A Snowfall of Silver

by Laura Wood

  “Get out?” I feel my eyes widen. It never occurred to me that this tour, with all of its excitement and delight, might be something to break free from.

  She shoots me a quick, irritable look. “I thought you, at least, weren’t going to be shocked by a woman demonstrating a bit of ambition.”

  “I’m not,” I say hastily. “I suppose I’ve just had quite a painfully small life so far. It seems to me that this production – well, it’s something to be proud of. On tour with Rhys Cantwell and Eileen Turner, of all people! And you’re doing great work.”

  “My work is not the problem,” she says. “And, yes, Rhys and Eileen add some clout. But the rest are no good. Provincial audiences are easily pleased, and Rhys could drag a decent performance out of a rock, but Russ is middling at best, no matter what he likes to think of himself. Dan too – he’s passable but he’d be out of his depth without the rest of us to carry him.”

  “What about Alma?” I ask anxiously.

  Her eyes narrow. “She’s all right,” she says slowly. “She’s got potential, anyway. But that just brings its own set of problems, doesn’t it?”

  “Does it?”

  “Don’t be so naive,” Viola says coldly. “You can’t be if you want to act. If Alma’s talented then she’s a threat – she and I will end up competing for the same parts. And her looks are a director’s dream, all pale and blonde and blue-eyed and saintly. The crowds will love her even before she opens her mouth. We’re all competing against each other, and pretending that we’re not is dishonest. I may be a lot of things, but dishonest is not one of them.”

  “But you don’t need to compete with Alma,” I point out. “No matter how good she is, she’s just starting out, whereas you’ve got experience. The audiences love you. Just look at the write-ups.”

  She gives a short laugh. “They don’t review my performance. They just go on about my looks, like I’m a plant or a parrot,” she says. “It’s the same with directors and producers. They want me to be the ‘exotic’ beauty, but never too exotic. Did you know,” she says, leaning forward, “I met with a producer once, who had a whole story planned for me that could explain my background. He suggested I could say I was born in Australia, rather than India. Said I was fortunate that I could pass.”

  “Pass for what?” I ask, confused.

  “White.” The word is blade sharp, slicing through the air. “Of course.”

  The breath catches in my chest and my lips form a silent, “Oh.”

  “You really haven’t seen much of the world, have you?”

  I shake my head. We sit in silence for a moment, and then I say hesitantly, “I’m sorry about – well, I’m sorry about all of it. I didn’t know, I mean, I hadn’t thought...”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  There’s another pause then and Viola pulls something from her pocket. A piece of paper, severely crumpled, as if it’s been folded and screwed up and smoothed out again many times.

  “Do you know what this is?” she asks, but she doesn’t wait for an answer, because how on earth would I? “It’s a telegram from Marco. That producer I was seeing. He’s so sorry but he doesn’t think I’m right for the part after all. It’s going to someone else. Someone well-known and uninspiring who looks an awful lot like your Alma. He feels awful, but the decision’s been made. How unoriginal it all is.”

  She leans back, briefly closing her eyes. When she opens them again they’re full of fire.

  “I’ll get there, though.” Her voice is low. “I’ll show them all.”

  Nora sticks her head round the door then, and Viola jumps up and moves forward. I try to organize my scattered wits. I know that Viola is right – growing up in a small Cornish village means I have a very shuttered view of the world. It is one of the reasons that I wanted so badly to get out. I suppose I just hadn’t really thought about what I would find once I did.

  I think about what Viola said, and about the question that had been tugging at me ever since I had first seen her perform – with her talent, why hadn’t I heard of her? Why was she having to work so hard to charm the producers and get the parts she wanted? Was this the answer?

  I follow Viola into the room where Nora is showing her some of the beautiful gowns that hang from the rails.

  “It was this gown you meant for Viola, wasn’t it, Freya?” Nora drapes the dress over her arm. “You do have a good eye.”

  “Yes,” I manage. “That’s it.”

  Viola strokes the silk with elegant fingers. “I don’t know if it’s my colour.”

