The Captain's Daughter

by Jennifer Delamere

  Rosalyn sank into the chair and immediately found herself staring into the eyes of the woman seated next to her.

  “Hullo, who’s this?” the woman asked.

  “Helen, this is our new dresser,” Jessie said.

  “Well, saints be praised!” Helen spoke enthusiastically, if somewhat sarcastically. “How on earth did you get Miss Lenoir to agree to a new hire?”

  “Just be happy she’s here. But I think she needs to rest a bit before she gets started.” Seeing Helen about to protest, Jessie held up a hand. “There’s plenty of time. Cups hasn’t even started yet.” She turned to Rosalyn and explained, “Tonight’s curtain raiser is a one-act operetta called Cups and Saucers. That has just three people in it. We go on with Pinafore once that’s over.”

  “The poor thing does look a bit peaked,” one of the other ladies observed. She extended a small bottle toward Rosalyn. “Need a little nudge?”

  Jessie took the bottle and sniffed, then frowned at the woman. “Elsie, no wonder you never have money for the cab ride home if you’re spending your hard-earned salary on brandy.”

  “Aha, so you recognize the smell of brandy, do you?” Elsie shot back in an accusatory tone, bringing snickers from the others. She snatched the bottle back from Jessie. “A nice gentleman from last night’s audience gave it to me. You know, if you weren’t so determined to turn away suitors, you might have some fine things yourself.”

  “Oh no,” Jessie replied with feeling. “That’s too dear a price to pay for a little brandy.”

  Elsie pressed the bottle into Rosalyn’s hand. “Go ahead—take a sip. It’ll revitalize you.”

  Rosalyn had never drunk spirits before. She held the bottle gingerly and gave Jessie a questioning glance.

  Jessie sighed. “You might as well take a little. It is medicinal.” With a pointed look at Elsie, she added, “In small quantities.” But Elsie only smirked.

  Rosalyn took a hesitant sip. The liquid burned her throat, stinging as it went down, then sent a surge of heat through her entire body. She gasped and gave a little cough, her eyes opening round.

  “Bracing, isn’t it?” Elsie said proudly, taking back the bottle. “But, as Jessie said, a small amount is enough.”

  “Besides,” added Helen, “novices shouldn’t overdo it the first time—right, Elsie? Or is it just that you want to save more for yourself?”

  Elsie gave her a sarcastic grimace as she capped the bottle.

  “Does anyone have food, by any chance?” Jessie asked. “I think Rosalyn could use a bit of sustenance.”

  “I’ve got a small meat pie.” Helen pulled a paper-wrapped object from the satchel on the table next to her. “You may have it.” She extended the pie but then pulled back just as Rosalyn was stretching out her hand. “If you promise to help me dress before the others.”

  “I would say something about self-sacrifice being out of fashion . . .” Jessie began.

  “It’s been replaced by obstinate practicality,” Helen insisted. “You know I always have a devil of a time getting that infernal sash tied correctly.”

  “I’ll be glad to help you,” Rosalyn said. Her voice came out as a rasp, her throat still stinging from the liquid fire.

  “I can tell we’re going to get on just fine,” Helen said with a smile.

  Rosalyn unwrapped the pie. It was warm, its fragrance waking a powerful hunger in her. She took a bite, and as the warm gravy and tender crust melted in her mouth, she nearly moaned with happiness.

  One of the other ladies stood with her arms crossed, studying Rosalyn critically. “You do have experience as a dresser, don’t you? We haven’t time for someone who doesn’t know what they’re about.”

  “Sarah, let her eat before you start peppering her with questions,” Jessie admonished.

  Sarah gave Rosalyn another skeptical look and returned to her dressing table.

  Rosalyn was just finishing the pie when the door flew open and a beautiful brunette strode in, looking harried. “Jessie, my hem was torn during the matinee. What shall I do? I haven’t time to mend it and still prepare for tonight’s show.” She gave a dramatic, exasperated sigh. “How are we supposed to manage without a dresser?”

  “Don’t fret yourself, Emma,” Jessie soothed. “We’ve got a dresser.” Turning to Rosalyn, she said, “You are handy with a needle, I hope?”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve mended many a frock. Hundreds, perhaps.”

