“Please come in, sir – if you can stand it. The chimney pipe seems to be intact. I’ll just try to light the stove.” He found an old newspaper and crumpled several sheets, stuffed them into the stove, then covered the paper with coals from a nearby bucket. He lit the paper, waited until the coals caught fire, then secured the iron door. Warmth started to cheer the smoke blackened room, but the old women seemed unaware there was a change.
Not knowing what to say to them, he forced a smile. “Well, good bye then, Miss Roche, Mrs. Roche. Good luck.” He guessed they would both be dead within the week. Eager to leave, he turned back to Sir William. “Thank you, sir. There’s nothing here. You were kind to bring me. We can go.” His voice caught and he coughed to cover his embarrassment.
Sir William watched the old women. “Isabelle’s a champion of social causes. I’m sure she knows someone who can help those two. Would they take assistance, or are they too proud?”
Rory remembered Miss Roche insulting him again and again. “In the past I would have said…” He shook his head. “I don’t know.” He started out the door.
“Wasn’t there something you wanted?”
“It’s nothing of value, but… yes, there is something.”
He moved to the foot of the stairs, lit a candle stub, and carefully examined the broken steps. Picking his way gingerly, stair by stair, minding the broken boards, he climbed to his second-story room. The walls were charred and wet, both from rain and the fire brigade’s hoses. The bed was partially collapsed. He crouched down, careful not to soil his trousers, and cautiously reached underneath. His hand searched through a pile of wet rubble before pulling out a soaking, battered leather schoolbag. He walked back to the top of the stairs and stopped, planning his descent. Coming down was trickier than going up. His feet slipped on the wet boards and a charred step broke under his weight.
Sir William stood at the foot of the stairs, hands extended, ready to catch Rory if he slipped and fell. Once Rory was safely down, Sir William looked curiously at the schoolbag. “That’s it, then?”
“Yes, sir.” Almost overcome with emotion, he swallowed. “This is my only worldly possession. Before Christmas, I had one decent, borrowed suit.” He smiled ironically. “Now, thanks to you, I have three. One is on my back and the others are at your house. You’ve been very kind to Elly and me. We owe you a great deal.”
Sir William put his hand on Rory’s shoulder. “Not at all, my boy.” This slight kindness was almost more than Rory could bear. Seeing that the young man was about to cry, Sir William briskly removed his hand. “Let’s be off then. Shall we?”
“Yes, sir.” Rory ran out the door, clutching his schoolbag. The two men were silent on the short drive back to Hamilton Place.
Warm and safe, inside the mansion, a servant took their wet coats. Frantic with worry, Elly raced out to meet them. “Rory! Was anyone there? What was it like? Do Lester and Todd know about…?”
Sir William caught her arm, leading her upstairs. “My dear girl, that place is a nightmare.” He gestured for Isabelle to look after Rory.
Still clutching his schoolbag, Rory gritted his teeth to stay composed. He waited until Elly and Sir William were upstairs and out of hearing, then carefully set down the bag. Too emotionally charged to speak above a whisper, he clenched his fists.
“Thank goodness Sir William can answer Elly’s questions. I couldn’t bear that just now.” He stared at the floor. “Oh, Isabelle, it was horrible. Everything was black and ruined. Those old women…” He shook his head. “They were cruel and nasty and mean and I hated them, but I never wished them harm. Now, Mrs. Potter’s dead. The others are worse than dead. If they go to a poorhouse, they’ll starve.”
Isabelle’s face was full of concern. She longed to comfort him, but knowing he could not accept tenderness without breaking down, she stayed where she was.
Frantic to keep control, he turned away from her caring eyes. “I fancied Peg, once. Then I hated her. Now she’ll hang. Everything that I… everyone I touch… something bad happens to them.”
Isabelle moved towards him. “That’s nonsense. You…”
He held up a hand. “You’d better stay clear of me. I’m bad luck for everyone.”
“Stop – talking – nonsense! Stop it at once.”
His body throbbed, as he tried controlling his emotions. “It’s my fault Peg attacked Elly. Mrs. Potter might still be alive if I’d…”
“Do you suddenly have a crystal ball that foretells the future?”
