As if mesmerized Marianne moved slowly down the aisle. It took her only a moment to find the steps that led to the stage. She moved out into the center and turned to face the rows of empty seats.
She did not see the two men who had entered while she was making her way to the stage. In their dark suits they were scarcely visible to eyes dazzled by the footlights, and Marianne's imagination was in full flower, supplying an orchestra in the pit and a glittering group of royalty in the nearest stage box. It is doubtful that she would have behaved differently if she had seen the small audience of two, for this was precisely the situation she had dreamed of – the young, unknown singer, the skeptical manager… She clasped her hands, lifted her eyes to what she (mistakenly) believed to be the Royal Box, and began to sing.
"I dreamed that I dwelt in marble halls, With vassals and serfs at my side…"
The two men listened in silence. The taller and stouter of them had been in a bad mood to begin with; the frown that darkened his normally affable face deepened when he saw the interloper, and Marianne's song did not lessen its severity.
The other man's slight, foppishly dressed figure made him seem, at first glance, considerably younger than his companion. Coal-black hair and luxuriant whiskers framed a face of luminous pallor – the face of a man who seldom goes abroad under the sun. It was a singularly expressionless countenance, and it remained so; but the narrow dark eyes, so black that they appeared pupilless, narrowed still more as they examined the dainty little figure on the stage.
"Your new nightingale, Nubbles?" he asked softly.
"Never saw the gel in my life. Some stage-struck chit from the country, no doubt. Well, Wilson, there is nothing more to be said. I believe our business is concluded."
The slighter dark man looked amused.
"It never actually began, Nubbles. You gave me no opportunity to enlarge upon my proposal."
"No need," Nubbles said gruffly. "Must I be blunt? You and I are not interested in the same aspects of the theatrical profession."
"Perhaps not. Very well. If you should change your mind…"
"Not likely."
"Good day to you, then."
With a mocking inclination of his head Wilson started toward the door. Nubbles, his eyes fixed on the stage where Marianne, carried away by her own performance, postured and swayed as she sang, did not observe that Wilson paused briefly to inspect the girl once again before he went through the door.
Despite his scowl, Mr. Nubbles was not immune to the charm of the young performer. Once the other man had left, his scowl relaxed into a faint smile, though he shook his head and sighed as he listened. He let Marianne finish her song before he started down the aisle.
"Now then," he shouted, brandishing his walking stick like a club. "That will be enough of that, young lady. Come down from there, if you please."
Marianne had been so deep in her dreamworld that the gruff voice struck like a blow. She jumped.
"Oh, dear," she gasped.
"Oh, dear, indeed," said Mr. Nubbles, advancing. "Come here, miss."
Marianne tried to obey, but in her confusion she lost all sense of direction, and Mr. Nubbles had to indicate where she was to go. When they finally met in the central aisle, Mr. Nubbles was no longer smiling. His heavy eyebrows and bulky form were so forbidding that the speech Marianne had prepared in hopes of some such encounter went completely out of her head. She could only stare speechlessly up into his grim face.
Had she but known it, poor Mr. Nubbles was as uncomfortable as she. His suburban home in Islington sheltered three little daughters who adored their papa and knew him for what he was: the most sentimental and softhearted of men. In order to survive in his profession Mr. Nubbles had learned to suppress or at least conceal these attributes, for theatrical management is not an occupation for the tender-hearted. Over the years he had become more or less hardened to the necessity of discouraging eager young aspirants to the stage; at first he was at a loss to understand why this girl should affect him so strongly.
To be sure, she was uncommonly pretty. Her big, melting eyes were an unusual shade of sea-blue, and her hair had reflected the footlights like silver ribbons. Her figure, too… Yes, she was beautiful, but it was more than that. That was something about her that made him feel paternal, protective, reluctant to hurt her. A quality of innocence.
Because he had to struggle so hard to overcome his weakness, his voice was even gruffer than usual.
"Well, young lady? What is the reason for this intrusion?"
