A Fatal First Night

by Kathleen Marple Kalb

  He took my hand, as he did when I helped him up every night, and sprang to his feet, and we stood there for a second, still breathing a little hard from the duel and the relief that it was over. We shared a smile and a nod. We were going to be just fine.

  That’s when the applause started. Marie, her ladies, and the rest of the company gave us a loud, raucous ovation. I lifted Ruben’s hand up and led him in a bow.

  After, Marie made a special point of hugging Ruben, and Preston shook his hand. By now, everyone knew or suspected enough to make those significant gestures. Preston nodded to us all and walked out, looking grimmer than I’d ever seen him.

  Then Marie turned to me. “What next?”

  “Please no,” I sighed. “The one question we must never, ever ask.”

  With that, the longest matinee day in opera history finally came to a close, and we broke to go home for our various medicinal beverages. At least that’s what Tommy and I did.

  * * *

  It was full dark, and Tommy and I were relaxing in the parlor, I with brandy, he with whisky, when we had time to catch our breath and talk. Mrs. G had offered to make us a nice healthful dinner, but neither of us had much appetite after all this Sturm und Drang, so we had sent her on her way for some relaxation of her own. I doubted she’d see Preston that night.

  “Some hell of a day.” Tommy took another sip of his whisky and stared into the fire. “Do we think ugly little Mr. Drumm and his prejudice were the center of the trouble?”

  “I suppose we have to take him, and Eamon, at their word. At least for now.”

  “I guess. I’d like to take them out in the street and teach them a good lesson about treating people with respect.”

  “I’d like to help you.”

  We shared a nod.

  “Three days, and then I can send that rotten boy back to the bog he came from.” Tommy shook his head.

  “In the meantime, I think he’s scared enough to behave.”

  “I suppose. I’m just glad everyone is all right.”

  The doorbell rang.

  Tommy looked at me. I looked at him, and we both glanced at the clock. It felt like midnight, but it was only seven.

  “Sophia’s gone home,” I said.

  “I’ll see who’s troubling us. Stay and rest.”

  “It was a scratch.” I didn’t need him treating me like a delicate flower.

  “ ‘Marry, ’tis enough.’ ” As he growled Mercutio’s famous line, I shook my head. There is nothing like a protective Irishman.

  Unless it’s a protective half Scotsman.

  “Well, Barrister. A pleasant surprise.”

  “Quite.” Gil barely managed a friendly handshake with Tommy before striding into the parlor. “I heard there was a mishap.”

  “How?” I asked wearily.

  He held up a newspaper, the Illustrated News, which was not his normal reading matter. Unless perhaps he’d taken an interest in the gossip column. “Apparently, your admirers at the Lorgnette were enjoying the matinee.”

  I took a look.

  Swashbuckling diva Ella Shane gives further evidence of the bravery that only adds to her beauty. A mishap with swords in the final duel of today’s matinee of The Princes in the Tower left our heroine and her adversary with real wounds, but despite blood dripping onto the stage floor, she finished the triumphant final aria as magnificently as always. Miss Shane is said to be recovering well at home, and the run continues. Brava, diva!

  I shook my head and sighed. “Not nearly so serious. Yes, Ruben and I were both hurt, but it was nothing a little iodine and a bandage didn’t fix.”

  “I see.” His face relaxed and took on a shy, sheepish cast.

  Behind Gil, Tommy was smiling a little, for the first time since the show.

  “Apparently, one of our stagehands doesn’t approve of Cubans and decided to make his feelings known,” I said, shaking my head.

  Gil’s eyes narrowed.

  “He is no longer one of our hands,” Tommy assured him. “And has been appropriately cautioned about sharing his thoughts on Mr. Avila.”

  “Good.”

  “Would you care for a cup of tea?” I asked. “Mrs. G has gone for the day, but I’m perfectly capable of making one.”

  “No, no. You need your rest. I, er, should make it an early night, as well.”

  “You’re welcome to stay awhile, Barrister.” Tommy’s eyes gleamed.