  “Hundreds!” Helen repeated in amused surprise.

  “I grew up in a very large orphanage.”

  “In that case, would you care to mend my stockings, too?” Helen asked with a wink. “I can bring them from home tomorrow.”

  Rosalyn found herself smiling at Helen’s constant quips. Or perhaps it was the bracing effect of the meat pie and Elsie’s brandy. Whatever the reason, Rosalyn felt at ease here. The camaraderie of women was something she knew well after growing up in a dormitory filled with girls. She stood up. “Why don’t you show me the gown? I’m sure we can get it fixed straightaway.”

  “Wonderful!” Emma took Rosalyn’s hand and began to pull her toward the door.

  “Wait!” Elsie called after them. “I thought she was going to help us!”

  “You don’t come on until well into act one,” Jessie called over her shoulder. “She’ll be back.”

  Emma and Jessie ushered Rosalyn down the hall, passing several doors but not stopping until they reached one with two signs reading “Miss Howson” and “Miss Bond.” Emma flung open the door, and they went inside. This room was much smaller than the wide room for the ladies’ chorus. There was just enough space for two dressing tables, crammed side by side against a wall, a dressing screen, and an open wardrobe stuffed with gowns. The three of them together left room for very little else.

  “Emma and I are sharing a dressing room for the time being,” Jessie explained. “Mine is next door, but it fell victim to a leak in the roof and is not usable until they get it repaired. I think this whole building might fall down around our ears at any moment. There’s a reason these buildings are called ‘the rickety twins.’”

  “Rickety twins!” Rosalyn repeated, bemused.

  “Yes. The theater next door is the mirror image of this one. They even share the same backstage wall.” Jessie giggled. “Sometimes when the show there is particularly boisterous, you can hear it on our side.”

  “That’s enough idle chatter,” Emma directed, picking up a gown that had been tossed over a chair. “I need you to see if you can mend this.”

  She set it down on the table, and Rosalyn immediately saw the tear.

  “Oh dear,” Jessie said. “When did that happen?”

  “Right at the end of act two. Mr. Grossmith stepped on it when we were singing the encore of ‘Never mind the why or wherefore.’ He never does pay attention to what he’s doing.”

  “He does get rather exuberant sometimes,” Jessie agreed with a smile.

  Rosalyn inspected the tear. “This is easily mended. Shouldn’t take long at all. With the way these ruffles fall around the hem, I don’t think it will even show.”

  “You are worth your weight in gold already,” Emma declared.

  “I’ll show you where the costume room is,” Jessie said. “We can find sewing supplies there.”

  The next hour passed like a whirlwind. Rosalyn mended the gown while Emma and Jessie put on their stage makeup. She might have saved a minute or two if she hadn’t been watching them out of the corner of her eye, fascinated at the layers of paint they applied to their faces. After she helped them into their gowns, Rosalyn went back across the hallway to the chorus room. There were twenty ladies in there now, all chattering nonstop as they put on their makeup and fussed with the ribbons and folds of their gowns. Rosalyn found plenty to do.

  The talk ceased abruptly at a knock on the door, and a girl’s voice said, “Ten minutes!”

  “Who was that?” Rosalyn asked.

  “That’s Millie,” Helen said. “She keeps
us informed of our entrances, since Mr. Gilbert allows no men up here.”

  “She sounds very young.”

  “Her father is the prompter. But I think she gets a few coins for her work, too. After all, even the tykes have to earn a living, don’t they?”

  Rosalyn thought of the many children she’d seen on the streets of London that day. Some were begging, a few were earning pennies as crossing sweepers. Others drooped languidly against buildings, watching the passersby with a dejected air. One was being hauled off to the police station for pickpocketing, struggling and shouting words no child should know. She realized just how blessed and protected she’d been in Mr. Müller’s orphanage. She had not always been thankful for it when she was younger. Today’s walk through London had made her painfully aware that even an orphanage that housed two thousand was but a small drop in a very large sea of need.

