what she was, and I liked that about her, and envied her for it too, though I suppose it was easy to be fearless when you had plenty of money to catch you when you fell. But I didn’t feel the resentment I usually felt at that thought. Instead I remembered the things she’d told me last night, and the promises we’d made each other, and it made me laugh to think of Seattle society once she was set loose upon it, once there wasn’t Nathan or her father to contend with, once she was free.
Then I stopped thinking of her, because when I stepped inside Sebastian’s tent, he was gone, along with his ancient frock coat and his bag. Gone to breakfast and rehearsal without waiting for me, and my heart started racing and all I could think was how long was I gone?
Whatever appetite I’d had disappeared. And then I grew angry at myself because—if I was going to admit it, which I wasn’t—it was easier to be angry than to be afraid. I cursed myself silently all the way back down into the burned district, and then I spent the blocks until I reached the Phoenix trying to come up with some lie to tell him, and that only made me angry again.
By the time I got to the Phoenix—early, which must have been the first time—I was so touchy that even Mr. Geary’s “Good morning, Mrs. Wilkes” made me bristle.
Lucius looked up from a script he was going over. “I sense a productive rehearsal,” he said wryly.
Before long Jack and Aloysius arrived, joking with each other as they came inside, Brody and Susan behind them.
“Only four more rehearsals,” Lucius called out. “Our first show, children, is scheduled for seven o’clock on Monday. I have already placed an advert in the P-I. So there is much to do, and little time for nonsense.”
Mr. Geary rapped on the stage with some stick he’d found somewhere and called for the scene, and though I didn’t feel any enthusiasm, I didn’t need enthusiasm for rehearsal, and I followed the others to the stage.
Sebastian showed up fifteen minutes late. He glanced at me as he stepped inside, but I was in the middle of a line, and I couldn’t tell by his expression what he was thinking. My stomach did a little lurch, and I stumbled over the line so Jack whispered, “Focus, my love.” Sebastian sat at the makeshift table—a couple of scorched crates—with Lucius and Geary and bent his head to work, and I made myself concentrate on ignoring him, which became harder when, in the middle of the act, I glanced up to see Nathan Langley come inside. I expected him to call for me, but instead he went to where Sebastian sat. He said something in a low voice to Lucius and Mr. Geary, and then Sebastian nodded and straightened, and the two of them left the table and went to the corner.