Marianne's thick honey-gold lashes veiled her eyes. Her mouth trembled. Mr. Nubbles resisted the impulse to fling himself at her feet and beg her to be his. (He had been a widower for five years.) But he was not moved to beg her to accept a leading role in his next production. Sentiment and business were two different things. He did not even ask her to sit down. That would only have prolonged a painful interview.
"You came here intending to perform, if you could," he said, seeing the roll of music that peeped out of her bag. "I suppose someone told you that you sing very nicely?"
"Yes, sir."
"You do. Very nicely. But a professional singer, my dear, must have more than a nice voice."
"Oh!" Marianne gasped as if she had been doused in cold water. Mr. Nubbles hurried on with his speech. If she started to cry he didn't know what he might do.
"My dear young lady, do you have any idea how many girls aspire to a career on the stage? Do you know how few succeed? You haven't even come to the right theater. It is true that we do sometimes produce musical plays, but just now we are dedicated to the classical drama. And," he added hastily, as Marianne's eyes lit up, "don't, I beg, offer to give me Juliet's balcony speech or 'The quality of mercy is not strained.' And don't offer to serve as Miss Terry's understudy. I assure you, it is a harsh, demanding profession, not one I would like to see one of my daughters attempt. Do your friends know you came here today?"
Marianne stared at him in shocked surprise. Still reeling mentally from the abrupt destruction of her lovely daydream, this last question added insult to injury. She drew herself up to her full height (a good inch over five feet).
"That, sir, is not your concern," she said. "Good day."
Mr. Nubbles might have gone after her. But the actors were arriving; someone asked him a question that had to be dealt with immediately. When he turned again, the slight little figure in black had disappeared. She took with her Mr. Nubbles' peace of mind. He was in a foul mood during the rehearsal and the cast of Titus Andronicus called him hard names behind his back.
By the time Marianne reached the door her eyes were flooded with tears. She could scarcely see where she was going. Blindly she pushed through the doors into the lobby. She was hurrying toward the exit when a hand caught her arm.
"I beg your pardon," said a smooth, soft voice. "I called to see Mr. Nubbles on a matter of business, and I could not help overhearing… everything. My name is Wilson. I am the owner and proprietor of the Alhambra Supper Club; and I am prepared to offer you employment, starting tonight."
CHAPTER THREE
Marianne decided that some good angel must be watching over her. She was not so much impressed at the offer of a singing job, for she had expected that; coming as it did after such a crushing disappointment only made the triumph sweeter. However, only a series of fortunate accidents made it possible for her to fulfill the engagement without a long, boring argument with Mrs. Shortbody. A summons from an old friend, taken suddenly ill, had prevented the landlady from accompanying Marianne that morning, and the emergency kept her from home that same night. (Marianne's definition of "fortunate" was as egocentric as that of most eighteen-year-olds.)
Marianne was able to creep out unobserved and meet the carriage Mr. Wilson had sent for her. Her excitement received a slight check when she saw the back regions of the theater where she was to perform. There were no chandeliers or plum velvet carpets backstage, only a dusty, noisy clutter; and the dressing rooms occup
ied by the artistes were less well furnished and far dirtier than the maids' quarters at home had been. For reasons of his own Mr. Wilson had given her a room to herself. She had no idea this was unheard-of for a beginner, nor did she know that two of his "star turns" had been evicted in order to accommodate her.
The room contained no furniture except a few hard chairs and a long counter that served as a dressing table. A faded curtain, strung on a rope, served as a wardrobe. The streaked mirror was illumined by flaring gas jets.
As Marianne and Wilson entered, a woman turned from the mirror and stood facing them, her hands clasped in front of her. Her clothing was commonplace; a plain brown alpaca dress and a white apron, with an old-fashioned frilled cap covering her hair. But her face… The left side from chin to brow was a livid, puckered mask of horror. A narrow slit of blank white eyeball showed through eyelids frozen in a permanent squint.
