Tell Me Pretty Maiden

by Rhys Bowen

  Blanche leaned over and planted a kiss on her cheek. “I’ll be forever in your debt, Eva dearest. Stay with her, Molly, and let her take your measurements, then come down to the stage when you hear the bell.”

  I nodded, noticing that she had called me Molly. I had thought we had decided on an alias, but I suppose nobody was likely to recognize me, especially under the black wig, glasses, and ugly dress. But I couldn’t say anything in front of Madame Eva.

  “So what do you want me to wear tonight?” I asked before Blanche could disappear.

  Blanche glanced at Eva. “You couldn’t find her a plain skirt and shirtwaist?”

  Eva shook her head. “I’m not running a department store here. I don’t keep clothing on spec.”

  “Then it will have to be your own clothes, Molly. I must dash.” And she was gone. Eva took my measurements, tut-tutting in horror that I wasn’t wearing a corset and had such a large waist.

  “What man you think you get with a waist like that?” she demanded. “You should see Miss Lovejoy’s waist. A man can encircle her waist with his hands, even at her age.”

  A distant bell summoned us to the stage. I heard the sound of feet tramping from all over the theater and joined the growing crowd as we hurried down the stairs. I got more than one inquisitive stare as we made our way to the stage. Most of the cast took up positions sitting cross-legged on the floor while Blanche and the men I had seen in the stalls the day before sat on the sofa and chairs that were part of the set. I slid to the floor at the back of the crowd.

  The director, Mr. Barker, the one she had called Robert, gave a speech about all their hard work coming to fruition. The choreographer, Desmond Haynes, the slim dark-haired man who had been watching Blanche’s dressing room when I came out, gave his own speech, mainly directed to the dancers, about the importance of the straight line and the pattern. A distinguished-looking white-haired man, who turned out to be the conductor, talked about tempo and signals and watching him and not rushing the cancan number. There were more instructions, some questions, and then Blanche gave a pretty speech about how she was counting on every single one of us not to let her down.

  As they spoke I studied them in turn: round little Robert Barker with his worried frown, supercilious Desmond Haynes, the various actors and actresses and chorus girls. And there was the backstage crew, lurking in the wings. Did one of them have a secret grudge against Blanche Lovejoy? How was I ever going to find out?

  Blanche got to her feet. “All right, everybody. Overture and beginners down here at six forty-five. Oh, and before you go, I have one small addition to our happy family. Molly dear, would you stand up?” I stood, feeling all those eyes upon me. “This young lady is the cousin of none other than Oona Sheehan, so of course I had to find her a small part in our play.”

  “I hope you’re not thinking of making her an extra maid and taking away more of my lines,” the older actress who played the maid said peevishly.

  “Of course not, darling. Wouldn’t dream of it,” Blanche said. “Molly will be an extra pupil in my school.”

  “But we’ve got all the chorus numbers worked out perfectly,” one of the girls complained. “We don’t have time to relearn anything now.”

  “Molly will not be part of the chorus. She will be the studious girl who never joins in. Onstage but not part of the action. Now this is all new to her so you must help her. Right, off you go.”

  The stage cleared in seconds. I ran to catch up with Blanche. “Where should I go?” I asked.

  She considered this. “Probably best if you change with the girls in their dressing room. It would create resentment if I had you get dressed with me. Up the staircase and to the end of the hall.”

  She ran ahead of me. I was following, picking my way past props and scenery, when my arm was grabbed roughly. Desmond Haynes was glaring down at me. “You listen to me, girl,” he said. “This is a stupid idea of Blanche’s. She always was too softhearted. The theater is no place for amateurs and I take it you are a rank amateur?”

  I could only nod.

  “I have worked these girls until their routines are perfect,” he said. “Do anything to spoil what I have created and I’ll have you out of here so fast your feet won’t touch the ground. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  As I climbed the stairs to the dressing room my heart was hammering. I couldn’t help wondering if Mr. Haynes was looking for an excuse to get rid of me as quickly as possible. I also wondered whether this was only because of artistic sensibilities or because he sensed my presence as a threat.

