Midnight at Mallyncourt

by Jennifer Wilde

  I looked up as Laverne stepped into the room, resplendent in the dark green velvet dress embroidered with gold that she wore as Vanozza dei Catanei, Pope Alexander’s mistress. Artificial rubies at throat and wrists clattered as she moved, and I noticed that her long golden wig was slightly askew. There was an unmistakable odor of gin, and her fleshy cheeks were much too pink. Laverne was a plump, cozy soul, forty-five years old, with only the pathetic remnants of what had once been great beauty. Generous, ever ready to open her heart or her pocketbook, she was sentimental, bawdy, garrulous and cheerful, my closest friend in the company. She loved gossip almost as much as gin, and her attitude toward me was that of a clucking mother hen who loved to fuss over her chick.

  “Ten minutes to curtain and you’re not even in costume,” she scolded, plopping down onto the sofa. “You’d better get a move on, ducky.”

  “You sound like Gerry.”

  “Lord, is he in a state tonight! Raising hell right and left. Thinks them gents from London come to see him, he does. La! What a fool! Gerald Prince might still stir the hearts of middle-aged matrons, but they’d laugh ’im off the stage in London! You look a bit peaked tonight, luv.”

  “I have a headache.”

  “Worried about Gerry?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Think he’ll come round to your dressing room again tonight?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “Bastards! All of ’em! Never was a man born worth the powder it’d take to blow ’im up. Gerald Prince is the worst of the lot. Why can’t he be satisfied with those silly tarts chattering up in their attic dressing rooms? Jenny, luv, what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” I said calmly.

  “Any other girl, she’d shrug ’er shoulders and give in for the sake of ’er job. I mean, what’s another quick tumble more or less? But you, you’re different. That’s why he wants you. Lord, if I wudn’t so worried about my own job I’d give ’im a piece of my mind, tell ’im off good and proper, I would, but he’s my boss. He pays my wages. This company ain’t so much, luv, but it’s the only security I got.”

  “I can fight my own battles, Laverne.”

  “I wonder, ducky. I really do. You got breeding, you got principles, but where’re they gonna get you? All them swells you turned down—” Laverne shook her head, fingering the chunky ruby necklace. “This ain’t no life for a lass like you, God’s truth. Both of us know that. If only you had enough saved to open that dress shop—”

  “I’ll manage somehow.” My voice was crisp.

  “I worry about you sometimes. I couldn’t love you more if you was my own daughter, you know that, ducky, but sometimes I worry. You’re hard, Jenny. You’re tough. You’ve had to be, true, you’ve had to fight every step of the way, but sometimes I’m afraid you’ll grow even harder. When I think of the innocent young sprig you was when you joined the company—it breaks my poor heart.”

  “Innocent young sprigs have a very poor chance of surviving.”

  “I know, ducky,” she said forlornly. “More’s the pity.”

  I stepped behind the screen and began to change into the sky-blue velvet gown I wore in the first act. Embroidered with silver and pearls, it had a formfitting bodice and wide, puffed sleeves slashed with silver, a magnificent garment just beginning to show signs of wear and tear. Laverne shook her head again as I moved around the screen to stand in front of the mirror.

  “A vision of loveliness, God’s truth,” she said. “One of these days some man is gonna be mighty lucky.”

  I smoothed the material over my thighs. “Think so?” I asked idly.

  “That gent last night—he was very interested in you, luv. He took me out to a proper restaurant full of swells, just like I was as respectable as anyone else, fed me roast duck in orange sauce, kept refilling my wine glass. All those waiters hovering around! I wudn’t half-pleased, I don’t mind sayin’ so.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.”

  “Oh, I knew what ’e was after, all right. Wudn’t interested in me, not by a long chalk. He wanted to know everything about you, ducky, kept askin’ the most personal questions. I got a mite tipsy, probably talked too much, but he was so charmin’. A handsome brute, too, that one, though a mite too chilly and reserved.”

  “I’m not really interested in Edward Baker, Laverne.”

  “You’ve met him, then?” she exclaimed.

  “I’ve met him.”

