The Captain's Daughter

by Jennifer Delamere

  “It sounds so exciting,” Rosalyn said, envisioning a grand salon filled with elegantly dressed people and infused with music and laughter. “You lead such an interesting life!”

  “Yes, London has been good to me. I am sure it will be good to you, too, in its own way.” Jessie pulled out several hatboxes. Setting them next to the gown, she lifted the lids and began to look through them. “Which hat should I wear? I must decide quickly, for my hosts will be very put out if I keep them waiting.” But she said this with a gleam in her eye that suggested she was half joking.

  With Rosalyn’s help, Jessie was quickly changed and ready to go. On her way to the door, she paused next to a table, upon which was a portable writing desk. “You will find pen, ink, and paper in here, everything you need to write a letter to your sister. Au revoir!”

  She sailed out the door, closing it briskly behind her.

  CHAPTER

  9

  NATE’S FAMILY had been talking about him.

  He could sense it the moment he came through the door. His mother and sisters, along with Patrick and his wife, Hannah, were all in the parlor. They paused what had apparently been, until his entrance, an animated discussion.

  “Am I interrupting something?” he asked dryly as they all looked at him.

  “Not at all,” his sister Mary said. “You’re just in time.”

  “For . . . ?” After everything that had happened today, Nate was in no mood for any new schemes his family wanted to undertake.

  His mother answered. “We thought it would be nice to invite Rosalyn Bernay to join us for dinner tonight. You could go and ask her.”

  Mary pushed her glasses up her nose and peered at him. “Since we know you don’t have any other plans.”

  This not-so-veiled reference to Ada’s invitation instantly aroused his suspicions. He could easily guess his brother was behind this. “Patrick, I told you last night that I have no interest in Rosalyn.”

  Patrick tilted his head and gave him a knowing look. “On the contrary. You told me you are concerned about her welfare. What better way to show her we care than to ask her here for dinner?”

  “We can find out more about her,” added Ma. “If she’s truly alone and homeless, with no family to turn to, perhaps we can help.”

  It was characteristic of his family to want to jump in and offer assistance if they perceived a need. It was also true that Nate had the very same questions about Rosalyn’s circumstances—especially now, after seeing the man from the station lurking near the charity house. Still, he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of seeking her out—probably because of the way Patrick had quizzed him last night and the way they were all looking at him now.

  There was also an obvious problem with their suggestion. “But I don’t even know where Jessie Bond lives.”

  “I do,” Patrick replied. “She lives at 98 Southampton Row, not too far from Russell Square.”

  Everyone turned to look at Patrick, but it was Hannah who said what they were all thinking. “And just how did you come by that particular bit of information?”

  “Agnes Mitchell used to live next door. She and Jessie would share cabs sometimes.” At this mention of Miss Mitchell, an actress for whom he had once carried a torch, Patrick threw a sheepish glance at his wife. “I may have walked Agnes home from the theater once or twice—long before I met you, of course.”

  Hannah pretended to scorch him with a harsh glare, but she couldn’t hide the hint of amusement underneath it. Everyone, including Hannah, knew that from the moment Patrick had met his future wife, he’d never again had eyes for anyone else.

  Even so, Ma couldn’t resist giving a little sniff. “Thank the Lord you found our sweet Hannah before that other woman got you thoroughly in her clutches. Look at this beautiful family you have now. And this home.”

  She was referring to the fact that Hannah had unexpectedly inherited the very fine house they lived in from her great-aunt. It was a blessing no one had expected. While Nate was happy for their good fortune, he knew Ma was most relieved that Patrick had married a stable, “normal” woman outside the theater.

  “Water long gone under the bridge, Ma,” Patrick chided.

  “It’s all settled, then,” said Mary firmly, her focus not swayed by this conversational detour. “Nate and I will go and fetch Rosalyn directly.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You’re coming, too?”

  “Well, naturally. It wouldn’t be proper for you to go there alone.”

  Nate could only shake his head in bemused acceptance. When Mary stared you down through her wire spectacles, there was no refusing whatever she was after.