  “Try it on,” Nora urges her.

  She does. When the dress settles around her it looks as though it has been made exactly for her, as if some unknown dressmaker in the distant past took her measurements, and the dress has sat on the rail for all this time, waiting for Viola to wear it.

  “It’s … acceptable.” Viola tilts her head in the mirror, but her eyes meet mine there and there’s nothing she can do to hide the pleasure in them.

  “Perfect,” Nora murmurs in satisfaction. “Now, Freya, for you,” there’s a gleam in her eyes, “I have a few suggestions.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Our little dormitory has become a dressing room once more. What had begun as Nora’s spontaneous dinner party has turned into a real event. Alma, Nora, Viola and I have spent an enjoyable few hours getting ready, while the men “set the scene” as Kit mysteriously put it.

  Nora has curled my hair and piled it on top of my head, but I’ve been so busy helping the others I’m still not in my dress yet.

  Viola looks predictably beautiful in her golden gown, her hair swept up; the only make-up she wears is the tiniest bit of rouge on her cheekbones and lips. Alma is dressed in pale blue with flowing sleeves. Nora has rapidly altered a man’s evening suit so that it clings to her generous curves. The suit is midnight blue, the jacket close-fitting with tails, embroidered in gold thread, and a matching gold waistcoat. She looks sensational.

  “My goodness, Nora,” I exclaim when I get my first look at the full outfit. “Just think what they were all missing out on not letting the women wear breeches!”

  Nora smiles, pleased with herself. “I imagine I’d have scandalized a few regency ladies given half the chance. Here, help me with this button, I don’t think it’s attached properly.”

  After helping Nora with more minor alterations, I sit down with Alma to braid the front of her hair back and away from her face, leaving the rest rippling down her back. When I’m finished I step back to admire her.

  “You look absolutely wonderful,” I say. “Like Guinevere.”

  “I feel wonderful,” she says. “If only we could always dress this way. It makes me feel so regal.”

  “You won’t be saying that when you are trying to keep your sleeves from trailing in the soup,” I point out.

  Somewhere down the hall a bell clangs loudly.

  “That’s it,” Nora exclaims. “The signal! The boys are ready.”

  “Oh!” I exclaim. “And I’m not even dressed yet. You go, and I’ll be right behind you.”

  “All right, all right,” Nora laughs, following after Viola and Alma. “But don’t be long, you don’t want to miss the fun!”

  Finally, I am alone in the dressing room, and I press my hand to my stomach, taking a deep breath. Kit wasn’t kidding all those weeks ago when he said that being on tour meant you didn’t get a minute to yourself. Just for a moment I relish the quiet, the stillness, the fact that I am completely alone. I feel myself settle. As my breathing slows down, my heartbeat slows too.

  I move over to the rail where Nora has hung the dress we chose for me to wear. At first glance it is quite simple, a pale lavender charmeuse over an ivory satin slip, edged in soft blue velvet, but when the dress moves, the purple gleams and sparkles, like a piece of polished amethyst.

  The dress itself looks like something from a hundred years ago. Sleeves that fall in tiers to the elbow, a bodice rather dashingly low cut over the bu
st, cinching in at the waist before falling in a full skirt to the floor. It has very fine silver embroidery in a vine-like pattern around the bodice, trailing down the sides and circling the bottom of the dress. Nora told me I would have to wear the proper underwear with it to make it fit, and so I agreed to a stiff petticoat and a corset, though I would not let her lace me up too tight.

  “There’s no point in wearing it if I can’t eat in it,” I said firmly.

  I slip off my robe and step into the dress. The dress is heavy, and there is, I realize, a big difference between buttoning someone else into a costume and buttoning it yourself. There’s a reason all those Victorian ladies had maids to help with their dressing and undressing.

  I manage to get most of the buttons done up and I’m twisting myself into strange shapes in front of the mirror trying to do the rest when there’s a knock at the door. I swing around to find Kit framed there, leaning with one shoulder against the door frame and an amused look on his face.

  “Nora thought you might need a hand,” he says. “But you look like you’re managing just fine.”