“Of course not, But if…”
She clutched his shoulders. “Rory, listen to me.”
Squeezing his eyes shut, he forced back tears.
“Are you listening?”
He nodded.
“You – have – done – nothing – wrong.”
He shook his head.
“Nothing!”
“But… if I’d stayed at Oxford, none of this would have happened. I broke my mother’s heart when I left. We were very close.”
“None of this is your fault. Isn’t it just possible that you’ve done some good along the way? What would have happened to Elly if you hadn’t been here for her?”
He shook his head, then grabbed Isabelle. She held him tight, forcing back her own tears, stroking his wet hair, and sighing with relief when his heart began to slow. His breathing became more regular. Muscle by muscle, he relaxed in her arms. Finally, emotionally drained, he stood back, breathing deeply.
“I’m a shambles. I’m so sorry.” He took a handkerchief from his back pocket, wiped his eyes and blew his nose. He put the handkerchief away and looked into her startling blue eyes. “My God, what a Christmas.” They laughed, uneasily. He looked up the stairs. “You don’t mind if we stay another night? I thought you’d want us gone… Me gone, at least.”
“Bill had his doubts about you. He’s come around.”
“Elly’s all right?”
“She’s fine. Bill’s a good father.”
Rory sighed. “I imagine you’ll be spending tonight with him.”
“Oh yes.” She smiled. “He’s more than earned it.”
“He’s very kind.”
“He’s wonderful. And, your young lady will be waiting for you.”
Very lightly, he ran the side of his hand down her cheek.
She stepped away, smiling warily. “Another time, sweet boy.”
He carefully picked up his soaking, battered schoolbag and glanced at the elegance of his surroundings. Unable to deal with the incongruity, he shook his head, hurried across the parquet floor and bounded up the stairs, two at a time.
Isabelle watched him go, smiled to herself, walked gracefully across the foyer and upstairs to her husband’s room.
Chapter Seven
December 26, 1903
The next day, Rory Cook sat on the edge of a dark, red-leather chair in Sir William Richfield’s study. A shaft of bright sunlight reflected off a huge polished-mahogany desk. Book shelves lined one wall, while dark-walnut panelling covered another.
Rory leaned over a triangular corner table, holding a telephone-earpiece in one hand and its candlestick shaped body in the other. “Mr. Collins, good morning, sir, this is Rory Cook. I… Yes sir, it was trag… Yes, sir.” Still listening, he put his hand over the mouthpiece and glanced at Elly Fielding, standing eagerly beside him.
He grabbed a pencil off the desk and leaned over a notepad, writing information dictated by the bursar at His Majesty’s Theatre. “Yes, Mr. Collins, Darry House… 12 Morris Street, between Haymarket and Market Streets…” He smiled up at Elly. “Yes, sir, I know the street. It’s a continuation of Panton, going south west, on the other side of Haymarket. It’s very near the theatre…”
He wrote some more. “Jack and Mabel Hogan… Sorry, sir? Once again, please?" He looked worried. “I’m not registered there? But, Mr. Collins, I am an apprentice. We were all living at Mrs. Potter’s…” He was quiet, listening for a moment. Suddenly a smile flashed across his f
ace. “Yes, sir! With two-pounds-a-week, I can most certainly pay for my own lodging. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’ll be by later. Good bye, then.”
Rory put the earpiece back into the curved-wire-holder mounted on the side of the telephone. He sat still, grinning at Elly. Knowing what he was going to say, she waited, smiling in anticipation. He chuckled to himself, then held out his hands. “I’m an actor. A real actor, on a real salary. Finally!” They threw their arms around each other, laughing and hopping in a clumsy dance. “We’ll just tell Lord and Lady Richfield. Then we’ll go.”
*
The bursar handed Rory eight crowns. “You’re on your own now, Mr. Cook. Two pounds a week won’t be keepin’ y’ well off. There’s a decent boardin’ house by Millar’s Pub, or y’ might try Darry House, where the apprentices are goin’.”
“Thanks, Mr. O’Rourke.” Rory studied the silver coins in his hand. “Two pounds in my pocket and I feel like a rich man.”