  The ladies quickly filed out of the dressing room. When the last one had gone, the room fell quiet, like the stillness after a storm. Rosalyn took a deep breath, still marveling at her presence here. After a few moments, she wandered into the hall. Even without checking, she could feel from the way the silence had settled that all the other rooms were empty, too.

  What should she do? Should she remain up here? She might easily take a nap in one of the chairs, but she was too intensely curious to see what was going on downstairs. She moved to the edge of the stairway and peered down. A little girl sat, chin in hand, on the bottom step.

  Hearing Rosalyn’s tread on the stairs, the girl stood up and watched her come down.

  “Are you Millie?” Rosalyn asked.

  She nodded. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the new dresser.” It felt good to say it—as though Rosalyn had a place to be and a reason for being there. Even if it might only be for tonight.

  Millie looked her over, and Rosalyn could tell the girl must be thinking that she didn’t look like the dresser.

  “I suppose you could say I got this job on the spur of the moment,” Rosalyn said. “And to be honest, there hasn’t been time for anyone to fully explain my duties to me. Do you know if I am supposed to remain upstairs during the show?”

  Millie took a moment to think this over. “I don’t think so. Lilly used to come down a lot. There’s only one costume change for the ladies, and that’s Miss Howson during intermission.”

  She sounded very grown-up and knowledgeable. Rosalyn was astonished at her self-possession. “How long have you been working here?”

  Millie shrugged. “Forever. My da is the prompter.”

  “Oh, I see. Do you like working here?”

  “Most of the time the show changes after a few weeks, but this one has been going on for years and years.” Millie gave a dramatic sigh. “I wish we could get something new.”

  Rosalyn smiled at Millie’s exaggeration. Now she sounded exactly like the ten-year-old she appeared to be.

  The girl brightened. “But we’re to have a new show in the spring. That’s what Da says. I’m glad.”

  “I imagine you’ve seen this one hundreds of times.”

  “Thousands!”

  Rosalyn swallowed another smile. “Well, I’ve never seen it.”

  “Never?” Millie’s eyes widened in surprise. “I thought everyone had seen it!”

  “I’m probably the very last person who hasn’t,” Rosalyn agreed. “Do you suppose it would be all right if I were to stand backstage and watch?”

  “Sure. That’s what Lilly used to do. You just have to be careful not to block the actors’ entrances and exits. You can ask my da. His name is Mr. Giles. He’ll tell you what to do.”

  “Thank you!” With a smile and a wave, Rosalyn left Millie and walked toward the music.

  CHAPTER

  6

  ROSALYN PICKED her way along a corridor cluttered with tables, boxes, and odds and ends of furniture. She slowed as she neared the wings, uncertain whether she was straying into forbidden territory.

  A man hurried past her and placed several items on a long table before continuing on. He didn’t seem the least bit concerned about her presence. Rosalyn paused to look over the objects on the table. Next to a dozen silk bouquets and two parasols sat two very different items: a pistol and a whip. The whip was a cat-o-nine-tails, to be exact. Rosalyn knew from having read the libretto that the captain of the Pinafore never uses it on anybody, he merely threatens. But this particular cat-o-nine-tails looked extremely realistic. Perhaps it was real and not merely a prop. But surely the pistol must be fake, thought Rosalyn. Otherwise it would not have been placed out here so casually. She tentatively reached out to touch it.

  Immediately something grey, striped, and furry leaped upon the table, startling Rosalyn. She stepped back with a yelp.

  “Quiet!” a voice hissed.

  Rosalyn turned to see a short, wiry man staring at her. Even in the dim light, she could make out wide-set hazel eyes similar to Millie’s. This must be Mr. Giles.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “The cat startled me.”

  He nodded in acceptance of her quiet tone. “That’s Miss Bella. She guards the props table. She won’t hurt you, though. Most likely she’s looking for you to pet her.” He stepped forward to get a better look at her. “But who are you? Mr. Gilbert and Mr. Barker don’t allow unauthorized persons backstage.”

  Something in the way he said “unauthorized persons” made Rosalyn sure he was directly quoting Mr. Gilbert. Even as he spoke, she could tell he was keeping an ear cocked toward the stage. She had no doubt he was carefully following the business on it.

