But From Thine Eyes: Scintillating historical drama set in an Edwardian English theatre (His Majesty's Theatre Book 2)

by Britton Conroy, Christina

  Elisa caught her breath and Michael continued wearily, “I respect the man, but I don’t like him. He’s a brilliant actor and teacher, but he can be cruel. Especially if he believes an actor has talent.” He laughed sadly. “We have a saying, ‘When it comes to Jerry, never contradict and never agree.’” He yawned. “I’m sorry. We had an opening, last night. I celebrated too much and slept too little.” He looked down the stairs. “Where are those bug’..?” He bit his tongue and checked his watch.

  Elisa pleaded, “You’ve been so kind. Please go and rest. I’ll be all right.”

  He shook his head. “If you’re engaged, which I think you will be, you’ll be living at Mrs. Potter's boardinghouse. There's a lot more I need to tell you."

  *

  Eric Bates and Jeremy O’Connell had their drink at The Actress and Villain, and returned to the theatre. Just inside the stage entrance, they heard angry voices. Stage-manager Eddy Edwards rushed towards them.

  “Sirs, we’ve a bit of a problem with Mick Tanner.”

  Eric shook his head. “Mick Tanner, my butcher’s assistant? Whatever does he want?”

  “He wants to be in The Tempest. He heard you were engaging supers and…”

  Jeremy’s mouth dropped open. Mick Tanner was a wonderful-looking dimwit he had thrown out of his acting class. Tall as Jeremy, with a broader chest and powerful shoulders, dark eyes blazing under heavy brows, Mick stood at the foot of the stairs, glaring daggers. “That’s righ’, Mr. Bates. You promised I’d get a par’ in your next play, so…”

  Suddenly sober, Jeremy smiled engagingly. “Eric, what a pity, you forgot to mention the availability of Mr. Tanner. All the roles in The Tempest have been cast. This is a terrible shame. There simply is nothing available. I am so very sorry, Mr. Tanner. Perhaps next season – or better still, why don’t you inquire at the Lyceum? Their productions are far grander than ours. They employ a great many more people, and…”

  “Oi’ tried the Lyceum. They’re full up. I don’ need lines this time. I’ll be a super for y’, for no pay. Please, Mr. O’Connell, gi’ me another chance. I know I can…”

  Jeremy shrugged benignly. “I am so sorry, Mr. Tanner.”

  “You’re no’ sorry! You think I’m just a butcher’s boy, a stupid piece of shit, good fer nothing’ but crushin’ bones all day, not good enough for yer fancy…” He lunged toward Jeremy, and two strong backstage workers dragged him from the building. Mick howled, “Oi’ll be back in this theatre. Just see if Oi’m not. Oi’ll be back and you’ll both be sorry.”

  Hearts pounding, Jeremy and Eric started up the stairs. The girl and actor Michael Burns waited in the dim hall. They both sprang to attention. The girl was slightly shorter than Michael, but their coloring and builds were identical. Both had light-red hair, green eyes, and very pale skin. The girl’s small breasts and slim hips meant she could easily pass for a boy, and Jeremy’s mind raced with ideas for staging The Tempest. Michael stepped aside as the girl followed the older men into Eric’s office.

  Once behind his desk, Eric rubbed his bloodshot eyes and concentrated. The girl perched nervously on the edge of a chair. Jeremy leaned out an open window, gulping cold fresh air in an effort to stay awake. Eric cleared his throat. “Miss…” he shook his head. “What are we going to call you? Your real name will not do.” She stared blankly and he asked. “What is your Christian name?”

  “Elisa.”

  He strained to hear. “What? Eliza?”

  “No sir, it’s pronounced El-ee-za. It’s German.”

  “Too difficult. What shall it be, Mr. O’Connell?”

  Jeremy was half asleep. “What, sorry? Oh, I don’t know. Elizabeth… Eliza… Elly.”

  Eric looked up. “Elly. That’s good… umm, all right, Elly... Elly Round… Room… Reynolds… Reems… Let me see… Elly Tree… Trees… Treemont… He looked at the ceiling. “Not ‘Ellen Terry.’ We’ve already got one of those.” He laughed at his reference to the great actress. “Elly Green… Field… Fields… Fielding. How’s that? Elly Fielding.”

  The girl repeated the name. “Elly Fielding – Elly Fielding.” A lovely smile spread across her pale lips.

