Sam fluttered his hand, looked down his nose, and asked the waiter where a certain fish had been caught. He sounded exactly like Jeremy O'Connell. When the maitre D’ stammered that he did not know, Sam slowly closed the menu and said that the chef could choose their meal. Looking relieved, the maitre D’ bowed and walked away.
Elly put the napkin over her mouth to keep from laughing. “That was the most brilliantly funny thing I’ve ever seen. Why aren’t you on the stage?”
Delighted by her reaction, he laughed and relaxed back into Sam. “I’m a good mimic, that’s all. I could never think of anything original, and I’d be bored after the second performance. I have a good eye. It makes me a good investigator.” He sat back. “Did you see the DAILY MAIL, by the way?”
“No, why? Do you have an article in it?”
He nodded.
“What’s it about?
“It’s called, ‘A London Christmas Eve’.”
“…about Lady Richfield’s party?”
He nodded.
“Is it funny?”
“I think so, and sweet. You’ll like what I wrote about you.”
“You wrote about me?” Her eyes were like saucers.
“Who did I spend most of the evening with?”
She raised her eyes to heaven. “Oh, dear, and I acted like such a ninny.”
“You were a regular person in a mansion full of phonies. You were delightful.”
Throughout the meal, Sam plied her with questions about personalities and relationships at His Majesty’s. Unused to being treated as an adult, she was flattered by his serious attention. She surprised herself with the multitude of images she had in her mind. Dodging questions about her former life, an hour-and-a-half of delightful tastes flew by.
Back in a hansom, bouncing toward THE MAGISTRATE matinee, her full stomach was in pain from her corset stays. She was eager to ask Katherine about giving corsets up altogether.
When they neared the theatre, Elly became serious. “Sam, you’re famous, aren’t you?”
He looked surprised. “Does it matter?”
“Well, no. It’s just that, well, I don’t want to say something stupid, if someone asks me about you, and I know they will.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Among journalists, I’m well respected. Is that a good enough answer?”
She nodded.
“What else?”
Embarrassed, and sorry she had brought the subject up, she shrugged her shoulders.
He thought for a moment. “I’m not married.”
She blushed.
“…although I’ve been unofficially engaged for fifteen years.”
She stared at him.
“I’m twenty-eight, by the way.”
She swallowed.
“I proposed to my boss’s daughter when I was thirteen and she was twelve. I had a job after school, setting type at her father’s newspaper.” He put on a pained expression. “Rebecca.” Looking up, he put his hands together. “Dear God, please find Rebecca a husband, so she’ll forget about me.” He pretended to cry. “I’ve been praying for that for fourteen years. It hasn’t happened, yet. I love Rebecca, like a sister, and she’s been a great sister.” He looked back at Elly. Her mouth was shut tight and her eyes were like saucers. “What else?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“My father’s a police detective, and my mother was an actress, before she married my father.” He lowered his brows. “She gave up the wicked life to marry Officer Richard Smelling, New York Police Department; 6th Precinct; Canine Unit. Yes, Smelling is my real name.”
She giggled.
“My father’s a good man, loves dogs. Made guard dog trainers out of his three sons. My mother’s a saint for putting up with a house full of boys and dogs.” He looked at Elly, grimacing slightly. “How old are you?”
She mirrored his expression. “Eighteen.”
He flinched.
“Last Tuesday.”
He put his hands over his face. “Oh, God.”
“Is that bad?”
He twisted his mouth and looked up in exaggerated concentration. “There’s nothing we can do about it.” He yawned, "You know, I hadn’t seen Isabelle in two years. It was awfully nice of her to invite me to her party. I met her in New York, at the race track. Bill had two horses running.”
Elly looked up. “They took horses all the way to America?”
“He has good horses. They did all right.”
“Do you like horses?”
“I do, but I was there investigating a crime syndicate that had been fixing races. It was an ugly business. Two great horses were crippled, an owner stabbed, an ace jockey mysteriously broke his neck.” He rubbed his chest. “I still have a scar from a knife wound.”
