A light rap sounded on the door, and Alissa gathered up the extra length of robe, before scurrying across the room to allow Mrs. Binnington entry.
“Close and lock it,” Eudora said after she came through, overloaded with clothing and several pieces of luggage.
The black case Alissa recognized as her own, but the others, the two larger of the three, were a mystery. “These aren’t mine,” she said as she looked at Eudora, her once smooth brow now furrowed in confusion. “Why have you brought them?”
“They’re Miss Pembroke’s,” Eudora explained, then cut off Alissa’s rising protest. “The woman no longer has a use for them—you do.”
“What are you saying?”
“It’s part of my plan to get you safely out of London.” Eudora removed the gray traveling dress from across her shoulder where she’d carried it. “Put this on. Hurry, he’ll be here any moment.”
Alissa’s eyes widened. “Who?”
“Miss Pembroke’s new employer … a Mr. Braxton, I believe.”
“Employer?”
“Yes, employer. She was retained as a governess for the man’s daughter. Here”—Eudora took a packet of ribbon-tied letters from her skirt pocket—“I believe these were his correspondence with Miss Pembroke. Read them while I get you ready.”
“Ready?” Alissa still did not comprehend Eudora’s meaning. “What are you going on about?”
“You, my dear, are about to play the most challenging role of your career, and it depends upon you alone whether or not it’s a success. The lines will be of your own making, but they’d better be a close match to the late Agatha Pembroke’s. With any luck, this Mr. Braxton hasn’t met her in person. If we get through the first act, you’ll soon be on your way to Scotland.”
“Scotland!”
“Yes, Scotland. Away from the Earl of Creighton. Now hurry and slip into the dress. We haven’t much time. Your new employer sent word around earlier he’d be here about half past nine. It’s well after that now.”
Still stunned, Alissa felt uneasy as she stepped into the dead woman’s clothing, and once it was buttoned, she discovered the bodice was far too tight. It pressed uncomfortably against her full breasts, making her bruised flesh even more sensitive. The sleeves were too long, capping to the middle of her slender hands, and the skirt was a bit too short, but it would have to do, for Alissa’s dresses were much too stylish for a governess to wear. Through instinct alone, Alissa knew the rather austere woman had somehow defined her true self to her new employer, if not in person, then through her correspondence with the man. Frills definitely weren’t part of Agatha Pembroke’s character.
“The bodice will never do,” Eudora said, then directed Alissa to the dressing table. “Lift your arm. Just as I thought. There are a couple of darts I can let out. The creases will show, but if you’re careful, no one will notice.” She took her late husband’s straight razor to the threads, cautious not to cut the material. “There.”
The task completed, Alissa breathed easier. The bodice still strained a bit, but nothing like before. Then, while Eudora brushed at the remaining tangles in Alissa’s hair, she scanned the letters.
The words that met her eyes were written in a bold, strong hand, and immediately, Alissa noticed the wealth of praises heaped upon Agatha’s head by one Jared Braxton. By the tone of his letters, it was obvious he’d been the one to seek her out, not the other way around. She’d come highly recommended by her former employers, who were obviously numerous. Yet, apparently, Mr. Braxton had checked all her references, a good two dozen, which meant he was a thorough man. Or, perhaps it meant he lacked trust in humanity.
As Alissa read the one-sided communications further, she discovered Agatha Pembroke was much more than a simple governess. The woman specialized in teaching children who suffered a physical or emotional handicap. Once her charge was improved, however, Miss Pembroke always moved on to the next position, the next child who needed her expertise, which explained her frequent job changes.
Alissa lowered the letter. Closing her eyes, she said a small prayer for the woman. Never had she suspected the frail, unassuming Miss Pembroke, with whom she’d spoken only briefly, could have possessed such a determined will. She’d given her all to her “children.” Agatha Pembroke was a saint, literally.
