She shook her head impatiently. “He wishes to remain here.” Ada appeared to take the tray from her, and my mother seated herself across from me and reached for the teapot. “What is this nonsense I hear about your not wanting children?”
Caught off guard, I set my cup down so clumsily that it clattered against the saucer. “How—where did you hear that?”
“From Violet. Is it true?”
The wicked little eavesdropper. I ought to have told Mother that it was none of her business, but under her scandalized gaze I found myself quailing. “I—well—yes, it’s true.”
It was the wedding incident all over again; she looked at me as if I had turned into a monster. “What did I ever do to make you become so unnatural?” she exclaimed. “I cannot believe any daughter of mine could say such a thing. Children are a woman’s fulfillment and her purpose in life. How could any normal female not want children?”
“But surely not every woman does,” I protested. “Some women aren’t able to bear children, after all, and I imagine that they must go on to find another purpose in life.” I began to get my feet under me, argumentatively speaking. “Many women of note don’t have children. Florence Nightingale. Emily Brontë.”
If anything, I had only outraged her more. “Spinsters and the barren are freaks of nature to be pitied, not admired—let alone imitated! What kind of a heartless, unwomanly creature have you become? I knew that working to earn a living would warp and corrupt you. It has made you less of a woman.”
“Roderick might disagree with you.” It was a flippant response rather than a serious argument, but she seized upon it as a bull terrier might seize a fresh beefsteak.
“You haven’t been fool enough to tell him how you feel, have you?” She must have seen the answer in my face, for she gave me no chance to reply. “Depend upon it, your husband’s heart would break if he knew that you are planning to rob him of children. He would be horrified to know that he has married someone lacking in a woman’s natural tender nature.”
Under the circumstances I could not take much comfort in the fact that she was at least acknowledging Roderick as my husband instead of my “fancy man.”
“Considering that you’ve spent less than an hour in his company,” I said, “I don’t think you are an authority on what he wants. Let’s drop the subject, please, Mother.”
But she refused to do so. “Mark my words, he may desert you for this. And then where will you be? If you assume you can simply move in with us, you’re much mistaken.”
I didn’t even try to hide my shudder at the idea. “Thank you for your concern,” I said, making the words as withering as I could, “but I doubt it will come to that.”
Before she could respond, I left the table. Parental lectures felt a bit tardy considering how long I had been making my own way in the world, and if she had goaded me any further I might have been so rude that she would have ejected me from the house. And while I would not necessarily have mourned on my own account, I still wanted to do what I could for Polly.
I found her downstairs in the shop wrapping a china bibelot that a young matron had just purchased. There were few customers at this hour, and Mollie’s husband agreed that I could borrow Polly for a time. Before I did anything else on her behalf, I had to gauge whether she had any potential for a career in the theater.
Roderick came for me after luncheon, bearing chocolates for the children but nothing for my mother, doubtless having realized that bribery would not sweeten her opinion of him. He also had a letter for me, addressed in an unfamiliar feminine hand.
“How did anyone know we were to stay at the Langham?” I wondered, breaking the seal as we descended the steps to the curb, where the carriage awaited—closed, as he had promised.
“Oh, there was an item in one of the papers. I saw it this morning.”
I unfolded the letter. “It’s from Atherton’s wife,” I exclaimed. “She saw the item about our arrival and invites us to call on them this afternoon. I had planned to write to her, but this saves me the trouble.”
“That’s all to the good, then,” said Roderick. “Show me the address so that I can tell the driver.”
But I hesitated “Had you planned anything in particular for us this afternoon?”
“Nothing as important as your seeing Atherton again.”
How understanding he was. Nevertheless, I still made no move to enter the carriage, and the coachman swung his head about to see the cause of the delay.
Roderick noted my uncertainty. “Would you rather put them off?” he asked.
“No, of course not. I only...”
The reason for my hesitation was actually concern lest taking Roderick with me was unwise. He still harbored great resentment against Atherton for having blackened my name, and I didn’t want him to lose his temper.
But that was nothing to worry about, if Atherton had undone the damage he had caused. And if Roderick showed signs of wanting to vent his anger at Atherton, we would simply depart until he calmed down.
“I don’t think there’s any cause to delay,” I said aloud. “As long as you are willing to join me.”
“Oh, I’m more than willing. I’m eager to see this man after all I’ve heard.” The set of his jaw was a trifle grim.
“Roderick.”
He heard the warning in my voice. “You needn’t worry, my Sybil. I’ll not embarrass you. But you must permit me to be skeptical that he and I shall become fast friends.”
Finally I let him hand me into the carriage. After he had seated himself, shut the door behind us, and knocked on the roof to signal the driver, he drew me close. “This is not, I admit, how I anticipated that we would spend our time together today,” he said.
I tousled his hair. “Did you really think that you would have your way with me and then return me to my parents’ house afterward, leaving me to face them all alone? I don’t think I could look my mother in the eyes under such circumstances.”
“And your father?”
I sighed. “He could hardly think me any more depraved, I suspect.” I laid my head on his chest, but when I realized the plumes on my bonnet were poking him in the face, I straightened once more. “You were close to your father, weren’t you?”