  “But what about Jessie? Won’t it be rude not to invite her, as well?”

  “The more the merrier,” Patrick said. “Invite her, too.”

  Ma bristled at this but nodded in acquiescence.

  And so, as soon as he’d had time to bathe off the dirt and plaster and make himself presentable, Nate found himself walking at a brisk clip with his sister toward Southampton Row.

  Rosalyn settled herself at Jessie’s writing table, uncapping the ink and pulling a sheet of paper from a little drawer. Closing her eyes, she said a brief prayer, asking God for help. In the end, the letter was not so difficult to write after all.

  Sunday, 12 October, 1879

  My dearest Julia,

  I hope and pray this letter reaches you before any other news about me. I must tell you that I was forced to leave my employment with the Huffmans quite suddenly. I can’t give you more details in a letter. However, I want you to know that I am safe in London. Perhaps I should not even tell you my whereabouts, but I cannot bear the thought of losing contact with you. Please address any letters for me to Miss Jessie Bond, 98 Southampton Row, London. Do not put my name on the envelope.

  Please burn this letter after reading it. If anyone should come to you accusing me of theft or any other wrongdoing, know that I am innocent of any charges against me. I’m guilty only of leaving my position with no advance notice. I was fleeing to protect my good character, not because I had thrown it away already.

  I originally intended to come straight to you in Bristol, but circumstances hindered me. How close I came to disaster! But thank God, He protected me. Now I think it is good that I don’t come to you. I want to be sure the Huffmans do not find me, and I think you would be the first person they’d seek out.

  Will you write to Caroline and give her this news? Share as little of this information as you can and do not give her my address. For now, I must entrust that to you only. But be sure to tell her how dearly I love her, and that I long to see you both again soon.

  All my love,

  Rosalyn

  Rosalyn set the pen in its stand and blotted the ink dry. She rose and stretched. Her eyes filled with tears, blurring the view as she looked out the window. How utterly strange it was to be cast adrift like this, with no home, no belongings, and no livelihood. Yet it was oddly freeing. She thought once more of everything she’d witnessed at the theater last night—the joy, the excitement, the energy, and yes, even the petty argument she’d overheard between two chorus ladies. She thought of that corner in the wings where she could watch not only the show but also the bustle of the men moving props and pulling ropes and operating the lights. Everything contributed to making the production run seamlessly.

  Then there had been Nate, whom she’d spotted looking at her more than once from his station at the spotlights. He’d come to mind often today. She didn’t dwell so much on their first meeting at the railway station, when she’d been apprehensive and even fearful of him. Instead, she kept recalling their subsequent encounters at the theater—his friendly expression, the warmth of his touch when he’d taken her hand, his genuine concern for her. Somehow, in his rough work clothes and with the dirt smudge across his cheek, he’d seemed more handsome than when he’d been wearing the crisp red coat of a soldier. Although she still knew little about him, she couldn’t help but
admire his willingness to take on extra work for his brother’s sake. Despite Jessie’s warnings, Rosalyn decided she could not judge all men based on the bad actions of a few.

  The sun was fading behind the rooftops even though it was only midafternoon. At this time of year, the darkness came early. A lamplighter was busy at his task, moving his ladder from post to post and nimbly climbing it. As he lit the lamp closest to her building, another man stepped away from where he’d been leaning against the post. It was Tony Hayes.

  Now standing in a pool of golden light, he peered up at Rosalyn’s window. She took an involuntary step back, but she was sure he had seen her. What was he doing there? Perhaps it was coincidence. Over dinner, Jessie had mentioned that many actors lived in this vicinity. Whatever the reason, one thing was certain: Tony was now striding purposefully across the street toward the lodging house.

  In a matter of moments, Rosalyn heard the clang of the front doorbell.

  Surely he wasn’t coming to pay a visit to her! When he saw her, he must have assumed Jessie was home, as well. Rosalyn hurried over to a small mirror on the wall. A good thing, too, as she had a blue smudge of ink on her chin. Hastily she wiped it off. Would he come directly up here? Rosalyn didn’t know the protocol for rooming houses such as this, but she doubted it. But what if he did? Should she let him in? London had so many customs unknown to her.

