The Captain's Daughter (London Beginnings Book #1)

by Jennifer Delamere

  Rosalyn sensed depth behind the simple words. Perhaps this lighthearted woman had known true sorrow, as well.

  “MISS BOND!” Mr. Gilbert’s voice boomed once more from the window. “If you would prefer to work backstage rather than upon it, I can ensure that happens.”

  “Coming, Mr. Gilbert!” But Jessie didn’t sound at all chastened. It seemed her breezy charm enabled her to tease him and get away with it. She took Rosalyn’s hands and gave them a quick squeeze. “Good-bye for now. Remember, take heart!”

  Take heart.

  Jessie hurried through the door to the theater and out of sight.

  “Come with me,” Mrs. Hill directed. “I’ll find you something to eat while I show you around.”

  They went inside and began walking down a dimly lit hallway. “Those are the offices,” Mrs. Hill said, pointing off to the left. “And up those stairs is the practice room. The backstage area is straight ahead.”

  The sound of men’s voices came from the direction Mrs. Hill had indicated.

  “That’ll be the stagehands preparing for this evening’s performance,” Mrs. Hill explained.

  “Nate!” one of the men shouted. “Where’s the backing for this flat?”

  “Coming!”

  A man carrying a large wooden frame suddenly emerged from the shadows. He started to brush past them but stopped as soon as his eyes fell on Rosalyn.

  Their gazes locked, and Rosalyn’s mouth fell open in surprise.

  She was staring into the intense brown eyes of the soldier from Paddington station.

  CHAPTER

  5

  THE BRIGHT RED COAT and polished boots were gone. Today the man standing before her looked altogether different. He wore faded trousers and an old shirt covered with splotches of paint and grease, and there was a smudge of dirt on one cheek.

  “You!” he exclaimed. “You’re all right? You’re not . . . harmed?” Setting down the object he was holding, he took a step back, falling into a brighter pool of light near the lamp on the wall. Rosalyn took an unconscious step forward, following him into the light. His gaze continued to take her in with a kind of wondering disbelief.

  She offered him a tentative smile. “It was a rough night, I admit, but no harm came to me.”

  His eyes closed for a brief moment. When they opened again, the anxiety he’d shown was erased by relief. “Thank God.”

  Hearing this, she saw how wrong she’d been at the station to presume he had malicious intentions toward her. “Yes, His divine hand helped me.” It came out with a slight stammer. “I should apologize for my rude words to you last night.”

  He shook his head. “I blame myself for the way I barged into the situation. You already had one man harassing you. I must have looked like one more scoundrel trying to take advantage of you.”

  “It did seem that way,” Rosalyn admitted.

  “You two know each other?” Mrs. Hill’s surprised voice interrupted them.

  “Not really, but perhaps we should remedy that.” He tipped his head in a crisp bow that would have been perfectly suited for when he was in uniform. “My name is Nate Moran.”

  “Rosalyn Bernay.”

  “I am happy to make your acquaintance.”

  He extended a hand. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the full length of the scar Rosalyn had noticed at the station. It was seven or eight inches long, running well above his wrist. She hesitated, then reached out to accept the handshake. His grasp was firm but gentle, and she found her reaction was completely different than when he’d taken hold of her yesterday. Warmth traveled all the way up her arm. His smiled widened, lightening his eyes. The heat from his touch continued to diffuse throughout her body.

  After a moment, she recollected herself and withdrew her hand.

  Nate said, “Tell me, how did you wind up here, of all places?”

  “I believe it was Providence. Mrs. Hill has offered me work.”

  He blinked in surprise. “You’re going to work here? So you have a place to live, then. You went to the charity house after all?”

  “Charity house?” Rosalyn repeated, mystified.

  “I wasn’t sure if you heard me calling out the name and address to you at the station yard. The carriages were making so much racket.”

  “Well, I . . . that is . . . ,” Rosalyn stammered, flummoxed.

  Another yell echoed down the hallway. “Nate! Hurry it up, lad, or Mr. Gilbert will have all our hides!”

  “Coming!” Nate called over his shoulder. But his gaze held hers for a moment longer, and she could see he was brimming with as many questions as she was.

  “Perhaps we might talk more later?” Rosalyn suggested.