O’Rourke looked over his spectacles. “Yer fer real, now, laddie. Yer an actor. Well dun. Congratulations!”
“Thank you, sir!” Rory shook the old man’s hand, turned and threw his arms around Elly. “My God, I’m an actor, a real actor!”
She beamed. “You always were. Everyone knew it but you.”
He looked into her shining eyes. “Come on, let’s take a look at your new home.” The two young people skipped out, into the cold sunshine.
Darry House was four streets from the theatre, on the way to Jeremy’s flat. It had a bright red brick face, clean windows with white lace curtains, a scrubbed stoop, and a legible sign out front.
DARRY HOUSE
Mr. and Mrs. Hogan, Proprietors
Elly squeezed Rory’s hand. “This looks too good to be true.”
He rang the bell and laughed. “Even the bell works.”
The door opened, and a portly, middle-aged gentleman smiled brightly. His suit was clean but slightly frayed. “More actors? Come in, come in!”
Rory stepped back, letting Elly walk ahead. The man clipped a pair of pince-nez on the bridge of his nose and read from a paper on a desk near the door. “Hmm, are you Margaret O'Malley or Elly Fielding?” Rory and Elly burst out laughing. The man looked over his glasses. “Didn’t know I was a comedian.”
Rory said, “I’m sorry, sir. You’ll understand the joke once you meet Meg, um, Miss O'Malley.”
“Righty-o,” he looked at Elly. “So you must be Elly Fielding.”
“Yes, sir.” Suddenly shy, she coloured slightly and curtsied. She glanced up and caught the man’s eye. A silly smile came over his face and his eyes seemed to glaze over. Rory noted Hogan’s reaction, bit his cheek and studied the wallpaper. It was a cheerful blue and white.
“You must be Peter Sterling.” They burst out laughing again, and the man shrugged his shoulders. “I only have the names of three gentlemen, and the other two are already here. Is Sterling coming? I got word this morning that he wasn’t.”
Rory said, “I couldn’t say, sir. We haven’t seen Peter since before the holiday.”
“Who are you, then?”
“Rory Cook, sir. I’m an actor.”
“Well, do you want his room, then? I’m damned put out,” he looked at Elly. “Pardon my language, Miss, but I turned a shop assistant away this morning, thinking all my rooms were let. I’m Jack Hogan, but I assume you gathered that.”
“Yes, sir -- but wait a moment. You said, ‘his room’, sir. Is each one to have his own room?”
Hogan put two fingers on the bridge of his nose, removing his pince-nez. “Of course, what do you think I’m running here, a brothel?”
Rory sputtered a laugh. “No, Mr. Hogan, certainly not.”
Hogan raised one bushy eyebrow, a restrained smile on his generous lips.
“…but you see, sir, I’m a poor actor, and have to pay from my measly salary…”
“How much are they paying you, then?”
Rory hesitated.
“I’m in the mood to be generous, boy-o, take advantage of it.”
“Two pounds a week, sir.”
“All right, I’ll give you room and two meals a day for a pound a week, and my wife’s a good cook.” He waved a finger. “No one goes hungry at Jack Hogan’s house!”
Rory whispered to Elly. “That’ll be different.”
Hogan continued. “Y’ bring down your bed linen first Saturday of the month, pick up the clean that afternoon, and make the beds yourselves. All right?”
Elly’s eyes were wide, begging Rory to accept.
“That’ll be fine, sir. Thank you.”
“All right, Rory - Cook…” he wrote down the name. “…and Elly Fielding. Welcome home.” Hogan extended his large warm hand and both accepted it gratefully. “Mabel’s at the shops, you’ll meet her later.” He picked up two keys from behind the desk and handed one to Elly. Changing his mind, he took it back and gave it to Rory. “This room’s on the second floor, next to Mabel’s and mine. I was young once. I don’t want you doing what I did… in my house.” He winked at Rory, who coloured slightly. “Young lady, you’ll be on the third floor.” Hogan gave Elly the other key. “Come along, I’ll show you ‘round.”
The house was simply decorated and spotlessly clean. A long hall led straight into a large dining room. To the right was a cozy drawing room and to the left, the kitchen. A fire crackled in every room, sending delicious warmth in all directions. Upstairs, the bedrooms were tiny, but neat and clean.