  “Lord, ducky, and you never said a word! Just like you to let me babble on like that. A gent like him could do a lot for you, luv. He’s got to be rich with them clothes ’e was wearin’, and—”

  “Curtain!” the stage manager bellowed.

  “Already?” Laverne complained, disappointed at having to give up such a fascinating subject. “I’ll just have time to dart into my dressing room for a quick nip. Is my wig all right? Lord, these talky historical epics! They’ll be the death of me yet—”

  I found it difficult to concentrate on the performance. My head still ached, and my mind was on other things. Fortunately, for the first three acts I had little to do but stand around and look beautiful and innocent as Gerry and Donald Hampton, as Cesare and Pope Alexander, plotted intrigues and planned murders, each striving to outdo the other in histrionics. I had one major scene in the third act when, six months pregnant and wearing a flowing black gown that failed to conceal it, I stood before the assembly of purple robed cardinals and claimed to be virgo intacta so that the marriage to my first husband could be annulled. It was the last act I dreaded. In the climactic scene, Cesare, driven out of his senses with incestuous lust, finally declares himself to Lucrezia who, in this play at least, is more sinned against than sinning and attempts to ward off his advances. It was always difficult to play, even more so now that Gerry was striving for such total realism.

  The third act ended. The curtain fell. I went to my dressing room and made my costume change, replacing the black gown for one of white velvet embroidered with gold. I felt lifeless, moving as though in a trance. It was going to be worse than ever. I could tell that. Gerry had had that look of anticipation in his eyes all during the first three acts, and in our scenes together he had been more fervent than usual, barely repressing that surging desire, touching me, speaking in a husky voice. The audience was thrilled, stunned into shocked silence, anticipating the final confrontation as eagerly as Gerald Prince himself.

  Why? I asked myself as I made my way backstage. Why does it have to be this way? I had worked so hard, and now everything I had worked for was about to be destroyed because of one man who refused to take no for an answer. I stood in the wings, holding onto a rope as I watched the stage hands changing the sets. I could hear the audience beyond the curtain chattering and laughing gaily. A cold rage welled up inside. It wasn’t fair. Damn Gerald Prince! Laverne was right. All men were bastards, and women were their victims.

  “Great house tonight,” Gerry said, strolling up to join me. “They’re loving every minute of it.”

  I didn’t answer. The backdrop was up. The furniture was in place. The stage hands were applying the finishing touches.

  “I’d like you to try to put a little more into the last scene tonight, Jenny,” he remarked casually. “You’ve been holding back—I’ve noticed that the last few times we’ve played it. This kind of thing doesn’t work unless you give it all you’ve got. It’s not drawing room comedy, you know.”

  “I know,” I said stiffly.

  “Try to loosen up a bit, will you? You’ve been like a zombie all evening. The leading lady has a certain responsibility to her audience, and you’ve definitely been holding back. I’d hate to have to replace you.”

  “Is that a threat, Gerry?”

  “A threat?” He was the picture of surprised innocence. “Of course not, luv, of course not, but you must understand that, as head of the company, I have certain responsibilities, too, and can afford to keep only the best people on the payroll. Keep that in
mind, Jenny luv.”

  The curtain rose. Donald Hampton was pacing about in Papal robes, a fierce expression on his face as he awaited the arrival of his son. Gerald Prince swaggered onstage, looking splendid in black silk tights and black velvet doublet embroidered with silver and pearls, the wide sleeves slashed with red satin panels. He and Donald played their scene, and then Laverne tottered onstage as Vannozza, tipsily pleading with her son to abstain from his unnatural desires. Her wig was still askew. She forgot several of her lines. Gerry was seething. From where I stood, I could see his nostrils flaring. Laverne made her exit, and he was alone on stage, delivering his impassioned soliloquy.

  I heard my cue. I made my entrance. The footlights seemed brighter than ever, flickering in a smoky half circle. I could smell the oil burn. I could see the great mass of upturned faces like miniature half moons in the darkened auditorium. I forgot the unpleasant smell. I forgot the audience. I was a professional actress, and I would do my best no matter what personal stress I might be under. Jenny Randall and her problems vanished. I became the tragic Lucrezia, her beloved second husband brutally murdered by her insanely jealous brother, torn between the hatred she felt for that brother and the unnatural love equally as strong. As Lucrezia, I listened to my brother’s declaration of passion. I shook my head, I wept, and when he seized me, I fought, breaking away from him.