  “Do you live in London Miss… Fielding?”

  “No sir.” She looked surprised.

  “Have you acquired lodgings?”

  “No sir.”

  “Do you have a private income?”

  “No sir.” Now she looked frightened.

  “Have you any people in London who can offer you shelter?”

  “No sir. I have no one at all.” Her narrow shoulders sagged as if this were a final defeat.

  “Not to worry.” Taking his pen, Eric scratched a few lines onto a slip of paper and handed it to her. “Take this over to Mrs. Potter. She will take care of you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She read the address.

  Mrs. Potter

  5 Charles II Street

  Jeremy muttered angrily, “Mrs. Potter’s…”

  Eric continued, “Check with Eddy Edwards the stage-manager. You met him earlier. He will give you a schedule.” He leaned over the desk and spoke seriously. “Miss Fielding, apprentices are here to learn. Training plus room-and-board are your wages. You will receive no salary. You will attend all possible rehearsals whether or not you are in the scene, work in both the costume and the wig-shop, and attend as many performances as possible. Once a week you will take an acting class taught by my esteemed colleague…” Dozing against the window frame, Jeremy jerked to attention hearing, “…Mr. O’Connell, and you will rehearse with your scene partners any time it does not interfere with your other duties. You will receive only breakfast and tea at the boardinghouse, so you need to find another source of income if you wish to eat lunch or supper, is that clear?”

  The girl they now called Elly Fielding sat rigid with attention. She stammered, “Y’Yes sir, I think so, sir.”

  “Good. You can start by watching tonight’s performance of The Scottish Play. After Mr. O’Connell has had a nap and his tea, I think you may be amazed by his recovery – Jerry, go have a lie-down.”

  “Right-i-o.” Half-blind with fatigue, Jeremy staggered from the room.

  Eric saw Michael through the open door. “Mr. Burns, before you go for your nap, will you be so kind as to take Miss Fielding over to Potter’s?”

  “Who sir?”

  “This is our new apprentice, Miss Elly Fielding.”

  *

  Michael slowly led Elisa back down stairs to the stage entrance. Practically asleep, it took all his energy to put one foot in front of the other. The old man was still behind his desk.

  “Adams, this is our new apprentice, Elly Fielding.”

  Adams smiled and extended his hand. Elisa, now Elly, took it happily.

  “So you made it Miss. My ‘artiest congratulations. Welcome aboard, I ‘ope you’ll be ‘appy ‘ere.”

  Elly was so pleased by the old man’s words, she wanted to kiss him. “Thank you so much. You’re very kind.”

  Michael checked the call board. “Eddy Edwards’s gone. He’ll give you a schedule later.” He walked on, then leaned against the large stage door and almost fell as it gave way. Elly quickly followed. Once outside, he pushed through a crowd of autograph seekers.

  Elly was thrilled. “Are there always crowds like this?”

  “Sometimes. The fans want to see Jeremy O’Connell and Katherine Stewart. Shop girls love Owen Freeman. They don’t care about the rest of us.”

  He led her along Haymarket, past the front of the theatre, a bookseller, and photographer’s shop, before making a quick right turn onto Charles II Street. The houses were small, but clean and well kept. Halfway up the block, he stopped in front of a dilapidated red-brick building. It looked out of place on the pleasant street. The front door glass was shattered into a spider web pattern, and almost every window was cracked or boarded over. Broken wooden stairs led up to a battered wooden door.

  BOARDING HOUSE

  S. Pott
er, Proprietor

  INQUIRE WITHIN

  Elly froze, staring at the house. Michael saw her reaction. “Let’s walk on a little.” They continued a few houses down, and sat on a low stone wall. Elly had no idea what he was going to say, but felt sure it would not be good.

  Finally he spoke. “Have you got any money?”

  She was startled. “A little.”

  “Hide it. If anyone asks, tell them you haven’t got any. Do you have any cases?”

  “Just this.” She held up her small traveling bag. “The rest of my clothes are being shipped with Robert’s paintings.”

  “You two are something.” He pictured art-master Robert Dennison beside this lovely schoolgirl and wondered what they were to each other. “You only have the one frock?”

  “For now. Is that all right? I might be able to fetch the boxes from the art gallery.”

  “Actually, that’s very good.” He took in a deep breath and let it out very slowly. “Listen to me and remember what I am going to tell you.” Elly’s eyes grew large as

  he told his story.