  “Aye,” he said, looking pleased at her request. “I will look for you.” He picked up the wooden frame he’d been carrying and gave her a brief smile before turning to hurry down the hallway.

  Rosalyn watched him walk away. She could hardly believe the change in him from last night. Or perhaps the change was simply in her perception of him.

  “All right, then,” Mrs. Hill said. “To work we go.”

  They walked down a narrow hallway to a small, windowless room packed with mops, brooms, and buckets. Mrs. Hill hung her coat on a peg and reached for an apron. She motioned Rosalyn toward a stool next to a battered sink. “Have a seat.”

  Exhausted from the harrowing day, Rosalyn happily complied.

  Mrs. Hill took a tin of biscuits from a small cupboard and handed them to Rosalyn. “It ain’t much, but it’s something.”

  While Mrs. Hill busied herself filling a bucket with water, Rosalyn pulled a biscuit out of the tin and bit into it. It was dry, but it was food, and she was thankful. As she ate, her mind kept returning to the soldier-turned-stagehand and the odd circumstances that had brought them together not once, but twice. “Mrs. Hill, how long has Mr. Moran worked here?”

  “About a month. But he’s only here temporarily.”

  “When I first saw him yesterday, he was wearing an army uniform. Why do you suppose that was?”

  Mrs. Hill set the full bucket aside and reached for another. “I believe he’s still in the reserves. I know he was in active duty—or ‘the colors,’ as they say—until a few months ago. Got wounded in some kind of skirmish in India. Of course, Patrick idolizes him. That’s Nate’s brother.” She paused to emit a warm smile. “Patrick’s a good ’un, he is. Been working here for years. A few weeks ago he slipped off the narrow ladder that leads to the fly gallery. His leg punched right through a bit of scenery and got broke in the process. Nate’s been taking his place so Patrick will have a job to come back to after he heals up.”

  “You mean Patrick would lose his job, even though he was injured while working?”

  “Well, the shows got to keep running, don’t they? If you’re not here to do your job, there’s three others in line to take your place. It’s a sad fact, but it’s true. Things is tough all over.”

  Rosalyn believed the truth of this statement. She’d seen more than a glimpse of the harsh realities of city life since her arrival. But she said nothing, merely chewed another biscuit as she thought over this new information about Nate Moran. How wrong she’d been to fall for Mrs. Hurdle’s insinuations about him at the station.

  After setting the second bucket next to the first, Mrs. Hill dried her hands on her apron. “Now, then,” she said briskly, “ready to work?”

  “Indeed I am.” Rosalyn stood up, reluctant to leave the comfort of sitting down but telling herself she had to keep moving. She prayed that the prospect of earning money would make her strong enough to accomplish whatever was asked of her. Already this theater felt like a safe harbor, and she was determined to do everything she could to be allowed to stay.

  Mrs. Hill grabbed an apron that had been draped over a mop handle. “Put this on. It ain’t the cleanest, but it’ll keep the worst of it off your frock.” Once Rosalyn had donned the apron, Mrs. Hill handed her a stack of towels. “Let’s
start by getting these to the dressing rooms. We’ll come back for those buckets later.”

  They retraced their steps down the hallway. “There’s one set of stairs backstage that leads to the ladies’ dressing rooms, and another on the opposite end of the stage that leads to the men’s,” Mrs. Hill explained. “Some people see the theater as a wicked place, but Mr. Gilbert is adamant that everything in this theater stays proper and aboveboard.”

  Rosalyn didn’t say that she was one of those people raised to regard the theater in a bad light. Even singing opera songs with Mrs. Williams for amusement had felt at times like a guilty pleasure. She’d never considered the fact that theaters provided work for decent, hardworking people like Mrs. Hill.

  Smoke from the feeble oil lamps might have lent an oppressive air to the place, yet to Rosalyn it only added an enticing air of mystery. Rounding a corner, they came into a wider area that Rosalyn saw immediately was just to the side of the stage.

  “Are you familiar with theaters?” Mrs. Hill asked. “This area here is called the ‘wings.’”

  Four portable gas lamps, set on T-shaped poles about eight feet high, were placed around the stage, bathing it in light. The startling brightness stung her eyes after the gloom of the hallway.