  “No, Cesare!” I cried. “It can’t be—”

  “It must be,” he said with rumbling menace.

  The audience was hushed, taut with suspense, waiting for that final, shocking kiss that brought the curtain down. Weeping, I stood beside the scarlet sofa, watching my brother approach. He stopped. He leered. He stroked the short golden goatee. Strong, majestic, he was the very incarnation of cruelty and vice. When he crushed me to him for the last time, I was to yield and melt against him as the curtain fell. Shoulders rolling, lips curled in an evil sneer, Cesare approached, and suddenly I rebelled. Something inside snapped. I was no longer Lucrezia, I was Jenny, and the man in the magnificent costume was no longer Cesare Borgia, he was merely a man who filled me with loathing. He stood in front of me, so near I could feel the heat of his body.

  “Relax!” Gerry whispered angrily.

  He stroked my cheek with his fingertips. Suspense mounted. The whole house was silent, not a paper rustling, not a soul stirring. Looking over Gerry’s shoulder, I could see half of the company watching from the wings, Sally, Chloe, Donald Hampton, Laverne with a worried look on her face. All were aware of the real-life conflict so grippingly illustrated here in this scene. All were eager to see what the two of us would do. Gerry touched my hair, winding one of the coppery locks around his finger. He was breathing heavily. Seething with rebellion, as rigid as a statue, I looked up at him. His handsome, middle-aged face was beginning to sag a bit. The cruel smile still curled on his lips. His eyes were filled with a lust he didn’t have to simulate.

  “The time has come, my fair one,” he said in a powerful voice.

  “Don’t touch me!” My own voice was stony.

  Gerry started. Those words weren’t in the script. Momentarily flustered, he frowned, completely at a loss, and then he threw back his head and gave a loud, rumbling laugh. He cut the laugh short. He took a deep breath. He reached for me. I drew back my hand and slammed it across his face with all the force I could muster. There was a resounding smack, and my palm stung fiercely. Everything seemed to be shimmering with haze. I saw the pink hand print beginning to burn on his cheek. I heard the loud rattle of the curtain coming down. I was moving rapidly across the stage, past the group in the wings, and there was a thundering noise that I realized must be applause.

  Thoroughly shaken, trembling, I reached my dressing room. I closed the door behind me and stood there for several moments, leaning against it. My heart was beating rapidly, and the air still seemed to be filled with shimmering haze. Gradually, it cleared. Composure returned, and I was filled with a strange, icy calm. It was over now, and I didn’t care. I simply didn’t care. I took off the white velvet gown and hung it on a peg. I removed the makeup and washed my face with cold water. In the mirror, my face was hard. It might have been chiseled from stone. My green eyes were flashing. Calmly, I brushed my long auburn hair. I was standing behind the screen, wearing only my petticoat, when the door opened and Gerry sauntered into the room.

  I expected him to be seething with anger. He wasn’t. He was as cool, as composed as I was myself. A faint half smile played on his lips. He was still wearing the elaborate costume of Cesare Borgia.

  “You didn’t take your curtain calls,” he said casually.

  “No.”

  “There were seven,” he told me. “The audience loved it. You gave our little play a—uh—somewhat different ending, but fortunately few of them were aware of it.”

  “Indeed?”

  “It could have been disastrous, of course. For your sake I’m glad it wasn’t. You’ve been under a great deal of stress lately, Jenny. Something has been bothering you. You didn’t know what you were doing tonight—I understand that. I’ve decided to forgive you.”

  “That’s generous of you, Gerry.”

  “Oh, I can be exceedingly generous,” he replied.

  “I don’t doubt that.”

  I had pulled on my brown linen dress. Reaching behind me, I fastened it up. Gerry was watching me, a thoughtful look in his eyes as he stroked the Borgia goatee. Calmly, I moved around the screen and sat down on the dressing stool to put on my slippers. Skirts rustled crisply as I did so. Ignoring him, I buckled the slippers and stood up.