  “Rob probably told you that we ran away from school, together. We were eighteen. He went to Paris to paint. I joined a run-down theatre company and toured the provinces for four years. I was so desperate to join a first-class theatre, Eric Bates offered me an unpaid apprenticeship, and I took it.

  “After one month living there,” he pointed to Potter’s, “I was ready to go back on the road. Fortunately, Jeremy O’Connell saw my worth, and convinced Hilda Bates to pay me a starvation wage. It’s taken another three years for her to pay me a real wage. You were the prettiest girl they saw today, but if you left, they would easily find another. You’re not an actress, so you have no power.”

  He rubbed his eyes and continued very softly. “Potter’s is a dangerous place. Nothing you own is safe: your clothes, your shoes, your hair brush, and especially your money. Sleep with your purse around your neck and never, ever, let anyone see it. For a while you’ll be wearing the same frock every day. That’s good. They’ll think you’re poor.”

  “But, I am poor.”

  “Not as poor as some. You need to make up a story and stick to it. Tell them you’re an orphan and spent all your money on this one frock and the train fare, or some such thing. When your boxes arrive, you’ll have to hide your other clothes. God knows where.” He crossed his arms and leaned his head on his hand. “I can already see Meg and Peg coming to rehearsals wearing lovely frocks several inches too long.”

  “Meg and Peg?”

  “Your fellow apprentices. Tarts, the both of them. You’ll probably share a room.”

  Elly’s mouth fell open, as Michael continued, “The food is inedible. Anytime someone offers you a meal, accept without question. If a bloke buys you a meal and wants too high a repayment, eat, run away, and avoid him in the future. You need to survive. You need to keep your looks and you can only do that if you eat and sleep. Be clever and stay alert. Are you coming to the show tonight?”

  He had startled her again. “Why, yes. Of course.”

  “Good, come backstage and I’ll introduce you around.”

  She watched, as he seemed to sleepwalk back to Haymarket and catch his omnibus. Making herself smile, Elly walked to the boardinghouse door, knocked, and waited. After three tries, a pleasant looking, shabbily dressed old woman opened the door.

  “Yes, what can I do for y’?”

  “Please ma’am, I’m a new apprentice at His Majesty’s Theatre. Are you Mrs. Potter?”

  The old woman raised one eyebrow as she looked Elly up-and-down. “Aye, I’m Potter.” Elly gave her the note from Eric Bates. She read it silently. “ ‘ave you got any money?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “You’d better come along then.” Mrs. Potter turned abruptly and went inside.

  Elly followed her into a dingy entrance hall, and stumbled as her heel caught in a carpet tear. To keep from falling, she braced herself on a bad smelling old coat hanging on the wall. A dozen coat hooks stood empty. How many people lived in this house? A wooden crate sat on the floor, piled with candle stubs. Obviously, the house had no gas lights. The drawing room walls were unevenly covered with yellowed wallpaper. The ceiling was cracked and split. A large hole in the plaster exposed a rotting beam. The few pieces of ancient furniture were torn and dirty, and worm-eaten floorboards showed through a threadbare carpet.

  Mrs. Potter stopped at the foot of the stairs. Clutching the once dark-stained banister, now worn smooth and blond, she carefully placed her right foot on the first step, pulled herself up on her right leg, and dragged the left leg up after it. This procedure was repeated on each step, so it took some time to reach the second floor. The stairs creaked loudly and the air was damp with mold.

  Finally on the upstairs landing, Mrs. Potter said, “You’ll be up there with the other girls,” and started a slow ascent to the next floor.

  Following her, Elly had plenty of time to read name plates on the doors. One had three metal slots nailed to it, with a soiled piece of paper in each. Printed in childlike, block letters were: MR. RED; MR. SINKLAR; MR. COOK. Further down were two doors with MRS. LIN and MR. STRLING. Finally reaching the next floor, Elly saw two doors with name slots. Mrs. Potter removed one slip of paper.

  “This one’s out with the pantomime, no telling if she’ll be back.” Turning the slip over, she slid the blank side into the name slot, pulled a pencil stub from her pocket, and marked the paper.

  When she stood back, Elly read the names, MISS OMALY; MISS LAMOOR; MISS FELDING. Elly assumed that “Felding” was supposed to be Fielding, but said nothing. Mrs. Potter opened the unlocked door.

  “You’ll be in ‘ere with Meg and Peg, them’s good girls, once you know ‘em.”