“Somebody stabbed you?” He yawned again, so Elly continued, “Why?”
“Umm?”
“Why were you stabbed?”
“Oh, I learned the truth.”
“Were you badly hurt?”
He laughed. “I was bleeding like a pig. At the hospital, I refused to lie down. It made everybody crazy, but the moment was too precious. I had to get the story out. It was my story and I wasn’t going to let anyone else share the credit. I’d almost died for it and I wanted the glory. Rebecca arrived with a typewriter and convinced the doctors to let her stay in the room while they sewed me up. I dictated and she typed.” He smiled at the memory.
Elly had gone pale. “Rebecca sounds wonderful.”
“Oh, she is.”
“Did you get the glory?”
“Oh, yeah!” He put his head back and laughed. “Every major paper in the country wanted that story. Suddenly ‘The Man With The Nose For News’ was being read from-sea-to-sea. Telegrams poured in and I haven’t had a day’s worry since. It seems I can do no wrong. I cable something to my New York agent about three-times-a-week and he always finds a buyer. Most of what I write is good -- some of it is fluff.”
“Do you write every day?”
“Nearly. I’ll never forget the first time I saw Isabelle.” His eyes looked slightly out of focus as he stared happily into space. “She was wondrous.” He sat back and pushed the hair off his face.
Elly looked into his dark-blue eyes and giggled. “You look like you’re in love.”
“I am.” He shook his head and his hair fell back. “It was love at first sight. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful. I’d never seen a woman with that kind of class. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve known every kind of woman.” He was silent for a moment, focusing the memory. “Ever been to a race track?”
She shook her head.
“Well, in America, the horses run in a great big circle, and the spectators watch from bleachers.” Seeing Elly’s blank expression, he thought of how to explain. “It’s kind of like steep theatre stalls, only a lot bigger.” Elly nodded, and he continued. “Isabelle was sitting in the owners’ section, with a lot of other people. It was a windy day, and things were blowing all over the place. Peoples’ hats flew off, papers scattered, but the wind didn’t touch her. She was perfectly still.
“The other women were dressed in loud colours and flashy clothes. She wore the simplest, most elegant suit I’d ever seen on a woman. It was almost the same colour as her hair, only a darker reddish-brown. She wore almost no jewellery, and no makeup that I could see. But those blue eyes… People spoke to her. She smiled, answering politely. She was pleasant to everyone, but even from a distance I could see she was keeping her comments short, and constantly deferring to her husband. Bill was strutting around, bragging about his stable, and how much better everything was in England. He would have been obnoxious if he weren't so charming. He made everyone laugh.
“I was posing as a runner, the lowest-of-the-low, carrying bets to the bookies, and it was a particular bookie I was after. I looked awful. Ratty old suit, broken shoes, two day’s growth of beard. No one gave me a second look, except Isabelle. I was working undercover with a police detective who was
posing as an owner. I needed to pass him a message, so I snuck up to the owners’ section, stashed my note in the arranged place, and was about to leave, when I happened to see her drop her guard, just for a second.
“Her eyelids closed like moons eclipsing bright blue suns. The moons lifted and she looked up, directly into my eyes. Realizing I had caught her, she smiled at me like a conspirator, then turned her head and went back to her role of dutiful wife. Later, I asked who she was, and someone said, ‘English Bill’s wife.’”
Elly laughed.
Sheepishly embarrassed, Sam shrugged. “We’re crass Americans. What can I tell you? Over the next couple of weeks I saw her twice more, just in passing. I don’t know if she saw me. Then, when I was fresh out of the hospital, a politician’s wife was giving a gala birthday party for a foreign friend. My story had made me the hottest new thing in town, so I was invited. I didn’t want to go, but Rebecca found out about my invitation, swore she’d never get to go to ‘one of those parties,’ if I didn’t take her to this one. She cried, saying that I owed it to her for getting my story out, which of course I did, and she drove me nuts until I agreed.