  “This play,” he said, “it demands a—uh—certain experience. You’re uncomfortable in the role, and that’s because you lack the experience that would enable you to fully understand it. I’m aware of that, and that’s why I’ve decided to overlook your—peculiar conduct tonight.”

  I didn’t reply. Opening the wardrobe, I took out my brown velvet reticule and the dark golden shawl I had crocheted myself.

  “I could give you that experience, Jenny.”

  “I’m sure you could.”

  “I’ve had my eye on you for some time now.”

  “I’m fully aware of that.”

  “The other girls—they’re shallow, frivolous, a waste of time. I realize that now. For four years I’ve been a blind fool, expending all my energy trying to make something of greedy, foolish little hoydens while all the time you were right there, waiting.”

  “Waiting?” I said.

  He ignored the question. “You’re different, Jenny. You have an indefinable quality—there’s something noble in your makeup. You and I would make a smashing team. Together—why, we could scale the heights.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “I’m certain of it,” he said earnestly.

  There was an expectant look on his face. Gerald Prince was a petty tyrant, accustomed to having everything his own way. The other girls had succumbed willingly enough, and he simply couldn’t grasp the fact that I might not succumb as well with certain dismissal in store if I didn’t. I gazed at the man standing before me, his fame a thing of the past, his good looks fast fading, his career on the downhill slide, and I no longer felt any anger. I felt only pity.

  “I’m sorry, Gerry.”

  “You mean—” He looked stunned.

  “The answer is no.”

  “You ungrateful little—you can’t—”

  “Oh, but I can,” I said calmly. I wrapped the dark gold shawl around my arms and picked up my reticule. “I’ll save you the trouble of dismissing me. I quit. As of now. I have half a month’s wages due. I’ll send for them. Good-bye, Gerry. It’s been an interesting four years.”

  He was incredulous. His cheeks flushed. He started to say something, but before he could get the words out I left, closing the door behind me. I went up the narrow steps and crossed the deserted stage. I could hear the merry chatter of the girls drifting down from their dressing rooms. There would be no fond farewells. I
would see Laverne at the hotel, and she would be horrified, yet she would understand. As I left the theater I felt no regrets.

  I felt, instead, a curious exhilaration.

  At one forty-five the next afternoon my bags were packed. I left them with the hotel clerk, telling him I would send for them before the day was over. Wearing my best maroon and black striped frock, pulling on a pair of black silk gloves, I stepped out into the bright afternoon sunlight. I was filled with a sense of adventure. Laverne had burst into tears when I told her what I had done. Thoroughly crushed, she had sobbed and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, claiming she’d never see me again, predicting I would starve. I promised her I would write. I assured her that I had no intentions of starving. I knew what I had to do, and any reservations I might have would simply have to be thrust aside.

  I walked briskly down the promenade. The water sparkled with silvery spangles of light, washing over the shingles in glittering waves. Gulls circled overhead, filling the air with their raucous cries. Fine carriages clattered down the street. The ornate white brick hotels with their marble porticoes rose along the front in majestic splendor. I turned up the side street. Ahead, I could see the turrets and domes of the pavilion rising above the emerald green treetops. I saw the small park. He was standing in front of the rhododendrons, wearing a trim gray suit and a white satin waistcoat embroidered in black. A tall gray top hat was on his head, and one hand gripped a pair of white gloves. He looked cool and aloof. When he turned, he didn’t seem at all surprised to see me approaching.

  Chapter Three

  THE JOURNEY by train had been long and tiresome, but Edward Baker showed no signs of exhaustion. He was as composed, as distant and polite as he had been when we boarded the train in London early in the morning. When we finally alighted at the station at Mallyn Green, a shiny black phaeton upholstered in padded blue velvet had been waiting for us, a servant wearing the dark blue Mallyn livery perched up on the high front seat, ready to drive us to the great house two miles from the village proper. A cart bearing all our luggage had gone on ahead, and we were on our way to Mallyncourt now, the two sleek, muscular grays spanking along at a steady pace down the wide dirt road. My “husband” sat back with a remote expression, engrossed in his thoughts, ignoring me. He might have been alone in the carriage.