by R. J. Koreto
The guest bedroom, decorated in shades of blue, contained no eye-catching foreign artwork or knickknacks, probably because it wasn’t used much. But the additional ornamentation wasn’t necessary. The portrait was enough, and even Frances, used to fine portraits, practically gasped aloud when she saw it.
Lady Torrence hadn’t exaggerated. If the portrait was true, Louisa was one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. Midnight-black hair against a milky cheek and eyes like blue tourmaline gemstones. And that mouth—Frances had once overheard a cousin, after his third glass of port, refer to his favorite barmaid as having the “most kissable mouth in Christendom.” Was it a trick of the painter or really the way she had looked? There was something very inviting about her.
Frances let her eyes dart to Simpkins. The maid was clearly proud of her mistress’s daughter and amused at Frances’s reaction.
“You knew Miss Louisa, didn’t you?” asked Frances.
“Yes, I did, my lady.” And she no doubt knew the whole story, although she wouldn’t admit it to Frances.
“In your opinion, is this an accurate portrait?”
Simpkins paused. She wasn’t used to having her opinion sought after, beyond a question about a hat or dress.
“Yes, my lady. But if I may say, she was a wonderfully lively girl, and no artist could capture that.”
“Many men must’ve courted her,” said Frances.
But Simpkins quickly shut down at that. “I’m sure I couldn’t say, my lady.”
However, her eyes gave her away.
“Thank you, Simpkins. We can go back down now.”
Simpkins showed Lady Frances back to the drawing room, and then Lady Torrence dismissed her.
“Simpkins tells me that the portrait is accurate. Louisa must’ve been the loveliest woman in London.”
“Thank you. As I’ve said, I’m prejudiced. But she really was, wasn’t she?”
“And I will do everything I can to find her. First, I would like to call on your other daughter, Sarah, as I need all the information I can get. And of course, I will keep our mission confidential.”
“That will all be fine. Lady Frances, in addition to hope, you are giving me peace of mind.”
Frances shook her head. “No, my lady. If I am good and lucky, I will get you the truth. Only you can give yourself peace of mind.”
Lady Torrence raised an eyebrow. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re wise beyond your years?”
Frances gave her hostess a cheeky smile. “My mother and a score of governesses. But they didn’t phrase it quite as complimentary as you just did.”
CHAPTER 3
Frances’s mind was in a whirl as she returned to her rooms at Miss Plimsoll’s. What a change this was! How should she get started? Should she have business cards printed up? That might be a little premature. And what would Mallow think?
“A pleasant visit, my lady?” Mallow asked as she helped Frances take off her hat.
“Very interesting, Mallow. And a bit of a surprise.”
“Does Lady Torrence want to join your suffrage club after all, my lady?”
“Do you know, Mallow, she might in the end. But for now, she had a rather unusual request.” The two women retreated to their little sitting room. “It seems Lady Torrence wants us to find a daughter she hasn’t seen in thirty years.” She summarized the commission she had been given. Mallow took it all in stride.
“So what do you think, Mallow?”
“I think you will bring the matter to a successful conclusion, my lady.”
“Thank you for your optimism. I will need your help with this.”
“I will be of assistance in any way I can, my lady.”
Frances was going to warn Mallow that this was all highly confidential, but she realized it wasn’t necessary. Frances’s brother, Marquess of Seaforth, a minister in the Foreign Office, had more than once tried to trick Mallow into revealing details about Frances’s private life. He had been unsuccessful every time.
“I know you will prove invaluable. I don’t know if I ever told you, but Inspector Eastley once said that if they started opening the police service to women, you’d be his first choice as a recruit.”
“I’m sure that’s very flattering, my lady,” Mallow said, clearly unsure if this was, in fact, flattering, “but I would prefer to remain in your service.”
“And so you shall. For now, let’s make sure that I have plenty of ink and paper. I’m not certain what Sherlock Holmes does, but I think it would be best to start my investigations with a written plan.”
