“Oh, would you?” came the eager reply. “Dear Gertrude, I would be so grateful.”
So Atherton was putting the troupe’s fortunes at risk by forcing his leading lady into a situation for which she was ill suited? Even though I had no personal stake in the matter, I was dismayed all the same at this sign that his judgment must have deteriorated since we had parted.
“Don’t let your hopes get the better of you, child,” Gertrude warned. “I fear that if you were unsuccessful in talking him out of this absurd scheme I shall have a small enough likelihood of making him see reason.” She sighed. “Nonetheless, I shall do all I can.”
Realizing that the conversation was drawing to a close, I gathered my wits. The last thing I wanted was for my successor and former friend to find me eavesdropping. Pressing my hands against my skirts to prevent them from rustling, I tiptoed away as hastily as I could, expecting at any moment to hear the door open behind me and an indignant voice demand to know what I was doing there.
Luck was with me, for no such eventuality occurred. When I reached the stage door I paused, both to congratulate myself on having escaped undetected and to take a last look around my former domain.
Abruptly there came a banging on the door, making me jump. “Blenkins!” a man’s voice called. “Are you there?”
I opened the door to find a strongly built man no older than thirty, with a walrus moustache and a caped coat that had darkened on the shoulders with rain. Although it had been inaudible from inside, rain was coming down steadily, and I stood aside to let the man enter.
“Blenkins must have stepped out for tea—or something stronger,” I said. “But if you need no more than someone to open doors, I can perform that function.”
“Indeed?” When he removed his hat I saw that his hair was a bright chestnut shade, a touch redder than his moustache. The ends of the moustache lifted now with his smile. “And are you the theater ghost?”
That made me laugh. “I suppose one might call me that. Certainly I’m a figure from the past.” Since he was looking bewildered, and not without reason, I extended my hand. “Sybil Ingram,” I said. “I used to perform here.”
“Miss Ingram!” His pale eyes brightened. “What a pleasure. Your reputation precedes you.” Evidently he had not heard the false reports of my perfidy, for which I was grateful. “I’m Edward Richmond. The new Mrs. Gerhardt Atherton is my stepmother.”
I made the appropriate social noises. I hadn’t known that Atherton’s wife had any stepchildren, but it did not greatly surprise me to find that so amiable a lady had been married before. “And are you a member of the theatrical profession?” I asked, and had the strong sense that it was only good manners that prevented him from drawing back in horror.
“No indeed, nothing so—er—colorful,” he said. “I’m a banker. I merely stopped here to retrieve something of my stepmother’s from Atherton’s office.”
His build was more like that of a boxer than a banker, and it rather amused me to picture him employing his bulk in something so trifling as moving a pen over a ledger. “Perhaps you can tell me why the theater is deserted,” I said.
“Why, practically everyone is gathered at the palace. Today all of the scenery is being moved in and the electric lighting installed.”
“Electric lighting! I hadn’t heard about that. Is it to be permanent?”
“Oh, no, just for the run of the play, to permit performances at night.” He grimaced. “If you ask me it’s an absurd extravagance, but it seems Atherton is determined to outdo Taylor’s production in every particular... and spend as much of my stepmother’s money as he can.” Then, recollecting himself, he cleared his throat. “Not that I should be troubling a lady with such a dry subject as money! What brought you here today? Looking for your old comrades?”
“Something like that. I suppose another day would be better.” I saw no reason to tell him I knew Narcissa and Gertrude to be on the premises. “I’d best be on my way,” I said. “Delighted to have met you, Mr. Richmond.”
“Likewise! Which reminds me.” He felt under his coat in his breast pocket and presented me with a handful of pasteboard tickets. “Do bring your husband and any of your family who wish to attend the final dress rehearsal next week. There is to be a reception afterward for friends of the company, and I know my stepmother would be thrilled for you to join us.”
He did not say anything about Atherton’s being thrilled, but that might not be significant. Perhaps he did not often cross paths with his mother’s new husband, especially since they were not in the same line of work. “Are you certain?” I asked, wondering if he was indiscriminately handing out tickets wherever he went.
But he assuaged my doubts. “My stepmother was most particular that if I encountered Miss Sybil Ingram I was to extend an invitation.”
“In that case, I accept with pleasure.”
Again, though, I noticed that Atherton seemed not to be included in the invitation. I wondered if he even knew I was invited.
“DO YOU WISH TO GO?” Roderick asked later that afternoon. He had come to fetch me away for our afternoon visit, and as soon as we had boarded the carriage I had shown him the passes from Mr. Richmond.
“I think it would be an admirable opportunity to see my friends again. If there is to be any awkwardness about their having formerly believed the worst of me, we can get it all out of the way at once.” The idea of a series of tête-a-têtes with each individually was exhausting; how much better to clear the air expeditiously. “Besides,” I added, “if Atherton has not been entirely transparent about the whole business, at least we can clear up the matter with everyone once and for all.”
“And being in a public place may incline him to behave himself instead of trying to wheedle you into who knows what further mischief,” Roderick said, with that touch of iron that so often came into his voice when the subject of Atherton came up.
