Mary woke and staggered from her chair. “Sorry, Miss, she yawned and rubbed her eyes. Can I get you anything? Shall I help you undress?”
Elly forced a smile. “No thanks, Mary. I may go back to the music room. You go on. Have an early night.”
“Oh, thanks very much, Miss.” She curtsied and hurried away.
Elly crept back downstairs, tiptoed to Sir William’s study, and closed the door. Streetlight flowed through cracks in the curtain, and her eyes quickly adjusted to the dimness. Sir William’s telephone shone like a beacon on his desk. Biting her lip, she sat in Sir William’s large swivel chair, and pulled the phone close to her. She carefully lifted the ear-piece off its holder, juggled the holder, and held the ear-piece to her ear. She jumped when a voice asked, “Number please?”
She pulled the mouthpiece close to her lips. “Bloomsbury 868, please.”
“Just a moment, please.”
Elly’s heart pounded as the phone rang: b-ring, b-ring, b-ring.
“Bloomsbury 868, Robert Dennison, can I help you?”
“Robert, it’s Elly.”
“Darling! It’s so good to hear from you. I’ve been worried sick.”
****
The next day, Elly was frantic to get out of the house. She arrived at the theatre two hours before the matinee. The stage-doorkeeper smiled as she signed in. “’Ello, love. Mr O’Connell wants to see y’, soon as y’ come in.”
“Whatever for?” He shrugged and she smiled back. “Thanks, Albert.”
Jeremy O’Connell’s door was open. He was bent over a large sheet of paper spread across his dressing table. She stopped in the doorway. “Yes, sir?”
“Ah, Elly Fielding.” He stared at her.
“Is something wrong?”
“Quite the contrary.” He smiled. “Please sit down.”
She obeyed.
“You’ve undoubtedly heard that we plan on expanding The Tempest by adding two other fairy stories, A Midsummer Night’s Dream and Iolanthe. We haven’t done a musical in two years. I wish to open them both, together, at the very start of next season, and plan to start rehearsals next month.”
She smiled politely. “That sounds delightful, sir, but what’s it to do with me?”
“You must know Eric’s mad to get you into a role.”
She swallowed and forced herself to stay calm. “Surely, Mr Bates is aware that I may be …” She gripped her hands in her lap. “I may not be available.”
He spoke with absolute authority. “I am sure you will be available, very soon.”
She gasped, gratefully. “With all my heart, sir, I pray your prognostication is correct.” They both laughed at her overlong word. “Does Mr Bates have me cast as Puck’s Fairy?”
“That is what I had in mind, until—”
“Oh.” Her smile faded. “Peasblossom.”
He laughed, “Will you let me finish?”
“I’m sorry.” She sat back, embarrassed.
He handed her a small cloth-bound script. “We want you to try Helena.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Do you think I’m ready?”
“I do not know, and that is why I said, ‘try’.”
She sat up, excited. “I know the entire play by heart. I played Titania in school.”
His expression soured. “Then you most certainly learned bad habits, which could be very difficult to unlearn.”
She panicked. “Absolutely not, sir. I shall read the play again, slowly, listening to every word as if I’ve never even seen it before.” He still looked skeptical, so she begged, “I’ll read the entire play several times, very slowly, before I even think about Helena.” He relaxed slightly so she ploughed ahead, “After that, I’ll create her history in every detail, before I even look at her lines.”
“See that you do.” He still looked convinced.
“Who are you thinking of for Demetrius?”
“Rory.”
“How wonderful!” She clapped her hands, then lowered her eyes. “Rory should be available. I may be …” Her smile faded. The room seemed to darken.
“You and Rory will both be available. I am planning on it, and so should you.”
Her body cramped. Her voice became a raspy whisper. “Honestly sir, you know I’ll be imprisoned before and during the trial. I’ve heard that prison can be very hard.”
“Rory believes the trial will be short. If I need to start with your understudy and put you in later, I shall.”
She lowered her eyes. “You speak with such assurance.”
He leaned into her. “I believe what I say, and so should you.”
“I want to believe it. My God, I want to believe it.” Ashamed of the tears welling in her eyes, she stood and walked to the window. He followed and put his arms around her. She buried her face in his shoulder. “I don’t want to die.”
“Stop talking nonsense.”
“I know they seldom hang women.”
“Stop it.” He clutched her tighter.
“But I could be imprisoned for years.”
“You will be acquitted.” He took a deep breath. “I am sure of it.”
****
Back at the Hamilton Place Mansion, Elly curled on her bed reading A Midsummer Night’s Dream slowly, word for word, as though she had never heard of the play. She was amazed to see all she had missed reading with schoolgirl enthusiasm. Like the torture of a dripping faucet, a voice in the back of her head repeated: “You’ll never do it … never do it … never do it …”, Jeremy O’Connell’s words, “You will be acquitted … be acquitted … be acquitted …” fought back. Cutting through these tortured voices, Shakespeare’s prose floated like a rainbow in a storm.
A knock on the door pulled her from her trance. “Come in.” The door opened and Edward Hereford stood tall and inviting. Elly had forgotten that he and Isabelle looked so much alike. His thick auburn hair had grown longer and his dark blue eyes shone with health and vitality.
“Ned!” She put down the book, leapt off the bed and held out her hands. “I’m so pleased you’re back. Did you have a good trip? Have you been to Hereford Castle? Is Isabelle well? Did your mother tell you we’ve been writing …?”