  “Really, I just wanted to see that you are . . .” Gil shook his head, with an embarrassed chuckle. “I was concerned about you, Shane.”

  “I’m quite fine.” I pushed up the sleeve of my wrapper and held out my bandaged arm. “See? Very, very minor.”

  He took my other hand and kissed it. “Not minor when we’re speaking of you. Or of such a dangerous incident.”

  “We’re treating it with the appropriate gravity.” Tommy said. He and Gil shared one of those glances among men that annoy me so much.

  That was quite enough for me after a trying day.

  “Perhaps the two of you will enjoy a nice manly conversation.” I picked up my book and rose from the chaise. “It was very kind of you to drop by, but I do in fact need my rest.”

  Gil, blast him, grinned at me, divining the exact nature of my irritation. “I should take my leave. Good night, Shane.”

  “Good night.”

  He glanced at Tommy and returned his gaze to me. “Don’t be too hard on us, Shane. New century or no, men cannot help being protective.”

  I sighed and patted his arm in exact imitation of the good patriarch reassuring the little woman, which both of my protectors recognized. “Of course you can’t.”

  They smiled, and I bowed, then started up the stairs. After I was out of sight but not earshot, I heard Gil’s voice, more bewildered than bothered.

  “She really does fight one at every turn.”

  “Now you’re learning, Barrister.”

  Chapter 25

  In Which We Entertain an Unexpected Guest

  Amazingly, after a good night’s sleep, we were able to put the worst of the upheaval behind us and move on. Part of that was the simple fact that it was the day of our end-of-run reception, a very exciting thing, indeed.

  While chorus girls no doubt spend their entire runs celebrating the success of same, we know that serious, disciplined artists do not have the luxury of such misbehavior. But as a successful production draws to its close, we have always enjoyed entertaining the friends of the company and a few choice acquaintances at a small reception in the final week. It clears all the social obligations incurred during the show with one simple late-night buffet and gives the ensemble a chance to relax a bit before the last few performances.

  And so, after the Thursday show, our cast adjourned to Washington Square. I slipped upstairs to put on my evening gear, leaving Mrs. G to final preparations and the gentlemen of the ensemble to amuse themselves. Unlike my counterparts, I don’t just have to change from diva to hostess; I also have to change from man to woman, forcing me to start from scratch with hair and clothes.

  The quick change gave Rosa yet another chance to show her talents; I am glad for Anna that she is moving on as Louis’s lyricist and as a costumer, but I would have dreaded going without a good dresser. More, the fact that training a new dresser also got me a lady’s maid was an unexpected bonus. A bonus for Rosa, too, since, of course, a lady’s maid commands a higher salary and gets a variety of perks, not least the chance to sneak in some extra reading time.

  She was most definitely meeting her new responsibility, stepping up in speed and skill, and I smiled at her as she carefully buttoned the deep back of my lavender velvet evening gown. Despite the color, it wasn’t really my usual style; instead of my preferred ribbon or lace trim, it had simple but dramatic silver embroidery at the low neck, short sleeves, and skirt. Rather stark and sophisticated.

  I kept a light lavender silk wrap around my arms to hide the bandage.

  Rosa swirled my hair int
o a soft knot, twirled a few loose curls, helped me fasten my charm bracelet and the little amethyst heart pendant Tommy had given me on my last birthday, and pronounced me perfect.

  “I’ll do till perfect comes along, at any rate,” I agreed, adding a tiny dab of rose-petal salve to my lips. There were still faint smudges of stage liner around my eyes, accentuating them in a way that one couldn’t achieve with the limited cosmetics available to respectable ladies, and on the whole, I thought I did come out rather fetching. “Thanks, Rosa. Are you all set for the night?”

  Rosa was staying over in one of the spare rooms; it wasn’t fair to leave her to get home on her own so late, and she was probably glad for a night away from her boisterous family.

  “Oh, yes. Mrs. G is making me a plate, and I’ve got a new novel from the library.”

  A quiet night alone in her own soft bed with some dainty treats and a good book. It was likely her idea of heaven. Quite close to my own, for that matter.