  While she considered these things, a knock sounded at the door. The knock was peremptory and resonated authority. Hesitantly, Rosalyn opened the door a few inches and was relieved to see not Tony, but an elderly woman. Her relief was quickly tempered, however, when the old woman glared at her. Jessie’s unflattering description of Mrs. Kramer, the landlady, came immediately to mind.

  Mrs. Kramer’s eyes narrowed as she regarded Rosalyn. “Where is Miss Bond?”

  Rosalyn swallowed. “Miss Bond has gone out for the evening.”

  “And who are you?”

  “I am a friend of Miss Bond’s.”

  “Your name?” Clearly, Mrs. Kramer was not the type to waste time on idle chitchat.

  “Rosalyn Bernay.”

  “So says the gentleman downstairs.” Mrs. Kramer put an odd emphasis on gentleman, as though she didn’t quite believe its veracity. “He told me Miss Bond had a guest staying with her, and I said I didn’t know anything about any such guest.”

  It was more of an accusation than a statement.

  “I only just arrived last night,” Rosalyn replied, giving the woman a polite smile. “This is a charming house. Quite a commodious location.”

  The landlady gave a brief nod to acknowledge the compliment, but it didn’t seem to thaw her temperament. “Have you any references?”

  Rosalyn stared at her in surprise. Who asked for references for a house guest? Was this a common practice of boardinghouses that she knew nothing about? If so, Rosalyn was in trouble. She knew very well, after what had happened with Mr. Huffman, that providing a good reference was out of the question.

  She decided the best course of action was to exude the self-confidence of someone who had nothing to hide. “Surely references are not necessary for a guest staying but a few days?”

  “If you stay longer than three days, I shall require a reference from the owner of your previous abode,” Mrs. Kramer replied curtly. “This ain’t no flophouse. I run a respectable establishment.”

  Rosalyn felt a blush rising to her cheeks at the insinuation that she might be a disreputable woman. She pushed aside the remembrance of what had nearly happened to her at “Aunt Mollie’s” lodgings. “I had no doubt this was a proper boardinghouse before I arrived. My friend Miss Bond would only live where all is correct and aboveboard.”

  She was tempted to smile, feeling she’d done a good job imitating a well-bred young lady.

  “So you’re an actress, are you?”

  Clearly Rosalyn had congratulated herself too soon. Perhaps she had not done so well as she’d thought, if her “acting” was so obvious. “No, I’m not an actress. I assure you, I will not cause any trouble.”

  “You already have.”

  Although she was quickly becoming accustomed to Mrs. Kramer’s sharp retorts, this one caught her off guard. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The gentleman downstairs—a ‘Mr. Hayes’—asked specifically for you.” Her eyebrows rose suggestively.

  “He did?” It was surprising, and not a little flattering, to think Tony was showing an interest in her. She stared at Mrs. Kramer, unsure what to do or say.

  “That’s why I asked if you was an actress. Miss Bond has trouble all the time with men who see her on the stage, then come here hoping to make an introduction.”

  Rosalyn decided there would be no profit in pointing out that Jessie thought of herself primarily as a singer. “Mr. Hayes works with Miss Bond. He’s an acquaintance of mine, as well.”

  “Fine.” Despite her nod, Mrs. Kramer did not look overly happy at the situation. “The boarders meet gentleman callers in the parlor. As I said, this is a respectable establishment. No men allowed in the rooms.” She looked at Rosalyn as if daring her to object.

  But Rosalyn was glad to know this strict guideline was in place. “Thank you. I shall go down and speak to him.”

  “As you like.” Mrs. Kramer peered over Rosalyn’s shoulder, her eyes taking in all aspects of the sitting room, almost as if she expected to see that Rosalyn was entertaining an entire cohort of men. Rosalyn was glad she had put the room in order and neatly folded the blankets she’d used while sleeping on the sofa.

