“Are you ticklish here?” he inquired, laughter lurking in the words.
I was breathing with difficulty. “No, n-not ticklish exactly.”
There was something almost indecent about looking into his eyes while his hand touched me so intimately. I had never felt so exposed, yet I could not break away from his gaze.
With his fingertip still teasing the little dimple, he drew me forward and brought his mouth to mine, brushing my lips lightly, tantalizing me until I clutched at his shoulders and then his hair to deepen the kiss. His lips were sweet with the taste of cognac, and their touch heated my blood just as the liqueur did.
When at last he broke the kiss and drew back, it was only far enough to look into my eyes. His were brilliant with desire, green and gray like a stormy sea, and I felt as if I were being borne along on a swift current in their depths.
He murmured, “Your face is flushed, your breath is coming in soft little pants, and the pulse at your throat is beating as fast as a hummingbird’s heart... I’d say you feel as much passion as I do.”
“What are you talking about?” I was half out of my mind, my lips tingling, wishing he would kiss me again and never stop.
“If you can endure this much desire, this much longing, until our wedding day,” he said, “then so can I. It may not be easy, but it isn’t impossible.”
Now I understood, and the urgent tension went out of my body in a long sigh. I touched his face. “You scoundrel. I love you so dearly.”
He kissed me gently, not to inflame this time but to adore. “And I you, sweetest Sybil.” Then he looked down at my leg and smiled. “Shall I set your stocking to rights?”
“I think I’d better do it,” I said, and then, wryly echoing a conversation from our past, “I’m only human, after all.”
But I could not resist drawing my skirt up past my knee and extending my leg before him as I slowly pulled my stocking back up, so that the long slender expanse of leg was displayed as I leisurely drew my garter back into place above my knee.
“Minx!” he exclaimed, and gave me a swift, fierce kiss with the suggestion of a bite in it.
I placed my stockinged foot flat against his chest and pushed him back. “That was just to show you that two can play at that game,” I said sweetly. “It’s unchivalrous to tease a lady so, Mr. Brooke.”
His laugh was so loud that I feared he would be heard all the way to Mrs. Vise’s room on the top floor and she would come bursting through the doors. “Minx,” he said again, and the undertone of affection was plain in his voice. “There’s no doubt in my mind that you are more than enough woman for me. My only worry is whether I’ll be able to keep up with you once we’re married.”
“I suppose we’ll just have to hope for the best,” I said smugly.
Rehearsals could not start at once because of the construction of sets and the machinery for the spectacles, so the next day when I made my way to the theater my destination was not the stage but Mr. Ivey’s office. I paused only briefly backstage to ask directions before continuing upstairs. The stage area was swarming with workmen, and the noise of hammering, sawing, shouting, and banging followed me as I ascended the staircase. Roderick was meeting with the accompanist elsewhere, and we would probably not meet again until dinner.
The sound of voices in emphatic French greeted me as I approached the door of what I had been told was the manager’s office. “As I’ve repeatedly told you,” Mr. Ivey’s voice was saying, “there are no guarantees of immediately recouping your investment. You understood the risks, you told me, before you lent me the money.”
“But you gave me to understand that the risk was a minimal one,” responded a voice so booming that I recognized it at once as Monsieur Fournier’s. “If you aren’t going to seek the proper publicity to exploit Mr. Brooke’s participation, perhaps you need to be relieved of your duties as manager.”
“Brooke is only with the production temporarily. I for one do not want to face the outrage of an audience who has come to the theater specifically to see him, only to find that he is no longer part of the entertainment.”
“At least they will have already paid their money, which is the most important thing.”
“Not for me, sir. This is my future I am gambling on. I will scarcely be in high demand if I become known for duping audiences.”
“Eh bien,” came a reply that I could picture being accompanied by a shrug. “That is not my concern. My investment, not your reputation, is paramount.”
The sound of footsteps behind me alerted me to the presence of a stage hand, and I hastily knocked at the door so that I might avoid being suspected of eavesdropping, even though I was certainly guilty of it.