“We got to the party, and the guest of honour was ‘English Bill’s wife,’ La-dy Is-a-belle Rich-field.” He almost sang the name. “The party was awful but Rebecca loved it, and the time I spent with Isabelle was wonderful. She recognized me at once. It was amazing.” He smiled at the memory. “My God, she was charming. She turned thirty that night. Soon she'll be thirty-three.”
When they reached the theatre, Sam and Elly entered through the wide front doors. Elly had never come in with the paying audience. It felt exciting. While passing the actors’ photographs, she stopped in front of a new one: a sweet faced young woman with long dark hair parted down the middle. The name, SANDRA LINFORD, was written underneath. Elly remembered Eugene speaking of, “the lovely Sandra.” It was her letters that Michael did not throw away.
Climbing the stairs to Eric Bates’s box, Elly heard Isabelle's mellow laugh, then saw her electric blue eyes flash at Simon Camden. He leaned on the rail and laughed back to her. When he saw Elly, his smile softened and his eyes ran down her slender body. He offered his hand to help her down the step. Good manners made Elly lightly touch his fingers. Her arms prickled with goose flesh as she gazed into his laughing blue-gray eyes.
“Isabelle, this child’s frightened to death of me. What shall I do to remedy it?”
“Come now, Simon, there are any number of things you can do, if you really want to. Hello Sam.” She offered Sam her hand. “Thank you a hundred times. You’ve made me the queen of London.”
“You were always the queen of London, Isabelle,” He bowed, kissed her hand, and pushed the hair away from his eyes. “Thank you for giving me such a juicy party to write about.” A copy of the DAILY MAIL lay open on a seat and Elly sat down to read it. Below the title, “A London Christmas Eve,” was a cartoon of a nose and the words, “by Sam Smell, ‘The Man With The Nose For News’.”
True to his word, it was very funny and sweet. It was like seeing the whole party over again. He managed to poke fun at everyone without being unkind to anyone. The only person he ridiculed was himself, presenting an American bumpkin among upper crust British society. About Elly, he wrote, “…I had often heard the phrase, ‘English rose’, but had never actually met one until the lovely Elly Fielding suffered my goat-like attempt at the waltz. Her charm and good humour kept the goat from becoming an ass. I trust her poor toes have healed from the bruising my hoofs inflicted.”
She finished the article, then glanced at the other side of the paper. Her heart skipped a beat. Among the art gallery notices:
Premier Exhibition:
ROBERT DENNISON
Oils and Pastels
Gildstein Gallery
January 5th - 10th
Isabelle watched her read the notice. “That’s very nice for your friend.”
Short of breath, Elly tried to smile. “Yes, it’s wonderful.”
Sam saw the colour drain from Elly’s face. He picked up the paper. “This fellow’s a friend of yours?”
“Yes. He’s an awfully good painter.”
“Any paintings of you?”
“Yes!” She sat up excited. “He says it’s his best piece…” her smile vanished.
Isabelle said, “Elly dear, come to tea tomorrow. We’ll talk then.”
The house lights began to dim and everyone found chairs.
Isabelle looked toward the stairs. “I wonder what happened to Rory? He was going to check in backstage, then join us.”
Just before the house went to black, the center curtain parted and Eddy Edwards stepped out, wearing a suit. He looked up nervously and cleared his throat. In a nasal voice he called, “In this afternoon’s performance, the role of ‘Cis Farringdon’ will be played by Rory Cook. Thank You.” He nodded awkwardly and disappeared behind the curtain.
Isabelle almost screamed with excitement.
Simon put his arm around Isabelle, whispering into her ear, “What makes you so interested in this young chap?”
She whispered back, “He’s the girl’s friend, and I - like - him!”
He chuckled. “My dear Mrs. Richfield, you’re soooo naughty.” As the house went to black, he kissed the back of her neck.