Rory was hungry but Elly was too excited to think about food. Last evening she had received the most extraordinary letter of her life. After Sir William and Rory returned from Potter’s, a messenger had arrived with a letter and a script for THE MAGISTRATE. Smyth had found her with Lord Richfield. Elly had looked dumbly at the envelope until his prodding made her open it. She read aloud,
Dear Miss Fielding,
I trust you have had a pleasant holiday. I enjoyed our conversation last evening and our dance.
You may have heard that Peg is no longer associated with His Majesty’s Theatre. Her role in MACBETH has been covered from within the company. You will now cover, Beatie, in THE MAGISTRATE. While you may never go on, you should be prepared to do so as soon as possible. I am going to coach you myself.
I know you have seen the play. Please read it, all of it, not just your part. Do nothing else before we meet, NOTHING. Do not attempt to act it out, or even read it aloud.
We will work tomorrow at 3:00 in the rehearsal hall.
My regards to Lord and Lady Richfield, and my thanks to them for a delightful Christmas eve.
J. O’Connell
Elly’s mouth fell open, and Sir William smiled. "That's good news I believe."
She smiled back. "Yes, sir, it is."
“Capitol, go to it.”
Elly carefully placed the letter between the pages of her script. She clutched it to her heart and ran up to her room. She read the play twice through, falling asleep with it in her lap.
It was afternoon by the time Rory and Elly moved their clothes into Darry House. A clock softly chimed one o'clock: an agonizing two hours until her coaching at 3:00. She looked around her new room. It was so small the door opened within inches of a narrow bed with a cherry red spread. A gaslight hung on the wall above her pillow. A wardrobe stood across from the bed, a small desk and chair sat by the window, and a mirror hung on the wall. She looked out the cherry red window curtain onto the tree lined street below. A candlestick sat on the desk, a pitcher and basin underneath. There was no stove, but the room was warm, thanks to a warm brick wall that she guessed housed one of the chimneys.
She stood in front of the wardrobe and opened the double doors. They pulled out about four inches and were up against her face. It was impossible to pass between the bed and the open doors. She closed the doors, stepped to one side, and opened one door at a time. Now, she could hang her frocks on one side, then fold her gloves and linen into drawers on the other side.
There
was a knock on the door. She called, “Come in!” and Lester’s friendly face appeared.
He looked at her room. “This is exactly like mine.”
“Really? Let me see.” She followed him to the room next door. It was a perfect copy.
He chuckled. “Must have been a special on red linen.”
“Isn’t this place wonderful.” They sat on his bed. “If only it hadn’t happened the way it did.”
Lester shook his head. “That woman was horrible, but no one deserves to die like that. Peg’s in big trouble this time.”
“I hope they don’t find her.”
“Why? I think you, more than anyone, would want her safely put away.”
Elly bit her lip. "She was kind to me once. Where’s Todd’s room, and Meg’s?”
“They’re both upstairs. Is Rory staying here? I know he’s on salary, lucky bugger.” He flinched. “Sorry, bad word.”
Elly smiled sadly. “You’ve been here longer than he has. You should have been put on salary first.”
Lester shrugged it off, but she could tell he was hurt.
“Rory’s room is downstairs.”
“Good, I’m glad he’s here.” Lester’s smile was genuine.
“Mr. Hogan didn’t want him upstairs.”
“Why?”
She coloured slightly. “He told Rory, ‘I was young once, and I don’t want you doing what I did, in my house’.”
Lester’s eyes went wide, then closed as he started to laugh. “Oh, God, did he really say that?” He continued chuckling, then abruptly stopped and shook his head. “Hogan trusts me. What a bore.” He looked adoringly at Elly. “Character men are always the last. Last to get salaried, last to get loved.”
"Ooh!" She leaned over and gave him a hug.
*
The clock struck 2:30 as Elly and Rory arrived at the rehearsal hall. “It’s awfully early.” Rory looked around. “Are you sure you want to sit here for half-an-hour?”
Truth and Beauty (His Majesty's Theatre Book 3) Page 4