  Stepping out into the hallway, Rosalyn closed the door behind her. Mrs. Kramer motioned for Rosalyn to walk ahead of her. At the bottom of the stairs, Rosalyn hesitated.

  “To your right.”

  “Thank you.”

  Rosalyn entered the parlor. Tony stood at the window, idly looking out into the street. He turned immediately upon her entrance, smiling as he approached her. In his coat, crisp white shirt, and expertly tied cravat—all well-cared-for though not new—Rosalyn thought he looked every inch a gentleman. Why Mrs. Kramer would have had any doubts on that score was incomprehensible.

  Aware that the landlady was still observing them, Rosalyn reached out a hand and said politely, “Mr. Hayes, how nice to see you again.”

  He took it, holding it briefly in both of his own, his blue eyes holding her gaze. “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.”

  “I will leave this door open,” Mrs. Kramer said. With one last warning look, she left the room.

  “The old dragon is gone—we are safe,” Tony said in a stage whisper. He grinned. “Nearly bit my head off when I said I’d come to pay a call on Miss Bond and her friend.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “A guess.” He gave her a dazzling smile. “And what a lucky guess it turned out to be.”

  Rosalyn realized he was still holding her hand. She withdrew it slowly, not wanting to appear discourteous. “It’s kind of you to take an interest in me. I’m only one of the backstage workers.”

  “Well, that’s where you are now, but anything is possible in the theater.” He went over to the upright piano in the corner of the room. “Do you sing?”

  “I’ve had a few lessons.”

  He motioned toward the piano stool. “May I?”

  Rosalyn realized he was asking permission to sit down. Etiquette required that a lady should be seated before the gentleman. There was a sofa nearby, but as much as she enjoyed the idea of hearing him play, she said, “I don’t know if we should. I wouldn’t like for Mrs. Kramer to get put out again.”

  “What is the piano here for, if she doesn’t intend for her boarders to use it? Besides, most people only object if one plays badly.” When Rosalyn still looked doubtful, he added, “Fear not. I shall personally ensure that Mrs. Kramer does not toss you out on your ear.”

  She had no idea how he could promise that, but he spoke with such assurance that she believed him. She took a seat on the sofa, perching on the edg
e, ready to jump up in an instant if Mrs. Kramer should come storming into the room.

  Tony settled himself and sorted through the sheet music on the piano. “Ah, here’s a nice one,” he said, and began to play.

  It wasn’t a tune Rosalyn recognized, but it was spritely and appealing. When there was no sign of Mrs. Kramer, Rosalyn began to relax. “You play very well. What is the name of that song?”

  “Don’t you know it?” He placed a hand over his heart. “It’s called ‘The Heart that Beats in the Tender Breast.’ Here, allow me to sing you a few lines.”

  The lyrics were sweet and sentimental, filled with the overripe romanticism common to many popular ballads. Tony was a polished tenor, and to Rosalyn’s untrained ear, he sounded every bit as good as the lead.

  He finished with a flourish, and she applauded. “That was wonderful! How is it that you are only in the chorus?” The words had just spilled out. She put a hand to her mouth. “I beg your pardon. I don’t mean to cause offense—”

  He laughed. “Thank you! I am George Power’s understudy, as it happens. If he were to become ill or incapacitated, I would sing the lead role of Ralph Rackstraw. Unfortunately, Mr. Power is disgustingly healthy. But I fully expect to be the lead tenor in a future production. Mr. Sullivan has his eye on me.”

  “Is that generally how it happens, that a person starts in the chorus and works their way up?” Rosalyn had never taken time to consider the hierarchy of the theater.

  “It’s one way.”

  “Well, I certainly wish you the best! Your singing is wonderful.”

  He looked genuinely pleased. “I enjoy duets, too. Would you care to join me, if I sing this song again?”

  “But I don’t know the words,” she protested.

  “Come stand by me, and you can read from the sheet music.”

  Hesitantly she approached the piano. He tugged her just a little closer to him before beginning to play.