At my knock, there was a slight pause before Mr. Ivey bade me enter. When I opened the door, I found him seated behind a large, cluttered desk, and Monsieur Fournier standing on the other side, leaning toward him with his hands planted on the blotter, in the posture of one attempting to intimidate.
“Miss Ingram,” exclaimed Mr. Ivey in a tone of relief. His kind face was haggard. “Good morning.”
“Good afternoon,” Fournier corrected, turning to greet me with a bow and an appreciative leer. He was no more prepossessing than on our previous meeting, though he sported a cheerful checked mustard-colored coat and striped trousers. “Mademoiselle Ingram, you are as toothsome as ever. How fortunate to meet you like this.”
I did no more than nod in greeting. So certain was I that he was poised to launch into another revolting appraisal of my person that his next words caught me completely by surprise.
“Can you persuade your fiancé to continue with the play for, say, a fortnight at least? I am becoming concerned about the soundness of my investment.”
“Roderick has so many commitments,” I said, trying to sound vague and empty-headed. “I really could not say what he has promised others.”
“Perhaps I need to apply a bit of pressure, then.” His pale eyes hardened. “One would prefer to keep things on a friendly footing, but that volatile young man may respond better to the stick than the carrot.”
“And what carrot would that be?” I inquired. “All I have heard you mention is the stick: having him arrested. The alternative would have to be a tempting vegetable indeed to make him forgive you for your threats.”
To my astonishment, he looked taken aback. “My dear mademoiselle! Let us not lower this pleasant conversation to such a level. You will recall that it was only in the face of Mr. Brooke’s violent behavior that I resorted to so drastic a defense. There is no need for things to be anything other than friendly between us.”
Since I could imagine all too well what his idea of friendliness might entail, I thought it best to say nothing at all as he retrieved his hat and walking stick and prepared to depart.
“I hope we shall meet soon again,” he said with an insinuating smile. “And please do try to influence Mr. Brooke to stay longer in Paris and lend the weight of his name to our little show.”
Once the door had closed behind him, I shuddered. “What a pity you had to resort to taking him on as an investor,” I said as soon as I was reasonably certain he had moved out of earshot. “If only Roderick and I had known... well, it’s too late now. Is Monsieur Fournier fond of the theater, then?”
“He is fond of any enterprise in which he can feel influential, I believe,” Mr. Ivey said, gesturing for me to take a seat. “I knew this, or thought I did, when I first approached him. But I don’t think I fully understood his need to feel important.”
“A need that explains the pleasure he takes in holding information over others’ heads.”
“Exactly. The trouble is, he does have influence—he has the ear of enough powerful people to himself be possessed of some power. He can be dangerous to cross, or so I have heard. I don’t wonder that Julia is so eager to retrieve her letters and eliminate his hold on her.”
“Indeed,” I said. Roderick had said that the man was not a threat to him or to me, but t
hat might not extend to Julia, and in any case we were already committed to helping her. I shifted in my chair, for the discussion ahead might be awkward. “Speaking of Monsieur Fournier,” I said, “I wanted to tell you the truth of what he was hinting about me yesterday—the rumors that I stole money from my troupe in England.”
His smile was gentle. “I trust you, Miss Ingram, far more than I trust any rumor peddled by Fournier.”
“Nevertheless, it is a story that has been much put about, and I want you to know why.”
In as few words as possible I told him how my mentor and former manager, Gerhardt Atherton, had gambled away most of our troupe’s receipts and begged me to take the blame for his misdeeds, and how I had rashly agreed out of a sense of loyalty and a mistaken belief that the story would never be circulated. Now Atherton had retracted the story, but since a scandal is always more avidly circulated than a mundane truth, there were still people who believed the fiction.
“The whole business is unfortunate,” I concluded. “I think Atherton now realizes that if he had confessed in the first place he would have been forgiven, for most people understand that gambling is an insidious mistress. But he and I both made the wrong decision, and so that story will probably continue to follow me around. I hope that at least your mind will be at ease now.”
“It is, Miss Ingram. Thank you for your frankness.” He placed his elbows on the blotter and steepled his fingers, and where the sleeves of his suit coat pulled back from his thin wrists, I caught sight of fraying at his cuffs. More evidence of how desperate he must have been—the very desperation that led him to affiliate with Fournier.