Again Alissa began absorbing the words to discover Agatha was accepting the position as governess for six-year-old Megan Braxton. Finally, she found she could no longer continue. “I don’t think I can do it,” Alissa whispered as the letter lowered to her lap. She looked at Eudora’s reflection in the mirror. “Mr. Braxton’s daughter has been mute these past two years, ever since her mother’s death. Eudora, he’s expecting a miracle worker. I can’t purposely deceive him.”
“The poor child,” Eudora said sympathetically. “But, dear, what makes you think you couldn’t perform the duties of a governess? If Agatha could, God rest her soul, surely you can.”
“I think not.” Alissa quickly explained the contents of the letters. “Miss Pembroke was a very special woman with a very special talent. I simply can’t deceive the man. It wouldn’t be right.”
The brush stopped its movement along Alissa’s lustrous hair. “If you don’t go with him to Scotland, you’ll surely be enjoying your next meal at Newgate.” Eudora’s words were short, to the point. “You won’t harm the child any, and Miss Pembroke is no longer able to help her. More than likely, no one can … not anymore.” Her stern gaze penetrated Alissa’s through the mirror. “You have to go, deception or not!”
Then she dropped a bath cloth around Alissa’s shoulders and dumped two handfuls of talc onto her waist-length hair.
Alissa coughed, then sneezed. “What are you doing?”
“I’m dulling the sheen of your hair.”
Eudora worked the powder to the roots, then brushed the residual free. Forgoing the usual center part of the times, she pulled the long tresses straight back and knotted the heavy mass into a tight bun at Alissa’s nape, covering it with a chenille net.
Next, she retrieved a small leather case from the bureau and instructed Alissa to face her. Then she spread a light cream over the girl’s soft skin before applying a special mixture of moist powders, stroking upward to the roots of Alissa’s hair and down the length of her ivory neck. Using a rabbit’s foot and a sponge, she blended the makeup, darkening the hollows of Alissa’s cheeks and the delicate skin beneath her eyes with a deeper shade of powder, until she was satisfied with the results.
“Now, close your eyes.” She brushed the fine hairs of the rabbit’s foot across the blue-veined lids, dabbing at the tips of Alissa’s long, dark lashes in the process. Finally, she straightened a hairpin, held it over the lamp’s flame, and allowed it to cool. With its blackened tip, she emphasized the fine lines near Alissa’s eyes, making it appear she had crow’s-feet. Blotting more powder near Alissa’s eyes, Eudora said, “There. Look at yourself and tell me what you see.”
Alissa turned and stared into the mirror. “I look almost a dozen years older.”
“Good. Miss Pembroke was thirty, if she was a day. What else do you see?”
“A very frail woman who has been recently ill.”
“Excellent. Mr. Braxton’s earlier message said he hoped she was well enough to travel. I assume Miss Pembroke informed him of her chill. I posted several letters to Scotland over the past few weeks, but nothing since she took her terrible turn. The poor woman lived here only a month. Odd how very fragile life is. Why, Mr. Binnington—” She cleared her throat. “Well, now, I believe you’re ready. Take this case with you,” she said as she replaced the powder mixtures, rabbit’s foot, and sponge inside. “Use them every day, but be careful in bright sunlight, though I sincerely doubt the northern climes have much. There’s enough here to last quite a while. I’ll send another batch on to you when you need it.”
Eudora scribbled down Mr. Braxton’s address on a scrap of paper, then quickly moved to Agatha Pembroke’s luggage. Opening
each bag, she searched for an empty space within and packed the makeup case away. Then, using the cover of her skirt, she secretly slipped a sealed note from her pocket. Her hand dipped into the suitcase, whereupon Eudora hastily tucked the note beneath the folds of a worn nightdress. She straightened, her gaze centering itself on the young actress.
Alissa was too busy viewing herself to notice her friend’s movements. “You’re an expert at makeup, Eudora. I can’t believe this is me!”