  “Don’t just stand there!” I huff, half-laughing in frustration. “Come and help me!”

  He peels himself away from the door and steps into the room.

  “Oh!” I exclaim. “You look so handsome!”

  I don’t think about the words before they come out of my mouth – it is as instinctive as telling Alma she looked beautiful – but I find that I am flushing a deep and unbecoming red. Thanks to the mirror in front of me I get to actually see my blush spread, which is an experience that I do not recommend. Far better to remain in ignorance.

  Kit, to his credit, ignores me and moves forward to help me with my dress. I don’t know why I am so flustered all of a sudden. It was just a shock, I suppose, to suddenly see Kit in evening wear. He’s dressed in a close-fitting black tailcoat, with a matching waistcoat over a crisp white shirt with a white bow tie, and a pair of black trousers. His shoulders look broader in a jacket. His hair is lightly oiled and smoothed back away from his face, apart from a couple of unruly locks that fall over his brow. The oil has turned his hair a little darker, a touch more auburn. I’ve never noticed before that his face is such a nice shape, with such good cheekbones.

  “Who taught you to tie your bow tie like that?” I ask, looking at him in the mirror.

  “My sister,” Kit says, coming to stand close behind me. “Now, what seems to be the problem?”

  “It’s just those last few buttons,” I say, twisting slightly. “I think you would have had to be a contortionist to get yourselves in and out of these things alone. I suppose they had maids.”

  He does up the few remaining buttons on my dress. I have got my breathing back under control, but there is a moment when I feel his hands brush, ever so lightly, over the skin between my shoulder blades, and something peculiar happens to my knees.

  “Are you all right?” he asks. His voice is low.

  “I think I must be hungry,” I frown. “It’s been hours since those jam sandwiches.” My stomach growls, and I laugh. “You see?”

  Kit does up the final button and steps back. “There you go,” he says. “Let’s go and find sustenance. Although … take a look at yourself first.” Our eyes meet in the mirror and his crease up at the edges in a faint smile. “You look very lovely.”

  I shake the lavender skirts out and tilt my head to the side. “I feel like I’m Cinderella, about to be swept off to the ball.” I turn to admire the dress from the side. “I’ll start making deep curtsies to everyone again, just like I did when I first started, and Mr Cantwell will sack me!”

  Kit laughs. “I’m sure you can rein in the curtsies if you try.”

  “Perhaps, but I should at least have a fan that I can flutter coquettishly, and slap across people’s wrist’s while saying ‘La!’”

  “That is very specific.”

  “All right,” I say, giving my reflection one more quick examination. “I’m ready, let’s go.”

  Kit puts his hand to his chest, and executes a smart little bow, before holding out his elbow to me.

  I slip my hand into the crook of his arm. The fine black material of his topcoat is smooth. “Don’t bow, or I will start curtseying.”

  “Sorry,” he says. “I think it’s the dress.”

  We make our way down the corridor, and my beautiful dress rustles, whispering across the wooden floorboards like a secret.

  “Are you ready?” Kit asks, a gleam in his eye, as we head towards the wings.

  I glance at him. “Of course I am.”

  But I’m not at all. When we erupt on to the stage I come to a clattering halt, my gasp audible even above the record player that is sending slow, sweet music curling through the air.

  As if we are in a play, the company stops what it was doing and swings around to welcome us, and there is a pause, a silence, that lasts only a moment in which I take in the incredible scene before me.

  The stage is dressed like an enchanted forest in the snow. Beautiful silk screens, painted with slender, silver-trunked trees, stretch out around us. Impossibly, magically, there is snow on the ground coating the stage and building up into little piles at the side. A low, rosy glow is cast over the scene.

  Running the length of the stage is a long banquet table, surrounded by seats with deep red velvet cushions. The table groans under the weight of pies and cakes and platters of fruit. There is cold roast chicken and a beautiful shell pink salmon. Nestled between the dishes are enormous, heavy candelabras, the lit candles in them shining like tiny stars. There are jars with candles in them dotted around the darkened auditorium, giving the feeling that we are standing amid the constellations.