  At least until the past few months. These days, my heaven might be a bit less bookish. Perhaps less solitary, too.

  “Excellent. Enjoy your night.”

  “You, too, miss. I imagine the gentlemen will like what they see.”

  I shrugged modestly.

  “Especially the duke.” She gave me a cheeky little smile as I headed out the door.

  “Off with you, now.”

  As I headed down the stairs, I caught some threads of animated talk. A woman was describing a recent trip to France in a tone intended to inspire envy in her listeners. Several men were comparing the relative merits of baseball and boxing. A mixed group seemed to be discussing education, and possibly women’s need for it. The usual conversational gunpowder at our house.

  Our guests were circulating between the dining room, the drawing room, and parlor, the pocket doors having been thrown open and furniture moved to accommodate them. The foyer appeared empty, since everyone else had arrived while Rosa was buttoning me into this elaborate frock. Nothing wrong with a grand entrance in one’s own home.

  “Shane.”

  Gil was standing at the foot of the stairs, watching me. I hadn’t noticed him until he stepped out of the shadows and spoke.

  “I always forget what a beautiful woman you are.”

  The soft, liquid tone of his voice told me it was meant as a compliment, but it didn’t come out quite that way. I shook my head and laughed, and so did he.

  “Why do I always seem to do this with you?” He took my hand as I reached the last step, and the current between us turned the simple gentlemanly gesture into much more.

  “I’ve no idea. But you are quite adorable when you do.”

  He gave me a rueful smile. “I was attempting to tell you that you look amazing tonight.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I might suggest somewhat more elaborate jewels with evening wear, but . . .”

  “I’ve no need or desire for jewels.”

  “You shine quite enough on your own.”

  We stood there for a measure or so, eyes locked, my hand still in his, the electricity practically visible between us. I’m surprised something in the foyer didn’t burst into flames.

  “Why, there you are, Miss Shane. And Your Grace.”

  Instantly, guiltily, we broke apart. The insinuating little voice with its odd accent was unique, but I was still surprised to see Amelie Van Vleet standing there in a dull black silk gown, the appropriate fabric again rather neutralized by the very low cut, the embellishment of jet beads to emphasize the exposed flesh, and the diamond necklace. Merry widow, indeed.

  Her surprisingly sharp dark blue eyes flicked from me to Gil, and I could practically hear the counter in her head adding up what she’d just seen. This time, though, she did not seem afraid of Gil. Perhaps I’d imagined it or there had been something else at play. She had been only a few days out of the dock, after all.

  “Mrs. Van Vleet.” I bowed. “How kind of you to come.”

  “Mr. Bridgewater was a friend of my husband. He invited me along. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not.” I glanced into the drawing room, where Cabot and Tommy were in the midst of an animated conversation, and very subtly caught Mr. Bridgewater’s eye.

  “And Your Grace. I do believe we met in England.” She moved toward him with a careful, practiced smile that didn’t reach her eyes. A lifetime on the stage told me she was performing, but I couldn’t tell the objective of the show.

  “We may well have done.” He took her outstretched hand and bowed over it with what I recognized as absolute, freezing formality. “I’m terribly sorry I do not recall.”

  She managed to run her fingers across his as he released her, and gave him another vulpine smile. “Ah, well. I’ll have to work harder to make sure you remember me this time.”

  “The work should be mine, Mrs. Van Vleet.”

  There was just the faintest thread of something else in his voice. If I hadn’t known that he was constitutionally incapable of being anything other than respectful to women, I would have taken it as menace.

  Mrs. Van Vleet took, or pretended to take, it as flirtation, which was the one thing I was reasonably sure it could not be. She batted her literally sooty lashes and beamed at him. “Hopefully, it will not be work.”

  I felt Gil tense beside me and stepped in to smooth it over. But not without giving in to my wicked curiosity about that peculiar accent.

  “Alors,” I sighed, taking her arm for a little woman-to-woman aside, “on sait que les hommes ne se souviennent de rien.”

  Amelie Van Vleet gave me an absolutely blank look for a damning quarter second. And then, quickly: “Mais oui.”