“Oh, go on with you,” Eudora said, moving to Alissa’s side. “You should know an actress never forgets how to apply her makeup. I’ve just learned a few new tricks playing with it over the years.” She smiled and winked, then grew serious again. “Now, here’s a small tin with some powder for quick touch-ups. Carry it in your purse.” She removed a copy of Rede’s The Road to the Stage from her vanity drawer. The manual was considered an actor’s bible for makeup. “Take this, too. I’ve jotted down my improvements on Rede’s methods in the margins. And here are some special creams I’ve concocted. They’ll keep your skin from rashing out.”
She took the lot to Agatha’s case and slipped them inside. “Let’s see, now,” she said, her mind rapidly running through a checklist as her forefinger tapped her top lip. “I packed half your undergarments, a couple of nightgowns, and several dresses. Your mother’s jewelry, too. The rest I’ll leave in your room should the constable ask to check it. That way, with your clothing here, he’ll think you’re still in London and you’ll be back for your things. It may delay him. At least, he’ll probably confine his search to the immediate area. By the time he discovers otherwise, you’ll be safely in Scotland. I’ll claim you owe me board money and insist on keeping your possessions as payment. They’ll be here … uh … when you return.” Eudora wisely caught the word if before she said it. “Quickly now, slip into these shoes. The ones you have on are totally out of character.”
Alissa looked at her feet, noting her soft kid slippers. Again, she felt uncomfortable, for, in actuality, she’d be walking in a dead woman’s shoes. An omen? she wondered, slipping on the serviceable high-topped boots, buttoning them.
“There, is this more like our Miss Pembroke?” she asked as she straightened and stood. Then she noticed Eudora folding her velvet cloak and the torn costume. Before she could voice her protest, Mrs. Binnington stuffed them into the valise, along with her kid slippers. “Can’t you throw that horrid thing away?” She took a step, intending to remove the costume herself, but her feet slid inside the shoes, and she almost fell onto her nose.
Fortunately, Eudora caught her. “Steady, dear. You don’t want to tumble down the stairs into Mr. Braxton’s arms when he arrives, do you?”
“Certainly not,” Alissa said with a demure sniff, trying to make light of her situation for the moment. “Miss Pembroke would never do such an unladylike thing.”
“Then you’d better do a few struts, back and forth, before he comes. When you’re settled in Scotland, see if there’s a shoemaker handy and have him fashion you a new pair in a smaller size.”
“I’ll do that.” As Alissa took several practice steps, her feet felt like they were swimming in a sea of thick leather. A few more steps, however, and she was certain she’d mastered her walk, but with the next one, she tripped again, then laughed. “I think crawling would be far safer.”
“You’ll overcome this minor problem. You’ve no choice.”
“The costume, I—”
“You’ll have to take it with you. If they find it, they’ll know you were here,” Eudora explained, apologetically, closing the cases. “I would burn it, but I’m afraid to chance it. It will take too long, and time is something we don’t have.” Then she asked, “Young Rhodes … is it possible he’s been found?”
Alissa had almost forgotten him—almost. She sank onto the satin bed cover. “I don’t know. I—I—”
Eudora came to Alissa’s side and sat next to her, placing a comforting arm around her slim shoulders. “Are you able to speak of it?”
Tears gathered along the cups of Alissa’s lower lids as she looked at Eudora. “It was ghastly. He … he was hiding in my dressing room. I tried to fight him off b-but he … he was far too strong.” She shuddered violently as she remembered how his hands had clutched at her, touched her where no man ever had. “I—I managed to escape him for a moment, but he blocked the door. I ran behind the dressing screen, and he came after me. The pressing iron was still in its stand from when I used it earlier. I grabbed it and swung with all my might. He sank like a rock. There was a horrible gash at his temple, blood poured everywhere. I was so frightened, I just grabbed my cloak and ran.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“Yes, Madame Vestris. She was checking on the players, hurrying them on- and offstage as she usually does. I must have looked a fright, for she asked if I was ill. I told her yes. I was completely surprised when she said I should leave immediately. She even said she’d hire a coach to take me home. Then she disappeared to find another actress for my part. I didn’t wait. I ran all the way here.”