That thought had been in my mind as well, though I had hesitated to voice it. Fortunately Roderick always had my welfare in mind. I tucked my hand in the crook of his arm. “Perhaps I shall ask Polly to join us,” I said. “What better chance to introduce her to the troupe?”
“So you think she has enough promise to warrant your sponsorship?”
“If she applies herself, yes.”
“And your father has no objection?”
I sighed. “He objects very strongly, I’m afraid. But he doesn’t need to know about tonight.”
“If it comes to that,” he said, “why does she need your father’s permission at all?”
“We were raised to believe that Father is the rightful authority on every major decision in our lives. It’s almost a kind of superstition, wanting his blessing. But if Polly is really dedicated to the idea of becoming an actress, she will follow her heart no matter what Father says.”
He raised his eyebrows. “This is the girl who claimed that acting was no more than swanning about in a fancy dress, no? I’m surprised to learn that she has so quickly developed a devotion to her art that would fly in the face of her father’s disapproval.”
I shifted on the seat. Roderick had an aversion to lying, which was all very noble in theory, but at times like this I wished his principles were a trifle more flexible. “She doesn’t actually know that he still objects,” I admitted. The look my husband gave me made me add hotly, “Her life is hers to live, not for the dead to command! What use would it be for her to give up her best chance at an independent life, a life of excitement and travel and new companions, to suit the whim of a man who will not live to see it? How would it benefit her to live a narrow, stodgy life according to the prejudices and crotchets of someone who is in his grave?”
“Have mercy, woman!” Roderick drew away from me and put up his hands as if to fend off the torrent of words. “I’ve not made any objection.”
“Yet,” I said, but in a more moderate tone.
To my relief, he moved closer again and put his arm around me. “I understand why you�
�re passionate in your convictions,” he said, “and I agree that it would be unfair for her to be fettered by your father’s obstinacy.”
“But?”
“But don’t you think the choice should be hers?”
I folded my arms. “Father has an unfair advantage—more than one. All of our lives we were taught to be unquestioningly obedient to him, even if reason or justice was on our side. Now that his desires have the added weight of deathbed wishes, guilt and obedience could easily sway Polly and lead her onto a path she will later regret.”
“Hmm. You’re concerned that she will do something irrevocable? Make a hasty marriage?”
“She might. I’m sure she must have followers.” He was clearly still unsatisfied, so I said cajolingly, “I shall tell her. I promise! Just not quite yet. I fear that without a little more time to pursue what she wants she would find it all too easy to give it up if she knew Father is against it.”
“You didn’t,” he pointed out.
“But that’s why I never went home once I made the decision. I didn’t want to face the pressure Father would have brought to bear to change my mind. I wasn’t certain I was strong enough.”
For the first time in what seemed like a long time he smiled, and his gaze was free of the troubled shadow that had darkened it. “If you were anything as a girl like you are now,” he said, “I have no doubt you were strong enough.”
I smiled up at him. “Perhaps. But Polly isn’t me.”
“Quite true.” He placed a kiss on the tip of my nose, then one on my lips. “There is only one Sybil, and no other woman could ever equal you.”
“Now, that is a more agreeable subject,” I said, nestling closer to him. “Do tell me more about how I’m superior to every other woman on earth.”
It was a subject that proved to lend itself to physical demonstration as much as speech, so when the coach deposited us at the Langham we retired to our suite so that Roderick could make his point with greater eloquence. He was, I need hardly say, thoroughly convincing.
Chapter Seven
The next day my father began to die.
His already grave condition took a turn for the worse, and his doctor was summoned. Hours later, a minister was sent for. My mother and Mollie took up their vigil at the bedside.
Restless, I hovered within sight of the closed door of the sickroom in case I was called for, though I had no expectation of it. I suspected that my presence at the sickbed would cause my father more distress than comfort, but in case I was wrong, I felt I should be close at hand.
Whenever I caught my mother’s eye, though, she shook her head. Perhaps it was foolish of me to think that even after all that had happened he might have some tender feeling toward me. All the same, I couldn’t help but imagine how it would feel just to have him clasp my hand once and call me his daughter.
But he did not ask for me, and the next day he was dead.
I went in with the children for one last look at him. While the little ones dutifully went up one by one to kiss his pale forehead, and Polly held one lifeless hand in hers, I stood back and reflected on all that had passed between us. It felt as though our business was incomplete, that we ought to have been able to reach some kind of understanding or clarity before he died. Now there would be no chance of that, and for that reason I felt less sorrow at his death than frustration. This was immediately succeeded by guilt that I did not feel more sorrow, which was followed by a wry sadness that I had not had a father I would miss. Perhaps grieving was never as simple as just one emotion.
Upon his death, the household immediately transformed itself. The clocks were stopped. Ada and Mollie draped all the mirrors and drew the window blinds, giving the entire house the gloom of a cavern under the sea. Ada hung a wreath on the front door. After a hushed discussion with Jerome, it was decided that the shop was to remain open, but Mollie and Polly would be relieved of their duties for a month. Accordingly, Ada muffled the doorknob of the shop with crape so that customers entering would not disturb the grieving family.