“Is there anything else Roderick and I can do to help?” I asked. I did not want to promise that we might extend our stay in Paris, but I wanted for Mr. Ivey’s sake to help him recoup what he had borrowed from Fournier.
He smiled sadly. “I doubt it, Miss Ingram. I must confess to feeling somewhat defeatist this afternoon. As long as I have been in this business, I tend to trust my instincts about new ventures, and I have begun to sense a kind of doomed atmosphere in this building. It distresses me, for I know there is nothing I can do about it.” He shook his head, staring with troubled eyes into the distance. “I fear it is an ill omen for our play.”
“That is distressing,” I responded, but with some perplexity. I had noticed none of this atmosphere, either at the closing night of The Mountain’s Peak or today, and my own instincts were highly reliable in this regard. In the past I had even been able to see an unhappy spirit that manifested onstage during a performance.
“I cannot help but wonder... do you believe in ghosts, Miss Ingram? For I sometimes think this theater may be haunted, and I dread to think what the consequences may be.”
“I certainly do believe in spirits,” I said. “Have you consulted a medium about the theater?”
He gave a startled laugh. “I’m afraid I have little faith in so-called mediums, Miss Ingram. They are merely a different kind of theater.”
“Not all of them,” I said. “I don’t want to make any promises, but...”
“Yes?”
“There may be a way I can help,” I began. Then, as a knock sounded at the door, I concluded hastily, “We’ll speak of it another time.”
The newcomer was someone I recognized at once. Majestically tall and with a statuesque figure, she had haunting dark eyes and a cloud of light brown hair that was touched with silver, suggesting that she was near Mr. Ivey’s age. Dressed in a heavy brocade gown in the style of the first half of the eighteenth century, she extended a slender, pale hand to the manager, who hastened to greet her with a kiss on each cheek.
“My dear Helaine,” he said. “I am delighted to have the chance to introduce you to Miss Sybil Ingram. Miss Ingram, this is—”
“Madame Thiers,” I exclaimed before he could finish. “Madame, this is an honor.”
Her smile was gentle, if a touch distant, as if she were looking at me from across a great gulf in time or space. She was so dignified that it was hard to believe she was the same actress who had played breeches roles in Restoration comedies and had dueled with Sir Andrew Aguecheek as Viola in Twelfth Night. But of course that was the very essence of our craft—to transform ourselves into the people we were not. No wonder this lady was an acting legend.
“I am delighted to meet you, Miss Ingram,” she said, and her pleasantly low voice, though moderated at close quarters, hinted at the resonance she could call upon on stage. “Your reputation precedes you.”
From her warmth I knew that she meant my professional reputation, not my reputation as an embezzler, and I felt a flood of relief that this legend of the theater did not harbor the belief that I was a criminal. Perhaps it was foolish vanity, but it would have hurt me if an idol of mine had drawn away from me with a sneer. “You’re too kind,” I said. “It will be such a thrill to work together!”
In the puzzled pause before her reply, I realized that Mr. Ivey had not yet told Helaine about my planned substitution for Julia.
He stepped in to explain. “We have a little scheme,” he told the grande dame. “We’re keeping it quiet for now, but we can let you in on the secret. Miss Ingram will be taking Julia de Lioncourt’s place one night—not as an understudy, but in disguise, if you will. I shall explain it all to you later, but now I’m afraid I must meet with the spectacle architect downstairs. Did you wish to speak to me about something?”
“I wanted to show you this costume,” she said. “Does it meet with your approval?”
“For act two, I take it? Yes, it will do quite nicely. Adieu, ladies—or you may accompany me downstairs if you wish.”
Accordingly we followed his thin, spidery form out of the office and down the stairs. I wished we could have continued the conversation longer, but imparting secrets was impractical considering the volume of noise that rose up to meet us as we descended to stage level.