Eudora was glad to hear Rhodes was behind the screen in Alissa’s private dressing room—the first one the poor child had ever had, too, granted for her very first lead in one of Shakespeare’s comedies, A Midsummer Night’s Dream. If anyone came in, they wouldn’t notice him immediately. And she was equally surprised to hear of Madame Vestris’s sudden change of character. The woman usually brooked no excuses; she’d little use for an actor who claimed he or she was ill.
“I suppose she didn’t want you fainting onstage,” Eudora said. “Madame has always been a hard taskmaster, even more so since she and young Charles Mathews have taken over management at Covent Garden. But enough of her.” She waved away their discussion of Lucia Elizabeth Vestris Mathews—Madame Vestris, as she still wished to be called—and her husband, Charles. “Did anyone on the street see you?”
Alissa thought of the man in the coach, then shook her head. “No, no one saw me.”
“Good.”
They both started as they heard a loud knock on the front entry.
Eudora glanced at the small timepiece on the night table by her bed. It was a quarter past ten. “Stay here until I call you,” she instructed. “No matter who’s at the door, remember, you’re Agatha Pembroke.”
“I’ll remember. But what of the others? They’ll know I’m not Agatha.”
“Fortunately for us, our other tenants are out for the evening. They don’t know of Miss Pembroke’s demise.”
“I’m so frightened. Not only for myself, but for you, too. What if they find out you’ve helped me?”
“My dear, you were far too young to see the great Eudora Wembly on stage, but if you had, there would be no question about my safety. This old mare can still outact any of the young fillies prancing the boards today.”
Alissa breathed a sigh of relief, realizing Eudora’s words rang true, then she hugged her. “Thank you for everything. It breaks my heart to leave you. I’ll write when I get to Scotland.”
“You had better. I’d never forgive you if you didn’t. Keep in touch as often as possible.” The knock sounded again, louder. Eudora released the young woman from her arms, then rose and went to the door. “Did Mr. Braxton mention whether or not he’s met our Miss Pembroke?”
“No.”
“Well, we’ll soon discover if he has.”
Eudora was out the door, and Alissa found she was unable to wait. Quickly she slipped on a pair of Agatha’s worn gloves and the woman’s oversize bonnet, tying the frayed ribbons under her chin, then draped Agatha’s coarse wool cloak over her shoulders.
Poor Miss Pembroke, Alissa thought. She certainly had no eye for fashion. But, at the moment, that was the least of Alissa’s worries. As she took one last glance in the mirror, she noticed the letters. Fetching them, she stuffed the lot into Agatha’s shabby purse and left the room. On light feet—as light as her new shoes would allow—she hurried to the head of the stairs.
“Ah, Miss Pembroke,” the deep baritone voice called up to her. “I’m delighted to see you are well.” Then the tall man turned to his driver. “Mr. Stanley, come help with Miss Pembroke’s bags.”
CHAPTER
Two
Alissa gazed down at the towering man as he moved gracefully to the bottom of the stairs. Dressed in black evening attire and draped by a black cape lined with red satin, he cut an excellent figure as his clothes molded themselves across his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His handsome face radiated a healthy hue, and she imagined he spent much time out of doors, unlike the pale gentlemen of the theater with whom she was acquainted.
He doffed his top hat, and bowed his head—thick with dark, rich hair—in formal greeting. “Miss Pembroke.” His deep-toned voice resonated up the stairwell. He straightened, and a smile cut across his magnetic features. “Jared Braxton, at your service.”
Alissa felt an odd twitter, similar to the soft brush of a butterfly’s wing. It was the same feeling she suffered moments before she went onstage. The man’s a devil, she thought as she viewed his self-confident mien. Dismissing his possible kinship to Lucifer, she composed herself and descended the stairs, puzzling over how the man in the coach and Agatha’s Mr. Braxton could be one and the same. But, more importantly, she wondered if he’d already met the late Miss Pembroke. From where he viewed her at the bottom of the stairs, he might have mistaken her for Agatha. But as she drew closer, he might realize she was an imposter.
Masque of Enchantment Page 2