“I’d say so, yes. Taking up the violin brought us together. I remember struggling with his death.” His deep-set eyes were grave, but then he smiled. “I was fortunate in having another paternal figure in my life, though. The professor.”
“Thank heaven for Professor Hartmann,” I said, my own heart lifting at the thought of our dear friend. I felt as though the kindly Austrian musician was part of my own family now, and I would always be grateful that he had rescued Roderick from the despair and dissolution he had fallen into after the disastrous conclusion to his love affair with Julia de Lioncourt. The professor was kind, empathetic, and warm—qualities that seemed completely foreign to my father, both as I remembered him from my childhood and as I had seen him on our reunion.
But there was a positive side to his cold obstinacy. It absolved me of guilt for having left home as I had... and it made my path ahead clear.
“Whether or not I’m able to convince Father of it,” I said, “Polly deserves her freedom.”
Roderick was unfazed by this non sequitur. Knowing me as well as he did, perhaps he had no difficulty following my mental processes. “What are her chances in the theater?” he asked.
“About average, I suppose. She speaks well enough and seemed to grasp what I taught her about throwing her voice. She’s intelligent if she cares to use her mind.” My main concern was still how much dedication she was prepared to invest in a stage career. But perhaps that was something she herself would not know unless—until—she had the opportunity.
I was so absorbed in my thoughts that it seemed only moments before the carriage drew up before a handsome house that must have been less than half a century old. In moments, Roderick and I had been shown inside.
The Athertons’ house was
quiet, first of all. Heavy velvet drapes shut out the noises of the street, and deep carpets muffled all footsteps. Wherever one looked, heavy furniture of dark wood, upholstered in rich tones, met the eye. There were enameled vases filled with peacock feathers and landscape paintings in ornate frames. When we were ushered into the drawing room, the woman who rose to meet us was also dressed in rich colors, in a soft cashmere gown and paisley shawl. Her hair was brown and silver mingled, worn in a fashionable heavy coil, and gold pendant earrings swung and bobbed as she moved forward to take my hand.
So this was the woman who had lured Gerhardt Atherton out of his staunch bachelorhood! She was certainly no siren, but then Atherton had never seemed to be motivated by fleshly desires. No doubt she had great affection and admiration for him, though. And admiration was catnip to actors, even those who had given over treading the boards long since, as Atherton had.
“Miss Ingram,” she said now, and her voice, warm and low, was as comfortable as a much-loved pair of carpet slippers. Perhaps she too had once been on the stage. “Gerhardt has spoken so fondly of you. I am delighted to meet you at last.”
“And I you. Allow me to present my husband, Roderick Brooke.” I couldn’t help darting a look around the room in search of Atherton, but I saw no one else. Had he been delayed? I could picture him so vividly: his stout form, his amiable face cushioned on a double chin, his hair as black and glossy as patent leather—and owing just as much to dye and varnish.
Our hostess observed my distraction. “I regret to say that my husband is unable to join us today,” she said, and this time the lovely voice showed strain. “He was so sorry to miss you.”
“Oh.” After all my expectations, it was deflating to learn that our meeting would be postponed. “He had some emergency to attend to, then?”
“Something of that sort, I believe.” She gestured for us to be seated and tugged a bell pull, and I had the strangest impression that she did so to avoid meeting my eyes. “You know how much is involved in the managing of a theatrical troupe, I’m certain, Miss Ingram. Mr. Brooke, I hear that you are a musician of some renown. Have you ever taken part in a theatrical production?”
Roderick made some acceptable reply to this change of topic as my mind raced. Atherton’s failure to join us would not have seemed so peculiar if not for his wife’s obvious embarrassment. Had he decided at the last minute that he did not want to see us? Watching our hostess covertly as she served us tea from a tray brought by a maid, I thought that that must be the case. If legitimate business had drawn him away, his wife would have had no reason to act ashamed.
“I don’t wish to be tiresome,” I said presently when there came a lull in the conversation, “but I’m so eager to see Atherton after all this time. If Roderick and I were to stop by the theater when we leave, might we find him there?”
Mrs. Atherton looked down at her teacup. “I—I’m afraid I have no idea if the business that detained him necessitated his going to the theater. It is possible that he is at the Crystal Palace.”
That surprised me. “What business would he have there?”
“Why, that’s where his next production will take place.”
“In the palace itself?” Roderick inquired. “I didn’t realize it contained a theater.”
“Strictly speaking, it doesn’t,” Mrs. Atherton said. “But earlier this year a production of Hamlet was staged there—”
“Oh yes, I read about that!” I cried. “The playwright Tom Taylor produced it, didn’t he? I remember the notices were mixed.” To Roderick I said, “I don’t know if you have ever been to the Crystal Palace, but it was not designed for such uses. The newspapers said the acoustics were dreadful, which shouldn’t have come as a surprise to anyone.”
The remarkable cast-iron and glass structure known fondly as the Crystal Palace had originally been built for the Great Exposition of 1851. After that event concluded, the structure had been moved and enlarged. In addition to all of the exhibits featuring the art of different areas around the world, there were now extensive grounds with massive fountains and statuary, as well as life-sized models of creatures who had roamed the earth in an earlier epoch.