Chapter Nine
January 5, 1904
Two hours before the first rehearsal for THE TEMPEST, Elly was kidnapped. Back at the boardinghouse, Lester had knocked on Elly’s door, calling. "Breakfast time, Forrest Nymph." When there was no answer, he tried her door. It was unlocked. Inside, her bed was freshly made. He knew painter Robert Dennison was in town, and guessed Elly had spent the night with him. Rory was ferociously jealous of this man he had never met, so Lester didn't mentioned Elly’s absence.
After breakfast, Rory, Lester, and Todd walked to the theatre, joining other actors in the rehearsal hall. Donald Moran called, “Come on you lot, get your scripts.”
The actors took their scripts, nervously joking to relieve tension. Ross Hamlin, playing the monster Caliban, took stage. He was short and stocky, with a long nose. Shaggy hair fell around his face, making him look like a sheep dog. He was quickly surrounded by other actors, laughing hysterically as he acted out a funny story. When Sandra smiled at him, he raised his hands like paws and panted.
The trill of Katherine’s laugh brought him to his feet. “Ross, you’re terrible. I thought Simon was bad.”
Ross put his hands over his heart. “Kathy, comparing me to Simon, even as a lecher, is praise indeed.” He raced to kiss her and saw Jeremy O’Connell walk through the door. “Look out lads, schoolmaster’s here.”
Jeremy stopped, turned very slowly, and spoke with exaggerated dignity. “It is always rewarding when a prodigal actor returns from the intellectual rigors of the Pantomime.”
Everyone laughed as the men embraced. Sandra Lindford sped toward Jeremy, throwing her arms around his neck. “Thank you for Miranda, thank you, thank you.”
Jeremy hugged her back, looked down at her beautiful heart-shaped face, silky dark hair, and sparkling dark eyes. His casting was excellent. She was a talented actress and looked like she could be his daughter.
“No thanks needed, m’ dear. You’ll be lovely.” Chuckling, he added, “Or if you must thank someone, thank Katie for refusing the role.” He glanced at Katherine, softly laughing as she arranged papers on the long director’s table.
Stage-manager Eddy Edwards called out, “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats.”
Jeremy sat behind the long table. His new assistant, Katherine Stewart, sat on his left and Eddy Edwards on his right. He felt strange having Katherine next to him, and guessed it felt even stranger for her. This was the first production in a lifetime of theatre work, when Katherine’s responsibilities would be entirely off-stage.
The cast of actors: twenty-two men, one boy, and two women sat in a semicircle facing the table. Nine-year-old Evan grinned like a Cheshire cat. He h
ad finally convinced Jeremy to let him play a cabin boy.
There should have been three women. Jeremy scowled. “Where is Elly Fielding?”
Before he could fly into a rage, Katherine grabbed his arm. “She has no lines, Jerry. Whatever she needs to learn, she will learn quickly. Please, your actors are all here.”
He sighed, then smiled in spite of himself. Katherine’s diamond ring still nestled in his breast pocket. Like a burning ember, it seemed to blast heat through his chest. He longed to have the thing out in the open and imagined forcing it onto her finger in front of the entire company. He also imagined her rejecting it in front of the entire company. The ring stayed hidden.
Taking his time, Jeremy explained his concept for the production, and specific qualities he needed from each of the principal actors. “I would be a fool not to make use of the striking resemblance between Mr. Burns and Miss Fielding. While her nymph will mostly be Prospero’s reflection and conscience, with the cunning aid of wardrobe, I will weave some magic making the audience see double.”
Michael Burns pursed his lips. “I assume she will be the Water Nymph?”
“Precisely.”
Michael glared at his script and Jeremy wondered why. The water nymph had no lines.
Jeremy finished his instructions and looked over his troop of immensely talented actors. He felt proud and fearful: proud they were working for him, and fearful he might not be able to control them. Every actor had a strong personality, wonderful imagination, and the ability to create an exciting character without his aid. He expected some actors to discover better character choices than he had imagined. The first read-through would show whose ideas mirrored his, and whose did not. Before this afternoon’s second read-through, any major differences must be resolved.
Truth and Beauty (His Majesty's Theatre Book 3) Page 6