Marianne managed to turn her gasp of surprise into a cough, covering her mouth with her hand to hide her consternation. Her subterfuge failed; the woman's right eye narrowed until it matched the other, and the unmarred side of her mouth curled in a contemptuous smile. She made no attempt to hide her dreadful face. Instead she moved a little closer to the light.
"This is Maggie," Mr. Wilson said. "She'll help you dress and make up. Miss Ransom is new at this, Maggie, so show her what to do. She'll go on after the Magnificent Mazzinis."
He went out, leaving the two women alone.
Marianne felt as if she had been transported into the pages of one of the Gothic novels she had read with shivering delight. The ghastly figure before her stood as still and silent as one of the waxen images from the horror chamber at Madame Tussaud's. A wave of faintness swept over Marianne. "It is warm here, is it not?" she murmured.
"No."
Marianne managed to smile. "I am sorry. You must be patient. This is all new and strange to me. Tell me what I must do and I'll try my best."
The tragic mask of Maggie's face was ill-suited to any emotion except malevolence, but Marianne had the impression that her speech had surprised the other. After a moment Maggie said, "First the dress. It'll be in need of fitting. Martine's a good deal stouter than you."
She took Marianne's cloak; and as the girl stood uncertain she let out a cackle of sardonic laughter. "I s'pose you allus had a maid. Can you undo a button or d'you need to be undressed, like a babby?"
"I can do it," Marianne said.
In her voluminous petticoats and modest, ribboned corset cover she was no more unclothed than in a low-cut evening dress, but she felt indecent. Maggie paid no heed to her blushes, but gave her undergarments a critical appraisal.
"You must come from th' country. That crinoline's ten year out o' style. An' nobody wears flannel petticoats. Take 'em off."
"Isn't there a screen?" Marianne asked, with an anguished glance at the door. "What if someone -"
Her protests were in vain. Maggie had her out of the petticoats in a trice. Marianne did not relax until the new dress was on and Maggie was fastening up the back. Made of shiny black satin and imitation Chantilly lace, it was pulled tight across the front and draped in huge flounces on either side. A lace overskirt ended in a train in back, and the entire mass of fabric was caught up here and there with red velvet roses.
Marianne thought the dress quite magnificent, but she had an uneasy feeling that despite its somber color it did not suggest the mourning costume she ought by rights to be wearing. Gazing down, she beheld an alarming vista of bare white skin, and she clutched at the narrow bands of black lace that were supposed to hold the bodice in place.
"Too big, like I said," Maggie remarked, from behind her. "Stand still if you don't want to be pricked."
The shoulder straps were pulled tight and whipped into place. Then Maggie took tucks on either side of the bodice, and in front, narrowing the waist. Marianne was jabbed several times, though she stood as still as she could. Finally Maggie said, "There. Sit down an' I'll do your 'air."
Marianne let out a gasp as she saw her reflection in the mirror. Evening dress was permitted to be decollete, but Mrs. Jay had her own views of what was proper for a young girl, and Marianne had never worn anything that showed so much of her upper body. The dress was not really daring, by the standards of London society; but the contrast of the black lace against the girl's white skin was almost as wickedly suggestive as Marianne thought it was.
She forgot her qualms and watched, fascinated, as Maggie's trained fingers transformed her appearance. First her hair was drawn up into a coiffure far more sophisticated than any she had ever worn. A heap of sausage curls on top was surmounted by a black ostrich feather pinned by a diamond spray – as the naive wearer believed. The stones were paste, but in the gaslight they sparkled brilliantly. Loose ringlets cascaded down her back and over one bare shoulder.
To Marianne's disappointment Maggie rejected most of the fascinating little pots and boxes of cosmetics that littered the dressing table. She did pluck Marianne's eyebrows, a process that drew a series of anguished squeaks from the victim, and darkened its new, high arch. A delicate application of rouge and a touch of lip salve completed the process.
Maggie had been warned not to spoil the girl's ingenue look. Even the bright-scarlet mouth only gave the impression of a sweet young maiden who is playing at home theatricals.
Marianne sighed with pleasure. She thought she looked quite mature and sophisticated.