Frances woke up the next morning full of purpose. “I have a busy day ahead of me, Mallow, visiting with theatre folk.”
Her maid produced one of the shirtwaist outfits Frances liked for daytime wear, especially when she had a lot of traveling.
“It’s such a nice day, Mallow. I do like the beginning of spring, and it’s finally getting warm. A perfect day for the bicycle.”
The bicycle. That had made quite a change in their little household. Mallow had firm ideas on the correct forms of transportation. The best was a carriage drawn by matched horses. Hansom cabs were also acceptable. Trains were delightful, as long as you stayed away from that overwhelming locomotive. Motorcars were a bit frightening, with their engines right in front like that and all the noise.
And then Lady Frances had come home with the bicycle. “I can get around London more quickly than in a hansom when it’s crowded, and it will save money. It’s much faster than walking. And it’s healthy exercise. I think it’ll take a bit of practice to get going. In fact”—she had given Mallow a look—“it might be best if we learned together.”
So it had been off to the park for some tumbles and spills, but soon they had been set, riding up and down the pathways.
“It is exciting, isn’t it?” she had asked her maid.
“It feels like flying, my lady,” Mallow had replied. Her face was normally placid, but just then her eyes had been bright and cheeks flushed. The bicycle was a welcome addition to Miss Plimsoll’s.
Mallow took it to run errands for her ladyship, and Frances bicycled around town, as long as the occasion wasn’t too formal. The theatre was certainly “not formal.”
They kept the bicycle in a tool shed at the back of the house. Mrs. Beasley was a little dubious about a bicycle, but there was no denying the popularity of the vehicles among the young ladies of London. Horses could not be reengineered, so women had to ride them sidesaddle. But a minor design change allowed women to ride bicycles in skirts.
In a few moments, Frances was riding along the streets, her modest hat expertly pinned to her hair by Mallow so it didn’t come off even as she rolled along. First, it was to a photography studio, where she was informed that they’d be pleased to make a photographic record of a portrait and would deliver the results to Lady Frances at Miss Plimsoll’s.
Next, she travelled to the St. James Theatre, handed her bicycle to a startled porter, and walked in. She slipped quietly into the back and took a seat. Her friend from jujutsu class, Marie Studholme, was on the stage, singing a song to the accompaniment of a piano. The tune was catchy, and Frances knew well that Marie’s sweet voice and lovely face would ensure cries of “encore” from the audience.
After hearing it a few times, the director announced that he’d rehearse the chorus, and Marie could rest for a few minutes. Frances waved to her friend, and Marie joined her in the back.
“Dear Franny. Hoping for another match? Not really fair; you’re younger than I am.”
Frances laughed. “And you’re taller. That makes up for it. Anyway, I’m happy just to listen to your lovely voice and will see the whole show when it opens with great pleasure. But I’m really here for your specialized knowledge. As a favor for a friend, I’m trying to find an actress who worked for the Green Players some thirty years ago. I wondered if you knew anything about them.”
Her face lit up with a knowing smile. “Ah, you’re involving yourself
in another mystery. Why don’t you write a play about this one? We’ll get it produced, and I’ll play you onstage.”
“Splendid idea! We’ll add songs too.”
“I’ll look forward to it. But you wanted to know about the Green Players. They’ve been around forever. Good productions, very traditional. A bit of Shakespeare, some comedies, period pieces—anything to draw a large crowd. I never did anything with them myself, but they enjoy a good reputation. Oh, and they’re getting into those new motion pictures.”
“My maid will be delighted to hear that. She loves motion pictures.”
“Yes, well, some of us are a bit worried about that. Will it take away from theatre crowds?”
“Whether singing or speaking, nothing will take the place of your lovely voice,” said Frances.
“Thank you. But Frances, if you’re going to insert yourself into the theatre world, know this: it’s a very closed community, and as friendly as they are, they don’t easily welcome outsiders.”
“But you did.”