  “I . . . I am the new dresser.” She held her breath, awaiting his reaction, hoping the title of “dresser” qualified her as an “authorized person.” Just twenty feet away, out on the stage, Emma Howson was singing a lovely aria. As she moved, her gown flowed smoothly behind her, showing no sign of the mended tear.

  Mr. Giles seemed to accept Rosalyn’s words. His eye followed her hand, and she realized she’d begun scratching the little cat behind the ears. It had been an automatic gesture. Rosalyn quite liked cats—probably because Mrs. Huffman’s cat, Penelope, had been a beloved and constant companion in the Huffmans’ home. She could feel, rather than hear, Miss Bella purring beneath her touch. Judging from his expression, Mr. Giles appreciated Rosalyn’s affection toward Miss Bella.

  Still speaking softly, he said, “No doubt you are wanting to see this famous show for yourself.”

  “Yes,” Rosalyn admitted. “I’ve never seen it, although I am familiar with the score.”

  He gave a wry sort of grimace. “So is everyone in England. Can’t go anywhere without hearing someone whistling a tune from it. Although it’s the organ grinders on street corners who are the most insufferable.”

  Onstage, Miss Howson was coming to the end of her sad ballad. Her character, Josephine, was the daughter of the ship’s captain. Alas, she was in love with Ralph Rackstraw, a mere sailor, who was considered beneath her station, and their union could never be allowed. Not too far from where Rosalyn stood, the ladies’ chorus was assembling with quiet deliberation. In the opposite wings, Rosalyn could see the men’s chorus, all dressed as sailors, standing at the ready for their next entrance.

  Clearly it was time for Mr. Giles to go to work. “Just be careful to keep out of the way,” he told Rosalyn. “If anyone in the chorus trips over you, there will be a terrible row, and you’ll find your employment ending quicker than it started.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Rosalyn assured him. But he had already turned away and begun to oversee the movement of the women into position—still in the wings, but very close to the front of the stage.

  Rosalyn squeezed between the props table and the wall. She watched in surprise as the ladies began singing right there in the wings. They were following hand signals given by one of the chorus ladies who could see the conductor. Even though she’d read the libretto, Rosalyn had not pictured the scene unfolding this way.


  “Over the bright blue sea comes Sir Joseph Porter, K.C.B. . . .”

  As the women sang, the sailors filtered onto the stage, listening with pleased expressions. After several verses, the ladies filed past Rosalyn, joining the sailors onstage in a lively song of meeting.

  “Gaily tripping, lightly skipping, flock the maidens to the shipping . . .”

  From her vantage point, Rosalyn had a good view of the action—especially when the actors were standing downstage, closest to the audience. She could see the heads of the musicians in the orchestra pit and the energetic conductor.

  She didn’t see Jessie anywhere onstage, but a few minutes later Jessie and one of the other actors approached her from somewhere in the wings. The man was thin and of moderate height, although he stood several inches taller than Jessie. He wore a red admiral’s coat festooned with elaborate braiding, white knee-breeches, and an enormous bicorn hat topped with white feathers.

  When they reached Rosalyn, the man peered at her through a monocle. “I say, who’s this?” Although he spoke in a quiet backstage voice, his exaggerated upper-class accent was easy to discern.

  “This is Rosalyn Bernay, the lady I was telling you about,” Jessie whispered.

  “Ah, the stray. Just like Miss Bella there.” He pointed toward the cat, who stretched and yawned disinterestedly.

  Jessie said, “Rosalyn, this is Mr. George Grossmith. He plays Sir Joseph Porter.”

  “Among other things,” Mr. Grossmith corrected her. “I am an actor and bon vivant extraordinaire.”

  “He’s also incredibly humble,” Jessie teased.

  Rosalyn playfully gave him a smart little curtsy. Careful to keep her voice low to match theirs, she said, “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

  “A very polite and pleasing young lady,” Mr. Grossmith declared. “Did you see the curtain opener, by any chance?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “She was upstairs. She is now our dresser,” Jessie reminded him.