  THIRTEEN

  I tapped on the door to the girls’ dressing room, but they must have been making quite a racket in there because nobody answered. So I turned the knob and went in. This room wasn’t at all cozy like Blanche’s dressing room. It was long and narrow, with a mirror and wooden ledge down one wall, hooks for clothing on the other, and a few stools. And it was crammed with half-dressed females. I must say I felt a little like Daniel of the Bible story entering the lion’s den. Twelve pairs of cold eyes stared at me.

  “Hello,” I said. “I was told to come in here and get ready.”

  “Move over, Connie,” a voice said. “Better give up your space to Miss Important here. Mustn’t upset the boss’s new favorite.”

  “Look,” I said hastily, “this wasn’t my idea. I didn’t beg for this chance or anything. Oona and Blanche cooked it up between them. I feel very awkward about the whole thing.”

  “So you should,” the tall girl I had met the day before said. “Do you know how many actresses are out of work in this city? Actresses and dancers who have studied hard, worked hard, and are dying to get just one chance at success? Now along you come with no audition, nothing. And I’ll bet no experience either, right?”

  “Not much,” I said. “I was in a couple of plays in Ireland.” I could say this without lying because I had been an angel in the nativity play at church and once we’d put on a production of Dick Whittington and His Cat when I took lessons with the girls at the manor house. I was the cat, naturally.

  “Okay. Put your stuff down wherever you can find a space,” the tall girl said. “I’m Lily, by the way.”

  “Molly. Pleased to meet you,” I said.

  “You’d better get a move on. Where’s your costume?”

  “I don’t have one yet. I have to wear my street clothes tonight.”

  I saw the looks and giggles and nudges. I was obviously going to be an object of entertainment for them.

  “Then you’d better get on with your hair and makeup,” Lily said. “Or are you planning to leave them the way they are?”

  “Oh no. There’s a wig coming for me tomorrow, but I suppose tonight I should put my hair into pigtails, because that’s what Blanche wants.”

  “It’s Blanche, notice, girls.” Lily jabbed the next girl in the side. “On first-name terms with the star. Well, let me give you a word of warning, kid. Miss Lovejoy is a stickler for correctness. You’d better not call her Blanche in public or you’ll be sorry.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” I said. I took a brush out of my purse and started to attack my tangle of curls. My hair is a disaster at the best of times and today I had run against a fierce wind. It took awhile to comb out the knots and force my hair into two pigtails. Then, of course, I had no ribbons to secure them. By asking around I managed to scrounge two unmatching scraps of ribbon.

  By now the girls were all in white tennis outfits, which were daringly sleeveless, with skirts above the ankle. I watched in fascination as they sat on stools, tying their ballet slippers and applying their makeup. They had boxes full of sticks of various colors and they were applying these to their faces in grotesque amounts. The girl next to me must have caught me staring.

  “Where’s your makeup?” she asked.

  “I don’t have any,” I said.

  “You’ll need your own makeup. The girls don’t like to share,” she said. “But I sup
pose I can help you out just this once. Help yourself.”

  I looked at the long array of the greasy sticks.

  “I’m afraid I’ve never put on my own makeup,” I whispered. “Can you give me a little hint?”

  “You’re supposed to be a bluestocking, didn’t she say? Then you’d look pale. Not like us. We have to look healthy. So you’ll get by with a base of number five. A touch of rouge on the cheeks and of course carmine two on the lips. When you’re done, I’ll show you how to do the eyes.”

  I did as I had observed and soon my face stared back at me, quite brown and countrified.

  “I thought I was supposed to be pale,” I said.

  “The lights are terrible at making us look washed out,” she said. “That’s why we need extra color to start with. Now do your lips and here.” She reached across with some rouge on her finger and gave me a generous red circle on both cheeks. Then she insisted on painting a black line along my eyelids and out at the sides of my eyes. By the time she was done I looked like a doll. But then so did everybody else.