Then, beside the exquisite smiling face that stared back at her from the mirror, another face came into view, like a hideous mask hanging over the curve of her white shoulder. The two faces, one so lovely, the other so hideous, might have inspired one of the story paintings so popular in that sentimental age: the princess and the witch, or youth and old age.
Marianne had been brought up on morality tales. Mrs. Jay would have approved the way she reacted now. "There but for the grace of God…" She was too well bred and too kindhearted to express this sentiment aloud; instead she said in a gentle voice, "How clever you are! I never imagined I could look so well. Thank you, Maggie."
Maggie's grotesque face vanished abruptly. From behind Marianne her stifled voice said, "I looked like that onct. Not so pretty as you, maybe, but there was a gentleman-a-waiting for me after I sung, beggin' for a flower from my bokay, and ready to set me up in my own 'ouse, too."
Marianne paid no attention to the last part of this speech, which would have shocked Mrs. Jay out of her senses. She heard only the pain in the hoarse voice. Turning, she reached out impulsively and took Maggie's hand in hers. "I am so sorry; truly I am. What happened? Or would you rather not -"
"It wos a fire. We 'ad candles then. It wosn't a place like the Alhambra; the Canterbury wos respectable, it wos. I was a ingenoo. The Moor's Bride. I wos the bride, wif a white veil…"
Marianne squeezed the limp hand. "I am so very sorry," she repeated helplessly.
Maggie pulled her hand away. "Stand up and let's 'ave a look. I ain't so sure about them roses."
Marianne obeyed. She wished, humbly, that she could remember some of the fine religious sentiments Mrs. Jay had taught her, about beauty being skin-deep, and a good heart being more important than a pretty face. But she doubted that she could have expressed these ideas with conviction. She knew, and Maggie knew, that a pretty face was important.
Maggie decided against the roses, and removed them. Then Marianne sat down again while the woman put the finishing touches on her hair and makeup.
"That'll do," Maggie said finally. "Come along, you'll be going on in a few minutes."
She opened the door. Marianne heard thumping strains of music somewhere in the distance. She became aware of a peculiar sensation in her insides. "Oh," she gasped, putting her hands on her stomach.
"Come along," Maggie repeated.
"I – I can't. Oh… I really feel most unwell!"
Maggie emitted a hoarse sound that might have been a laugh. "Stage fright. You'll get over it when you're out there."
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br /> At least, she added to herself, I hope so. She had not believed Wilson when he told her the girl was a beginner. Amateurs were not welcome at the Alhambra. Now, having seen Marianne's total ignorance and uncharacteristic gentleness of manner, she realized that the manager had been telling the truth. A sentiment so long foreign to her heart that she did not recognize it made her voice softer than usual as she added, "I'll come down wif you. Don't worry now."
Marianne was convinced she was going to be sick, but she had been taught to face her duty with a stiff upper lip. She tottered toward the door, where she was met by Mr. Wilson, who had come to fetch her. He nodded with satisfaction. Then recognizing the significance of her pale cheeks and trembling mouth, he smiled faintly.
"You look utterly lovely, Miss Ransom. Don't be nervous; sing as I heard you sing this afternoon, and you will win all hearts. Just nod at the conductor when you are ready to begin."
Taking her icy hand in his, he led her along the corridor and down the steep iron stairs. Neither he nor Marianne noticed Maggie skulking along behind them.
Marianne was also happily unaware of the looks and murmurs that followed her progress. Wilson's presence, as he knew, was the one thing that saved her from some of the unsavory practical jokes that were often practiced on unpopular performers by their fellow actors: the rude placard on the back, the foot outstretched to trip, the slashed gown. The music battered at her ears, and as they reached the wings and she looked out on the stage she saw only a dazzle of light, with dim figures moving in it. The music ended in a crash, blending with an unenthusiastic spatter of applause, and the acrobats who had finished their turn ran offstage, their makeup streaked from the hot lights and violent exercise.
"Now then, my dear," Wilson said, and led her onto the stage.
The Wizard’s Daughter Page 4