“Yes, I am pleased to be your friend, Franny. You are unusual among the nobility to make friends with an actress. But I am unusual among actresses to make friends with a lady of quality. Think of what would happen if I paid a call to almost any other titled lady in this city. I’d never make it past the butler. For better or worse, it would be no different for a titled lady to visit the backstage of any theatre. Think on that, my friend. They’ll want me back onstage in a few minutes, but if you have anything to ask, come by again.” She gave her arm a squeeze and left.
Frances mulled that over for a few moments and then quietly departed for the Emerald Theatre. It was just a few minutes away by bicycle. The Emerald was one of the oldest theatres in London, going back to the eighteenth century, and the ornate facade spoke of a wilder city: glittering Georgian evenings with men in powdered wigs and fantastic dresses for the ladies, followed by an era of Regency rakes and demimondaines. It needed a good cleaning and some restoration work now, but Frances saw workmen setting up scaffolding. Improvements from the new owners? She found a porter that she could leave her bicycle with and asked him where she could find the manager, Mr. Rusk. He paused for a moment.
Frances watched the man think: This woman was not an actress. There was no telling what a woman with an elegant accent like that wanted with Mr. Rusk. In any case, it wasn’t his concern.
“You’ll find him right along that hallway, miss. He should be in.”
“Thank you.” She walked past the box office and down the hall. The door was labeled “G. Rusk, Manager.” She knocked and heard, “Come in!”
As with Lady Torrence’s drawing room, the decorations grabbed her attention first. It wasn’t a big room, and it was made even smaller by the delightful jumble of objects. Posters for shows covered every inch of the walls. Some advertised recent productions that Frances had seen, and others—perhaps those with special meaning for Mr. Rusk—contained popular titles and actresses from before Frances had been born.
His desk was heaped with gaudy flyers for upcoming productions, swatches of cloth no doubt left by a costume designer for his approval, a couple of obviously fake daggers with paste jewels—were they doing Macbeth this year?—and a box of cigars, one of which Mr. Rusk was puffing away on. He seemed to be in his sixties, bald, with a face that looked hard. Here was a man used to giving orders. He was working in his shirtsleeves, and his cuffs were ink-stained.
He frowned at her. “Who let you back here? We’re not holding auditions yet. Come back in two weeks.”
Frances laughed. “I suppose I should be flattered that you think I’m pretty enough to be an actress. But no, Mr. Rusk. I’m Lady Frances Ffolkes. And I’m hoping you can help me.”
“Oh! Well, I’m sorry then.” His smile seemed genuinely warm and softened his face. “Take a seat, my lady. And no offense. I see now you’re a lady of quality. How may I be of service?”
“I see you’re busy, so I will get to the point.” She had already worked out a story. “My mother had the most delightful cook for many years. She’s retired, but she had a niece, the last of her family, who she believes became one of the Green Players some thirty years ago. I don’t know how long she was a member of the company, though. As a favor, being here in London, I thought I’d see what I could do about finding her. I know it’s going to be difficult, if not impossible. But I thought I’d try.”
“Well, I’d like to oblige, my lady. In fact, I was working here thirty years ago. Do you have a name?”
“I wish I did. But the niece changed her name, and Cook couldn’t remember what it was, if she ever knew. No offense, Mr. Rusk, but the family didn’t want their name connected to the theatre.”
Rusk chuckled. “No need to explain, my lady. A career in theatre has never been seen as entirely respectable, and it was even worse back then. Now any number of young, beautiful women join our company, or try to, each year. Any description at all?”
“I think you would remember this girl. She got work as an artist’s model before deciding to become an actress, and I saw a portrait. She was exquisite. Only about twenty with midnight-black hair, eyes like blue gemstones, and a mouth that no man could resist kissing.”
A dreamy look came over him—only for a few seconds, but Frances knew what she saw. “Oh, my, Lady Frances. I may have thought at first you were an actress, but it seems you’re a playwright. Well, that’s certainly a start, but I can’t recall anyone like that offhand. I’m a manager, so don’t have daily contact with the actors.”