  “So what’s this I’ve been hearing about a ghost?” I whispered as the girl dabbed a final coating of powder onto my face. “Is it true that the theater is haunted?”

  She laughed nervously. “Well, none of us has actually seen the ghost, but we did see that table tip over and the candle almost catch Miss Lovejoy’s skirt on fire. And we were backstage, waiting in the wings to go on, when that scenery fell. And I can tell you there was nobody near it when I looked. So it’s definitely odd. And it’s always Miss Lovejoy.”

  “You don’t think anybody could be trying to frighten her, do you?” I asked.

  She looked surprised. “As a joke, you mean?”

  “More serious than a joke. To make her leave the play, maybe?”

  “Who would want to do that? Miss Lovejoy doesn’t allow outsiders during rehearsals and all of us just jumped at the chance to be in a play at the Casino.”

  “Has Miss Lovejoy any enemies that you know of?”

  The girl laughed. “Plenty, I expect. When you’ve been as famous as she has, I expect she’s trodden on toes and offended heaps of people. But everyone here wants this play to be a hit, especially Miss Lovejoy. She hasn’t had a hit in years and she’s turning forty soon. So if she decides to call it quits, we’re all in trouble.”

  At that very second there was a loud rap on the door that made me jump. Then the callboy’s voice, “Overture and beginners in fifteen minutes.”

  The girl got up from her stool. “That’s us,” she said. “Come along. I’m Elise, by the way, and I know you’re Molly.”

  I smiled. “Thanks for your help, Elise.”

  The girls were crowding toward the door, pausing for one last glance in the mirror, patting at their hair and smoothing their dresses. I could feel the tension had mounted, as if this was a real performance and not just a dress rehearsal. And suddenly I picked up that tension. I was about to go onstage, with only the faintest idea of what I should be doing. My stomach twisted itself into knots. Why did I get myself into these crazy situations, I wondered. Why couldn’t I find a nice normal job, in a bookstore or a ladies’ tea room—even as a governess. Anywhere safe and ordinary and away from danger.

  I didn’t have time for any more thoughts because I was swept downstairs with the tide of people, as the leading actors mingled with us schoolgirls. There was complete silence and our feet on the iron treads echoed through that lofty backstage area like the sound of an invading army. I followed the girls around to the far side of the stage and stood at the back of the line as they waited to go on. It was chilly back there, and drafty, too, with wafts of cold air swirling around my legs. I could see why so many of the actors wore woolen wraps. As we waited I had time to examine my surroundings. The backstage area was cavernous. I couldn’t even see the ceiling, but looking up I could pick out various walkways and ropes and pulleys disappearing into the blackness, looking like parts of a monstrous spider’s web. All sorts of opportunities for someone who had managed to sneak into the theater with mischief on his mind.

  “Beginners onstage,” came the call and the girls marched out to take up positions. I had my book open and went to my designated spot against the wall. I also remembered not to lean on that wall as it was only made of painted wood and canvas. It was bright as day onstage and quite warm, too. Beyond the curtain the orchestra struck up the overture. I found it hard to breathe. Thank heaven I didn’t have to say any lines or I would have opened my mouth and nothing would have come out. After what seemed an eternity the curtains opened. Spotlights glared down on us. The girls came to life.

  “We’re learning how to make a smash, how to win the game of love,” they sang. The song was all in tennis vocabulary, but cleverly angled to reflect the game of life. I kept my head down and my eyes on my book, as instructed, but I found that I could see quite well around me. The song concluded in a dance number, then the maid appeared, clapping her hands briskly.

  “Madame the Countess is waiting for you for your deportment class, you naughty girls,” she announced. “Off with you.”

  The girls ran off. I waited for a fraction of a second then followed the last in line, not looking up from my book. I thought I heard a chuckle from the orchestra pit. I had survived my first scene.