While some Londoners found the entire spectacle gaudy and tasteless, others, like my father, felt that it was wholesome and educational. One of our very rare family excursions during my childhood had been a visit there. As a child I had loved it for its profusion of good things to eat and drink available for sale, along with pretty and inexpensive gewgaws and an entire fountain of perfume. As an adult I had occasionally attended outdoor concerts on the grounds, though they tended to be too crowded for my comfort.
“Well, Gerhardt was put on his mettle,” our hostess said, summoning me back to the present. “Now he is determined to mount a production of Macbeth there featuring Narcissa Holm. It’s an ambitious scheme, and he and Mr. Treherne have to spend a great deal of time working out the details.”
Narcissa Holm was the popular young actress who had taken my place as leading lady of the troupe when I had left to make a new life in America, and Ivor Treherne was her manager. It was for their benefit that Atherton had convinced me to take the blame for the money he had gambled away, for they would not have partnered with him had they known the truth. At the time I had felt I owed it to Atherton to allow him to make me his scapegoat, since he had been so kindly a mentor over the years. Where Roderick had had Professor Hartmann, I had had Atherton... but the professor would never have asked such a thing of his protégé.
Only later, when the slander had followed me to America and had come between me and Roderick, had I fully understood how dreadful the consequences might be. I could not bear the thought of my dearest friends thinking so scurrilous a thing of me—that I would take the very bread from their mouths—and I knew now that I wouldn’t be easy in my mind until I spoke to Atherton himself.
But he, it seemed, was avoiding me. As much as I loved my old friend, I had always known he was not what one would call brave. And it was that lack of courage, more than any ill intention on his part, that worried me.
At that point Mrs. Atherton asked me about my experience performing in Mr. Taylor’s play Joan of Arc, bringing my thoughts back from the direction in which they had wandered. Then she drew Roderick out by asking him about his music. I was beginning to understand just what about this lady had convinced Atherton to abandon a lifetime’s commitment to bachelorhood. Mrs. Atherton always turned the conversation back to her visitors rather than using it to show herself off. Such a self-effacing woman doubtless made certain the spotlight stayed on her spouse, Atherton must have found irresistible.
Of course, her evident wealth might have been an inducement as well, especially if Atherton had run up more gambling debts. The thought was troubling. What if my painful sacrifice had been for nothing? Was that why he was avoiding me? Until we spoke face to face, until I knew the truth of how things stood between us, there could be no moving forward.
After our visit was concluded I was so quiet on the drive back that Roderick squeezed my hand. “Penny for them?” he said.
The time for avoiding uncomfortable topics was over. That meant talking to Father about Polly’s future, but it also meant a conversation with Roderick that I had been postponing.
“Will you come meet me in the kitchen again tonight?” I asked. “But this time with a bit more secrecy?”
“It will be a pleasure,” he said, and his silky tone told me just what sort of pleasure he was anticipating. Then he spoiled the effect by adding, “Let me know if you need me to smuggle anything else past the prison guards.”
So easily could I imagine my mother as a prison matron, with a chatelaine of keys at her waist, that I had a guilty urge to giggle.
Upon my return, I found a harmonious domestic scene. The little girls were home from school and had their heads together over an issue of the Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine, Polly sitting between her young nieces as they pored over the fashion plates. Linden’s s
hoes were poking out from beneath the hem of my elliptical bustle petticoat, which was still serving as his shelter and hideaway, and a few tin soldiers were scattered about, giving an idea of his activities. Mollie was painting a china plate while her husband read the newspaper. How strange it was that even with death lurking at the threshold the household still ran mostly as if that was not the case.
My nieces, thankfully, did not choose to buttonhole me and pepper me with questions about Roderick. They had evidently decided to snub me, which suited me perfectly well. After greeting Mollie and my brother-in-law I went to knock at my father’s door. My hand was raised but I had not yet knocked when the door opened and my mother emerged.
Each of us was startled to see the other. “What do you want?” she asked shortly. She carried a heap of linens. I could see traces of blood on a pillowslip.
“I want to speak to Father.”
“Well, he has no wish to see you.”
“It’s important,” I said.
Her lips thinned in a humorless smile. “To you, perhaps. For someone as ill as your father, everyday matters dwindle in importance.”
“But this could hover over Polly for the rest of her life, and she at least has many decades left to live, touch wood.” I was not prepared to give way.
She drew a breath and let it out in a huff of impatience. “Must you be so overdramatic? You will only upset him. After you speak to him you have the luxury of leaving the house forever if you wish. You don’t have to be here to face the consequences, to see the reproach and resentment in his face every day.”
She stopped, biting her lip, but I seized upon what she had let slip. “What do you mean? Is this something to do with when I left all those years ago?” When she didn’t answer, I asked on a hunch, “Is it because of the money I sent home?”
Her startled glance was all the confirmation I needed. Slowly I continued, “He didn’t like taking the money. He must have felt that in some way it was condoning what I had done. But you didn’t see it the same way.”
A Haunting Reprise Page 6