  Elly looked into the room. She wanted to scream. Great chunks of plaster were missing from the walls and ceiling. Layers of moldy water stains smeared over the gaps. Dirt crusted into the floor and wind whistled sharply through the shattered window-glass. Even from the doorway she felt a draft. Soiled clothing, including undergarments, were scattered on the bed, over two broken chairs, a small three-legged table, and a sparsely filled wardrobe missing both doors. A chamber pot sat in the middle of the floor. It was empty, but certainly not clean, and the bed linen was filthy.

  Elly took a deep breath, forced a smile and fought back tears. “Are we, all three, to sleep in the one bed, Mrs. Potter?”

  “Right-i-o, m’ girl. All the better to keep you warm.” With that, the old woman turned and started her painful decent down the two flights of rickety stairs.

  Elly stood in the hall, staring into her room, willing it to improve. She walked tentatively through the doorway, and shivered. It was just as cold inside as it was out. There was a sooty potbellied stove in the middle of the room, but no fuel to burn in it. Mrs. Potter’s words rang in her ears, “All the better to keep you warm.” But the bed! The sheet was gray and the pillows appeared to be encrusted with something. Using two fingers, she carefully pulled back the thin blanket. The sheet was one continuous pattern of yellow, brown, and gray stains. A rancid smell wafted up. She quickly dropped the blanket, and held her nose.

  Clutching her bag, she ran from the room and up the final set of stairs. The ceiling was low and slanting. There was a single door, opening into a dark attic, thick with dust. Tiny beams of daylight shone through uneven slanting rafters. Her eyes quickly adjusted, and she made out some broken furniture and an old chest. She gave the lid a mighty heave. The hinges complained loudly and an intoxicating aroma of cedar wood filled the room. Inside was a ragged, sweet smelling quilt. Elly wrapped it around herself, lay on the floor, and was very quickly asleep.

  BANG! BANG! BANG! Elly woke with a fright. How long had she been asleep? It took her only a moment to remember where she was and run onto the landing. The banging was uneven but continuous. She looked over the railing and saw the top of Mrs. Potter’s head, three flights below.

  Mrs. Potter yel
led, “Mrs. Lynn, Y’ tea is ready.” She banged on a sauce pan with a wooden spoon, listened, then shrieked again, “Mrs. Lynn, Y’ tea is ready.”

  One flight up, a door opened. A wiry old lady with flaming-red hair danced into the hall. She looked over the banister and yelled back, “IS IT TEA THEN?”

  “Yes, come down y’ deaf old bat.”

  “Oh lovely. Here I come.” Mrs. Lynn trotted downstairs.

  Elly was very hungry and felt good after her rest. She hurried downstairs and followed voices through the drawing room, into the dining room. Around a long table sat the flaming Mrs. Lynn, two scruffy young men, an old man, two other poorly-dressed women, one middle-aged, the other very old, and two rough-looking young women, she guessed were Meg and Peg.

  Mrs. Potter cut thin slices from a loaf of hard bread. No one at the table seemed to notice Elly as they grabbed for the bowl of cold drippings, and dug out meager servings for their bread. Each had their own small saucer of watery jelly for pudding.

  Elly sat down to a cracked plate with a thin slice of hard bread, and took the nearly empty drippings bowl. She was fond of roasted meat drippings, but this looked and smelled foul. Whatever the food was, it was survival of the fittest. She would not be late again. Mrs. Potter poured tea into chipped mugs. It was very hot and heavily laced with milk and sugar. Too sweet for Elly’s taste, but her starving body craved it. She drank it down and asked for more. Listening to conversations, she quickly distinguished Meg from Peg.

  Meg was tall, blond, plump, and loud. She had a very large bosom and a very low cut frock. Elly forced her fascinated eyes away. She had never seen anyone show that much naked flesh and it was only tea time. Meg spoke in a loud, raspy voice, and made eyes at all the men. She could have been pretty, but her yellow hair was bleached dry and brittle. Her fair skin was stained with dark rouge and lip color. Heavy charcoal darkened her naturally light eyes and made her look hard. She laughed loudly at the men’s bad jokes.

  Peg was short, scrawny, and dark. She wore no rouge. Black lines around her eyes made them appear huge. Her thick dark hair was tied back with a ribbon, emphasizing her pale, sunken cheeks. Totally silent, she ate as much as she could get.