  Men, I thought, aren’t the only ones who can’t seem to remember anything. I let go her arm and smiled, smoothly pretending I hadn’t caught the expression. “Well, I must tend to my guests, and I’m quite sure that Preston and Tommy would like to see you, Your Grace.”

  “Ah. I wanted to speak with Mr. Dare about his latest article.”

  “Mr. Bridgewater is likely wondering what became of me,” Mrs. Van Vleet agreed, her odd, and definitely not French, voice steady again, but her eyes, very sharp, were on me.

  As we walked into the drawing room, Gil’s hand brushed mine. A casual observer would have taken it for an accident, but when I looked back at him, he nodded to me. I smiled a little and proceeded into the party.

  It was going to be a fascinating night.

  Chapter 26

  A Genteel Reception at the Diva’s

  “Heller! About time you got in here.” Tommy shook his head. “I was just about to tell you to throw on your wrapper and come down.”

  “Well, I don’t know what that is, but I know it’s no wrapper,” Yardley said with a laugh. “Nice, though.”

  “It is,” Hetty cut in, rolling her eyes at her own expertise, “panne velvet with silver embroidery worked in a bold floral motif at the neckline, sleeves, and hem. Very fashionable.”

  “And hopefully, you won’t need that knowledge for a long while,” I said, taking her arm and heading for the punch bowl.

  “Your lips to God’s ears. What is that woman doing here?”

  “Apparently, Mr. Bridgewater brought her.”

  Hetty’s mouth pursed as she topped off her glass. “Surely not suitable in a respectable home.”

  “I certainly would not have invited her.” I sighed as I ladled my own generous portion. I would tell her about my odd little French conversation with Mrs. Van Vleet at a more appropriate time. “But since a friend brought her, I’ll treat her like any other guest. That’s my duty as hostess.”

  “You’re too good, Ella.”

  “A scene would be far more damaging,” I added darkly before taking a sip of the punch, which was mostly various fruit juices with a dash of a few tasty and spirituous cordials. It is almost impossible to get sloppy on good punch, but it serves to take the edge off entertaining or being entertained.

  “But far mor
e satisfying.”

  We had almost worked our way over to Marie, who was ensconced in a chair with a glass of punch and was nibbling from a plate that Paul was holding as he sat on the arm. They are such a sweet couple together—she tiny and blond, and he tall, dark, and serious—and always solicitous and adoring of each other. Marie had chosen a China-blue satin gown with abundant lace trim, so it turned out well that I’d skipped the frothier frocks tonight.

  Marie looked up from her punch. “Ella, Hetty. Lovely party. It’s so nice to get out among friends.”

  “I didn’t offer invites to the stage-door Lotharios,” I admitted. “We’ve a few society names from the boards and all, but I didn’t think we needed the Captain of Industry and his ilk.”

  “Good thing,” Paul growled. “I saw the way that Duquesne man looks at women.”

  “You’re a lawyer, Paul, not a pugilist,” Marie reminded him with a teasing grin.

  “And if he gets within a hundred feet of you, I’ll find a way to sue him.”

  We ladies chuckled lightly. None of us mind the male impulse to protect us (as long as they don’t take it too far), but sometimes we are amused by the way they express it.

  “Miss Ella.”

  I turned to see Cabot Bridgewater, a glass in his hand and a furrow at his brow. Noble, of course, was home and probably happily asleep by some fire at the Bridgewater manse.

  “Mr. Bridgewater. Delightful to see you.” I nodded to the others, who no doubt knew that I had to have a bit of a word with my dear guest.

  I held out my hand, and he took it for a moment, as usual. “Miss Ella, my apologies for bringing—”

  “It’s quite all right. She’s a friend of yours, and that is all I need to know.”

  “That may be so, but I should tell you she was exceedingly interested in seeing you and your circle.”

  “Really?”

  “She also asked me if the duke might be here.”

  I could feel my jaw tightening. “Did she now?”

  “I felt it better to bring her and let her see the ensemble rather than have her approach at some untoward time.”

  “Ah. Keep her where we can see her.”