It was exciting to watch all the activity, to see the lumber, steel framework, canvas, and paint being transformed into a Gothic castle on the Italian coast, but something troubled me as Helaine and I watched. Nothing in the scene itself that I could find, but an atmosphere, an emotion. A feeling of depression was beginning to steal over me. A sense of desolation. Was this what Mr. Ivey had meant?
I had not felt it in the audience of The Mountain’s Peak, though, or even today while speaking to Mr. Ivey. Perhaps I was suggestible and was only feeling what he had led me to expect. But it was such a powerful emotion, nearly strong enough to make me sit down and cry. Surely I was not manufacturing it myself.
As I stood lost in thought, a man on stage crouched down to raise a trap door, and the sound of sawing emerged. Presumably more construction was taking place beneath the stage. As the man shouted down to someone I could not see, he gesticulated with such emphasis that he forgot to maintain his hold on the trap door, and it dropped with a loud bang like a pistol shot.
Madame Thiers uttered a little cry and jumped. Her already pale face went as white as paper, and I took her hand in concern. I had jumped too, but her response was more than simple startlement.
“Are you all right?” I exclaimed.
The speed with which she regained her composure was a testament to her acting skill. “Quite all right, thank you,” she said with a smile. “I was caught off guard, that is all. I had better go remove this costume now. I look forward to seeing you again soon, Miss Ingram.”
“Likewise,” I said, and she swept away, her dignity not one whit diminished by the sawdust picked up by the train of her brocade gown. I was just as glad not to have to make further conversation, for the peculiar sense of sorrow and futility was still clouding my thoughts.
Shaking my head hard as if I could dislodge it by that means, I picked my way through the chaotic jumble of sawhorses and planks to the stage door. This was not the time for further speculation, for I had my own costume change to make. I had a call to pay—and as someone other than Sybil Ingram. I was attending a séanc
e.
Chapter Eight
Two hours later, dressed in one of Mrs. Vise’s dark woolen frocks and with my face heavily veiled, I was sitting at a table in a darkened room, holding hands with strangers.
After that last frightening experience with Mrs. Spiegel’s ghost I had welcomed the professor’s suggestion to seek out La Clarté and find out whether she could educate me about my abilities. Never again did I wish to be in the alarming position of confronting a hostile spirit without any resources.
I had heard the French medium spoken of with respect and admiration, so I had wasted no time in determining where and when she held séances and making plans to attend one. I was cautious enough, however, to take a circuitous approach. So many mediums I had read about were clever frauds, and I wanted to test the Frenchwoman’s mettle when she would not realize she was under scrutiny. The purpose of my disguise was to foil any attempt she might make to use personal knowledge of me to her advantage, such as by pretending that spirits were telling her specific details of my life and of people I had known who had passed over. I had introduced myself merely as Madame Blanchard, and I had left off my engagement ring and replaced it with a plain wedding band I had purchased at a pawn shop. Mrs. Vise and I had even arrived by omnibus, so as not to give an impression of wealth.
“It is time,” intoned La Clarté from the opposite end of the table. “The spirits attend us!”
Alas, nothing so far had led me to expect that my hopes for her authenticity would be rewarded. There was too much theatricality in her deep, sonorous voice and in the wide-sleeved brocade robe she affected. She claimed that her spirit guide was an ancient warrior philosopher from Genghis Khan’s day who had gained enlightenment on the battlefield. Presumably that was what had led to his death, for a battlefield as I envisioned it was no place to stand about musing on the ineffable—not without getting a sword between the ribs.
The room where we were seated now was dim, for black velvet portieres shut out the afternoon light, and only a branched candelabrum in the center of the black tablecloth provided light. Sitting at my right was a widow lady dressed in deep mourning. Even through the black veil she wore I could see that her eyes were red, and when we had all removed our gloves at the medium’s behest I saw that her fingernails were bitten down to the quick. Her loss must have been very recent, and I felt a rush of indignation at the likelihood that in her vulnerable state she was being preyed upon by a charlatan. I hoped I was mistaken, but so far nothing about this experience—especially the high price of admission, paid in advance—bespoke a genuine contact with the other side.
The Last Serenade (Sybil Ingram Victorian Mysteries Book 2) Page 10