  “Those is just working lights,” Mrs. Hill explained. “They’re taken away during the performance.”

  Half a dozen men knelt around a massive square of wood-framed, painted canvas, carefully attaching it to sturdy ropes. They must have been trained exactly how to do this, for each man seemed to be securing his rope with the same elaborate knot. One by one, as they completed their task, each man stood up.

  When everyone had finished and stepped back, one of the men called up toward the rafters. “Ready, Nate?”

  “Ready!”

  Rosalyn looked up. Through the glare of the lights and a cloud of dust, she saw a railed platform high above them. This must be the “fly gallery” Mrs. Hill had spoken of. She could see Nate, his back and arms straining as he and another man turned cranks that pulled ropes wound around huge pulleys. Slowly the canvas lifted from the floor, and the men onstage guided it into place.

  Rosalyn gasped in delight. What was essentially a giant painting now covered the rear of the stage. It depicted a seaside harbor and the bright blue sky of a sunny day, the flags on several ships’ masts flying saucily in the breeze.

  It brought back the memory of her early childhood in Plymouth, before her mother had died. Rosalyn and Julia would take long walks together, clambering up the cliffs and standing breathless and joyful as they looked down over the harbor. Although she’d left Plymouth when she was just nine years old, Rosalyn vividly remembered the sight of those masts and the colorful flags in the stiff wind. She and Julia would gaze out at the ocean, trying to imagine where their father was at that moment. Those daydreams turned to sad longing when the years passed and their father never came home. But right now, standing on this stage, the painting evoked happy memories of the sea breeze on her face and the warmth of the sun shining down on her head. She breathed deep, almost smelling the tang of salt in the air.

  “Do you like it?”

  It was Nate’s voice. Once more, Rosalyn looked up toward the fly gallery. It must have been at least two stories above the stage, but he was leaning casually against the railing as though on solid ground, not giving his precarious position a second thought.

  He’d been watching her as she stared at the canvas and grinned like a fool. Feeling mildly abashed, she answered, “It looks exactly like Plymouth.”

  “Are you from Plymouth, then?”

  “I lived there as a child. I still remember it well.”

  A stagehand standing nearby said, “Our scene painter really outdid himself, I think. That’s my son, you know. I raised him in Plymouth, but we moved here five years ago. Life in the theater is much nicer than working on one of those ships, I can tell you. Being separated from one’s family for months at a time—not to mention the dangers of the sea.”

  “Yes, I know,” Rosalyn said with a sigh. She looked up again to see that Nate was still watching her. Not wanting to reveal the range of emotions flooding through her, she cleared her throat and brought her gaze back to stage level. Several of the men were wiping their brows. They must have put in a hard day’s work already, but they were smiling.

  “Will that do, Mr. Turner?” said one of the men.

  Mr. Turner, a tall, balding man of about forty who was evidently the foreman of this group, eyed the canvas with a satisfied air. “Aye, that’ll do just fine.” Peering up at Nate, he added, “Perhaps we ought to thank your brother for damaging that other flat on his way down. This one is far superior. I believe the audience will be right pleased.”

  Nate matched the man’s grin. “Does that mean Patrick will get a pay rise when he returns?”

  Mr. Turner gave a gruff laugh. “You’ll have to take that up with Mr. Carte. Or worse, with Mr. Gilbert!”

  “Best be careful with your jesting,” Mrs. Hill teased. “Mr. Gilbert is in the building.”

  Upon hearing this, some of the men quickly looked around with expressions of mock worry, followed by exaggerated expressions of relief when Mr. Gilbert did not suddenly appear and berate them.

  “All right, let’s get this stage shipshape,” Mr. Turner ordered, drawing a few chuckles with his joke. “There’s less than an hour until curtain.”

  From the fly gallery, Nate watched the men scatter to their assigned pre-show tasks. He had work to do, too, and a short amount of time to do it in, but he lingered at the railing, his attention still on Rosalyn. From his vantage point, he could hear as well as see everything on the stage. Mrs. Hill began giving Rosalyn instructions, and she nodded, listening intently. Nate couldn’t help but think how resourceful she was, to have come this far in just twenty-four hours. He wanted very much to know more about her and what had brought her to London.