  The rest of the first act was a blur. On stage, then off again. Stand against the wall. Sit on the stool in the corner. Follow the girls. Wait for Miss Lovejoy to call for me. It all became a jumble of confusion. I was exhausted by the end of the act and glad to go up to the dressing room. The other girls were making more quick changes and it made me glad that I’d be wearing one outfit for the entire play.

  Then we were summoned for act two. Not so many scenes this time, as the real action, the love story between the countess and the penniless painter, had really taken over. I wandered onstage once at the wrong moment, because I thought the scene was over, but they were still in the middle of an embrace. I looked horrified and hurried off again, getting a laugh. Then we were all onstage for the big ballroom scene. The countess has discovered that one of her paintings is worth a fortune. She will be rich again and gives a ball to celebrate. I had to sit at a table to one side, my head, as usual, in my book, completely ignoring the jolly scene going on around me.

  In the middle of a silly song about what every girl should know, suddenly the lights flickered and a cold wind crept around my shoulders. I shivered and looked up from my book. Others on the stage had noticed it, too. I could hear the tension in their voices as they spoke their lines. Then suddenly a violent burst of wind blew across the stage, sending candelabras and potted plants crashing down, blowing off hats, tablecloths, anything that wasn’t firmly anchored. A candle fell onto a chorus girl’s skirt and the flimsy fabric went up like a torch. Two of the actors dived onto the girl, rolling her on the ground to put the flames out. Girls were screaming. I dashed to the side of the stage, fighting the strength of the wind coming at me full in the face. Nobody was there.

  Suddenly there was a great shout from the auditorium. “Everybody stay where you are. Nobody move.”

  And Robert Barker came storming in through the pass door.

  “This has gone on long enough,” he bellowed, making a lot of noise for such a small man. “I aim to get to the bottom of this right now.”

  He stomped across the stage and saw me standing in the wings.

  “It’s coming from this machine,” I said. “Do you know how to turn it off?”

  “Simple,” he said, and disconnected the electricity. The wind died immediately. “A wind machine,” he said angrily. “Some damned fool’s idea of a practical joke.”

  “I came out immediately after it started,” I said. “There was nobody here. Besides, the whole cast is onstage for this scene.”

  “So what were you doing out here?” He was glaring at me.

  “I told you, I ran out to see if I could catch whoever was doing this. Miss Lovejoy told me about the ghost. I th
ought I’d keep an eye out for it.”

  He went on staring as if he was trying to read my mind, then he pushed past me onto the stage. “Stop that blubbering,” he snapped to some of the chorus who were clutching each other in fear. “It’s all explained. It was the wind machine. Some fool connected it to the electricity by mistake. Nothing to get upset about.”

  “But who connected it?” Blanche asked in a trembling voice. “You know the whole cast is onstage for the final scene. Who could have done it?”

  “Wally!” Robert Barker bawled. The stage manager appeared. “Were any of your crew on this side of the stage just now?”

  “No sir,” Wally replied. “We were all working on that tree that you said didn’t have enough leaves. All back in the props room, except for Tommy, who had to work the final curtain.” Tommy stuck his head out from the other side of the stage to acknowledge his presence.

  Barker checked the boys who manned the spotlights. They were all in their places.

  “You see,” Blanche said, her voice taut with fear, “it isn’t human. It’s a spirit, a malevolent spirit and it’s determined to wreck my play. How can we possibly open when this kind of thing could happen at any moment. It wasn’t just aimed at me this time. That poor girl could have been burned to death if those dear boys hadn’t acted so rapidly and bravely. As it is, her costume is destroyed. Look at it.”

  The girl in question was now sitting on one of the chairs, sobbing quietly, while the young men still attended to her. One side of her skirt was a charred brown mess.

  Blanche smoothed down her own ballgown. “The show must go on,” she said in a firmer voice. “We will not let it daunt us.” She turned to the girl with the burned skirt. “You, child, are you hurt?”

  “I don’t think so, Miss Lovejoy,” the girl answered with a trembling voice.

  “Then we will pick up where we left off. Maestro, if you please, we’ll take it from the top of the song. Henry, have those props stood up again. Places, everyone.”