My mother sent for a salesman from Black Peter Robinson’s to bring ready-made mourning clothes for our inspection. It was strange to peer through the closed curtains and see the store’s hearse at the curb, knowing that it was designed for commerce—albeit dignified, considerate commerce. The salesman addressed us in hushed, deferential tones as he and his assistant showed us a variety of crape dresses and veils, black bonnets, and black gloves. There were even chemises and drawers trimmed in black ribbon, which made the children giggle so much that Mollie ordered them out of the room.
After much discussion, Polly was judged to be ready for a full-length dress, which was felt to be more dignified. The children did not have to wear solid black as the adults did, so they were to have crape sashes and bands for their bonnets, and Linden’s small top hat was given crape weepers.
Though I felt like a hypocrite, I purchased an ensemble for myself and a black hatband, armband, and gloves for Roderick. I might raise eyebrows if I did not join the rest of the family in making purchases. I didn’t want to cause remark among the neighbors if word slipped out that the Ingersolls’ actress daughter had not bought any mourning garb for the death of her own father.
It was most peculiar. When my first husband had died, I had been the sole bereaved party, a stranger in a foreign country. My mourning had contained nothing like this busy atmosphere of shopping and familial discussion. How it would have helped me then to have a companion in my plight. Now I felt equally isolated, paralyzed in an untenable position: I would be guilty of hypocrisy for wearing black for a parent I had deserted at my earliest opportunity, but if I chose not to wear mourning I would be guilty of disrespecting the dead.
After the salesman and his assistant had left, Mollie sat down at her sewing basket to make alterations to the new clothes. The coffin, no doubt ordered many weeks ago, was delivered. Local women, friends of the family, came to prepare my father’s body and dress him in his best suit. A photographer was summoned to take pictures once he was laid in his coffin in the parlor. Once we were all dressed in our new mourning clothes, Mother gathered everyone in the parlor for a family portrait with Father. I could see her hesitate before asking me to join them.
I could not make up my mind whether I was glad to be included or not. That I was considered a part of the family to this degree did please me, but the actual experience of standing behind my father’s coffin was unsettling. His stiff, sunken face, touched up with rouge in a misbegotten attempt to give a lifelike appearance, was an unnerving sight. Even when I held my gaze on the camera, I was conscious of the nearness of my father’s lifeless form with its glazed, fixed eyes. The sweet fragrance of lilies was smothering, all the more so with the window drapes closed, and the atmosphere was altogether oppressive. When the photographer finished and I was able to escape the room at last, I took a deep breath in relief.
Mother then busied herself in writing invitations to the funeral. I suppose all the activity was helpful in that it prevented her from dwelling too much on her loss; but having glimpsed her composed face and dry eyes, I doubted that she was at risk of falling to pieces. Of course, she had had months to prepare herself for this day.
I seated myself next to her escritoire and cleared my throat.
“Mother, I’m moving to the Langham,” I said. “I shall be happy to come round any time that you want me, but I feel I’m in the way here, and I miss my husband.” When she nodded without looking at me, I said, “He and I have discussed it, and we would consider it a favor if you would allow us to pay for the funeral. I know that velvet palls and matched horses with plume headdresses and the like don’t come cheap, and I—we—would like you to have this.” I held out a check.
She looked at it without reaching out for it. “Well, that is one fault you managed to avoid: being stingy.” After a moment’s consideration she said, “Yes, you may pay the funeral expenses. I think it would be a step in the right direction.” She took the check
and slipped it into a cubbyhole of the desk, then resumed writing her letter.
Taken aback, I said, “What other steps do you think I must take?”
Her response was tart. “If you are trying to buy a clear conscience, my girl, it will take more than some hired mourners.”
“What have I to be guilty about?” I demanded. “I was here at the end in case he asked for me. Even when I left home, I tried to help. I would happily have continued to send money if he hadn’t forbidden me.”
“You’re thinking of yourself, as always,” she snapped. “Have you never considered how it must have stung for him to feed his children with money you earned by being a fast woman? It’s little wonder he wished to settle his accounts and not be beholden to you.”
I fought to keep my temper. “I have told you and told you, I earned my money decently.”
“Whether that’s true I cannot say. But I can’t help but think that you didn’t send it merely to be helpful. You wanted to prove to your father and me that you could do well without us.”
That was an uncomfortable idea, but I met it with bravado. “And oughtn’t you to be glad of that? It was one less mouth for you to feed.”
“You made him feel useless. Powerless.”
That was such an unexpected cut that I had to turn it over in my mind for a moment. Slowly I said, “I never meant to make him feel that way. After all, he knew I would leave home one day. That’s what children are meant to do. It’s a pity he couldn’t see that it was a compliment of a sort that you and he raised me well enough that I could go out into the world at that age.” The longer her words echoed in my ears, though, the angrier I became. “As for making him feel a certain way, my conscience is clear,” I said. “If Father chose to warp my decisions into some kind of reproach against himself, that is none of my doing.” I stood. “So are you certain it’s safe for Roderick and me to pay for the funeral? Or would that anger my father so much that he wouldn’t be able to enjoy paradise?”
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