  “It’s impossible,” I whisper, and I feel the vibration of Kit’s laugh under my hand. “How did you all do this? The snow?”

  “Magic,” he replies.

  “No, but really,” I ask. “How is this possible?”

  “Tomorrow I will tell you the prosaic ways in which we create snow for the stage,” he says. “Tonight, let’s just agree … magic.”

  “All right,” I say. “Magic.”

  Sophie, in a gorgeous gold dress that matches Nora’s waistcoat, fusses over the table, and Mr Pennington – who really does make a very convincing vicar – is gazing adoringly at Eileen Turner, who is resplendent in a gown of midnight blue velvet, with a collar of sparkling diamonds at her neck. Ordinarily, I’d say the diamonds were simply glass costume jewellery, but tonight who knows? I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find Eileen dripping with the Crown Jewels themselves.

  Dan and Russ are both in full military regalia, and I’m reminded of the first time I met Russ. He looks just as dashing now. Next to them, Kit’s outfit is stark in its simplicity, but somehow all the more elegant for it.

  “Thank goodness you’re here!” Nora calls over. “Now we can eat!”

  There’s a cheer at that, and we drop eagerly into our seats, talking all over each other and admiring one another’s costumes, passing dishes around in an intricate dance as we fill our plates.

  Mr Cantwell gets to his feet. He is wearing what looks like an Admiral Nelson costume, and it suits him extremely well. I particularly like the gold tassels on his shoulders, and his commitment to wearing the bicorne hat – it is the kind of whimsical touch that I would not have expected from him, and yet he looks in his element.

  “A toast,” he says, tugging at the cork on a bottle of elderflower wine. We all cheer when it pops. “To Runleigh and the warm hospitality we’ve enjoyed here. I have never found myself in a situation quite like this one, and yet I find that I would not change it for the world. Nor could I ask to be stranded with a more amenable group.”

  “To Runleigh!” we all chorus.

  “To Hubert!” Eileen cries, causing the theatre manager to turn very pink.

  “And to Sophie!” Nora joins in, turning to the woman beside her. “For keeping us poor souls fed.”

  “Hear, hear!”
we cry as one.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  We eat and eat until we can eat no more. Or at least I do.

  “Why did I ever agree to a corset?” I groan. “I should have worn something that fits me like a tent, then I could eat some more of that gooseberry tart.”

  “Perhaps just a little piece of the cheese?” Kit suggests. “On a cracker?”

  I press my hand against my stomach, and wiggle experimentally. “I think the strings will hold up to another cracker and a sliver, just a sliver of cheese,” I agree. “And maybe some of that quince paste too.”

  Kit prepares the cracker and hands it to me and I eye it appreciatively.

  Russ shakes his head at me across the table. “I wish you’d look at me the way you look at that cracker,” he says, looping his arm lightly around the top of his chair.

  “I doubt I’ll ever look at anyone that way,” I reply. “I’m fairly sure no man can compare to a perfect sharp cheddar.”

  “How utterly depressing,” Russ says.

  “You’re slipping, Russ,” Viola says, grinning from further down the table. “Beaten out by a piece of cheese!”

  Russ laughs but I think I see a flicker of irritation in his eyes. He reaches a hand across the table and takes mine in his own, running his thumb gently over my fingers. “Perhaps you’ll give me another chance to change your mind,” he murmurs.

  I pull my hand away, feeling confused. It seems the more I put Russ off, the more interesting I become to him. I need to put a stop to it, but I’m not sure how.

  I turn to Sophie.

  “It was kind of you to supply this incredible dinner,” I say. “My very wholehearted compliments to the chef.”

  Sophie chuckles. “This chef accepts them, and you’re very welcome. I have to say it’s not every day I get invited to a shindig like this.” She glances at Nora from under her lashes, and Nora dimples in response. “And in such excellent company as well.”

  “But you must have theatre companies coming through all the time,” I say. “It’s a beautiful little theatre.”