  He noticed Jessie Bond scurrying through the wings, tugging a bedraggled young woman behind her.

  “Here’s your missing charwoman,” Jessie said, pushing the girl forward to stand in front of Mrs. Hill. “She came in the wrong door. I found her wandering around in that warren of hallways.”

  The girl wore a faded cotton frock, patched many times over, and battered boots that looked too large for her feet. Everything about her signaled her poverty. She looked at Mrs. Hill, utterly contrite. “Please forgive me, ma’am. It won’t ’appen again.” She mumbled the words so low that Nate had to strain to hear them.

  “I’m sorry, my girl, but you’re too late,” Mrs. Hill replied. “We’ve already found someone else.” Her words, though direct, were spoken with kind regret.

  “Please let her stay,” Rosalyn begged.

  Mrs. Hill shook her head. “I can’t take on two people. Much as I’d like to.”

  “Then give the job to her.”

  Nate thought he heard a slight tremor in Rosalyn’s voice, but she evidently meant what she said. She removed her apron and handed it to the girl, whose face lit up with amazed joy. “To be honest, I won’t be in London for long. Perhaps it’s better if I go now.” She turned to Mrs. Hill and said, “I do thank you for your kindness today.”

  Jessie held out a hand to stop her. “Wait. I have an idea. Mrs. Hill, you know we’re having a bit of a crisis up in the dressing rooms. Lilly hasn’t shown up again. I’m afraid there will be a mutiny among the ladies if we don’t get a new dresser soon. Perhaps Rosalyn could help us.”

  Mrs. Hill looked doubtful. “I think you’d need to ask Miss Lenoir about that first. Cleaning’s one thing, but working as a dresser is quite another.”

  “Miss Lenoir’s out of town until Monday,” Jessie said. “We have a show to put on tonight.”

  “I worked as a lady’s companion for five years,” Rosalyn interjected eagerly. “Does that qualify?”

  “It will do for now. Don’t worry, Mrs. Hill, I’ll settle it with Miss Lenoir.” Jessie took Rosalyn’s hand. “Let
’s go. There’s no time to waste.”

  Marveling over this turn of events, Nate watched them hurry toward the dressing rooms. He was impressed that Rosalyn had been willing to give up her own livelihood in order to help a person in need. It was a selflessness he didn’t see every day. Certainly not inside the theater.

  The grizzled face of Sam, one of the other lighting men, appeared at the top of the ladder. “Ready to set the lights?”

  Nate nodded, clearing his mind to focus on the task at hand. It was time to collect the containers of gas that fueled the limelights. Because they were volatile, they were kept in a special storage closet until needed. But even as Nate turned away from the railing and followed Sam back down the ladder, he found his thoughts returning to the woman who’d arrived in London in such odd circumstances and kept landing on her feet. Surely it was only natural to be intrigued by such a person. Who wouldn’t be?

  Still, as he and the other men prepared the lights, he would have preferred not having to work quite so hard to keep his mind on his job.

  “Thank you so much,” Rosalyn said to Jessie as the two made their way up a narrow flight of steps.

  “Well, we couldn’t very well throw you out,” Jessie answered breezily. “Not after we’d already rescued you once. I had you pegged as a governess, but a lady’s companion is even better. That means you have some experience with fine clothes, yes?”

  “Yes,” Rosalyn said, too breathless from the climb to say more.

  In truth, she wasn’t sure what qualified as adequate experience. Mrs. Huffman had a lady’s maid to help her dress and attend to the daily tasks of maintaining the wardrobe. Rosalyn’s experience had been primarily in accompanying Mrs. Huffman on shopping trips and dress fittings. But this had exposed Rosalyn to a wide variety of dress materials and styles. Surely that would be useful for something.

  They reached the top of the steps, and Jessie led her down a long hallway. Pushing open a door, she said, “Here’s the dressing room for the ladies’ chorus.”

  The large room was lined on one wall with vanity tables and mirrors. Along another wall stood racks of gowns. Women milled around in various stages of dress. Some were seated at the tables, applying makeup. Without hesitation, Jessie steered Rosalyn to the nearest chair. “Why don’t you sit here for a moment and catch your breath?”