“Are there any actors, perhaps, from those times still working here?”
He thought about that for a moment. “Perhaps . . . could you wait here a moment, my lady? It’s just that it’s a bit of tumult backstage right now.”
“Of course.”
He stood up and headed out the door.
That was interesting, she thought. There was definitely something in his face when she gave that description. Well, if she didn’t get any luck, she could come back with the photograph. She’d have to give up her story, but it would force the truth.
Frances amused herself studying the posters. Was Louisa in one of the older ones? But it was impossible to tell from the stylized designs.
Mr. Rusk returned with two men.
“Lady Frances, here are two men who might be able to help. This is Quentin Prescott, who has been an actor with our company for many years.” He looked about the same age as Rusk but cut a more elegant figure. He was slim, and his hair was mostly dark with a refined touch of white at the temples. Prescott’s face was mostly smooth, and only his wrinkled throat, visible through the open neck of his shirt, gave away his age. The shirt was probably part of a costume, thought Frances. Actors were vain, and an actor of his age and experience would no doubt be too careful to let himself be seen at anything less than his full advantage.
Prescott gave an exaggerated bow. “A pleasure, my lady.”
“And this is Anthony Mattins, our chief stage manager. He has authority for everything that happens backstage. He’s been with us his entire adult life.” Mattins was Prescott’s opposite in every way. He was a good decade older, concluded Frances, with a face like a walnut, dark and heavily lined, and his sour look seemed permanent. Frances had seen beggars who had given their clothes more attention.
“M’lady,” he said as if it were an effort.
“I’d like to oblige her ladyship,” said Rusk. “Some thirty years ago, we had a young actress here, the fairest in the land, with a kissable mouth and beautiful blue eyes. Either of you remember her? Lady Frances is trying to find her—the niece of her old cook.”
Prescott made a great show of considering that. “Gertie Leister? Or did she have green eyes? Could be. Was your cook’s niece from Yorkshire? It took Gertie months to learn how to speak the king’s English. Ended up as a sort of nurse/companion to some old lady in the end. Or maybe Ophelia Darlington. Pretty enough, if I remember, though I wouldn’t have thought her espe
cially kissable. Heard she married a chandler in Liverpool, had a brood of children, and became quite stout. Those are the only two who come to mind.”
Oh, here’s a man who’s deeply in love with the sound of his own voice, concluded Frances, who scarcely paid attention to what he was saying. It was all nonsense. What was truly interesting was Mattins’s expression. He was looking at the actor with a mix of astonishment and irritation at his speech.
“Thank you for reflecting on that anyway,” said Frances. “Mr. Mattins? Any memories?”
He gave Frances a deep look. She saw he had a certain shrewdness. It sounded like a complicated and difficult job, supervising the backstage of a large theatre, and if he had been a fool, he wouldn’t have lasted.
“Your cook’s niece, you say?” He sounded like he didn’t believe her. Lie like an actor—wasn’t that the phrase? Mattins probably had more experience with liars than any Scotland Yard detective. “Why does she want to find her?” It was a challenge.
“The last of her family,” said Frances. “She’s old and getting very sentimental. She would like to see her again.”
“I’ll have to think on it,” he muttered. “Can’t think of anyone immediately. Sorry, m’lady.” But then he gave her a deeper look.
Frances would swear they were lying—all three of them. The glint of recognition in Rusk’s eye. The silly little speech Prescott gave, working so hard to prove he was trying to remember. And then Mattins. Was it her imagination, or did he look like he was thinking it over, perhaps letting her know he might have a name? She thought about what Marie Studholme had said about theatre folk not trusting outsiders, but why should anyone care about an actress who had joined the company decades ago?
She could come back, though, when she had more information. But for now, this was it. “Ah, well. I appreciate your help.” She produced three calling cards. “If you think of anything else, please call on me. I would appreciate it. Thank you again, and good day to all of you.”