He laughed, “Yes, to all the above.” He pulled her next to him, onto her loveseat, and stretched his arm across the back. “Isabelle’s very well. When she arrived, she was exhausted and dreadfully bloated. Thanks to mother’s nursing and good country air, she looks wonderful. Her waist is enormous, but she is carrying two children.”
“You’re sure it’s two?”
“Mother used her stethoscope and swore she heard two heartbeats. I tried,” he shrugged, “but then, I’m not the midwife.” Elly burst into a fit of giggles and he laughed with her. “Mother loves your letters.”
“Oh, and I love hers.”
“She’s longing to see you. I half expected her to break her vow and come to London.”
“I wish I could go to her.” It was a desperate prayer.
“You will.”
She sighed, “I may not be going anywhere for a very … very long time.”
“You’ll spend the summer with us. The theatre season will end and you’ll go … no,” he pointed a finger and winked. “I’ll drive you home, myself. I have a smashing new motorcar. We’ll ride and swim and have picnics by the river. I never had a little sister. We’ll have fun.” He put his arm around her shoulder. “You don’t know your family, Elly. The Herefords don’t give up one of their own. Not ever.” He looked into her eyes. “My God, we just found you. We’re not letting you go. Hereford Castle is your home as much as mine. You belong there.”
“Do I?” She laughed sadly. “You’re unbelievably kind, but I may not be your relation at all. I may not belong anywhere.” She rocked her head back and forth. “I may just be a real penny dreadful, bringing misery to everyone I touch.” She stood up, pretending to look out the window.
“That’s nonsense.”
“Is it? Just think: my mother died givi
ng me life, my father was murdered, my aunt’s gone mad, Sir John is dead, my uncle hanged, Sir William’s turned this beautiful house into an armed fort, Sir Douglas seems at death’s door, Rory’s given up acting which he loves, to work in the law which he hates. Isabelle delayed going home for the care she needed. You’ve all been so generous, and …” She turned around and was startled to see deep concern in his eyes.
“You’re not serious.”
Her defeated stare frightened him.
“You’re not really so daft as to believe you caused any of that?”
“Something caused them.” She turned back to the window. The night sky was bright. “Perhaps I was born at the wrong time. Perhaps it was a mistake in the stars.
‘Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
And yet methinks I have astronomy …’
He put his hands together, remembering, “That’s Sonnet XIV. I learned it in school. Let me think … ‘Not from the stars …’ He shook his head. ‘… But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, and constant stars in them I see such light …’ Isn’t that how it goes? ‘… thy end is truth’s, and beauty’s doom the date?’
“That’s right.” She laughed nervously and collapsed onto the loveseat.
“Are you hungry?”
She was startled. “Well, yes. I am, a bit.”
“Good! I’m famished. Let’s raid the larder.”
She laughed and followed him downstairs.
****
The next afternoon, Smythe quietly whispered into his master’s ear. “Pardon, sir, but Frederick Brown and Rory Cookingham have arrived with some urgent news. I’ve already sent someone to fetch Miss Fielding. She’s in the library with Mr Hereford.”
Rory had been avoiding Elly at the theatre. When she saw him in Sir William’s study, she smiled and hurried toward him. He stared at the floor and she stamped her foot. “Aren’t you even allowed to smile at me?”
He nodded politely and offered her a chair. She stiffly sat down.
When Sir William and Ned were seated, Brown straightened his smudged glasses, pulled at his tie, and nervously wiped his brow. “I apologise for the intrusion, gentlemen, but two urgent matters have arisen.” Rory remained stone-faced. The others held their breath.
Brown addressed Sir William in hushed tones. “Because of your generous financial support, we have been able to bribe every possible clerk and court official to give us advanced information. Most important, they have managed to push Miss Roundtree’s trial ahead of several others on the docket.” There were tentative smiles all around. Brown took several laboured breaths and continued. “This is especially fortunate, since we have been given advance warning of her arrest.”
Elly clutched the arms of her chair.
“We can expect two officers to arrive at approximately 3 o’clock tomorrow afternoon.” He turned to Elly. “This will give you ample time to prepare.”
She paled. “Prepare what?”
Watching the terrified girl, Brown put a hand over his racing heart. Rory helped him into a chair. “Thanks Cookingham. Perhaps you’d be so kind …?”
“Certainly, sir.” Keeping his face a neutral mask, Rory stood with his arms behind his back, his eyes lowered. “Miss Roundtree, as Mr Brown was saying, tomorrow at 3 o’clock, two officers will come to take you to Holloway Prison.” His voice betrayed no emotion. “You will come to no harm. Quite the contrary, it is their responsibility to keep prisoners alive and well. You will be served three meals a day. I am told that the food is unappetising, but wholesome. A prisoner who refuses to eat is force-fed, so please … eat everything they serve you. ”
Elly’s shouted, “Rory, look at me. I’m not dead. They haven’t hanged me, yet.”
The men exchanged horrified looks.
Rory swallowed, and plowed on, “You will be placed alone, in a small cell with a narrow cot, a wash basin and a chamber pot.” His voice dropped as his cheeks flushed. “I was unable to ascertain how often these items are cleaned. You will be allowed no reading or writing materials. If any are found in the cell they will be removed. Body searches are uncommon, so you may be able to hide a small book in your clothing. If discovered, it will be confiscated. They supply only carbolic soap. It can burn the skin, so you may wish to keep a bar of gentler soap hidden on your person. There are no other facilities for washing, although we will petition for you to have a bath and a change of clothes before the trial.”
His face twitched. An emotional volcano was erupting inside him. “There will be no chance for you to wash your linen, so it has been suggested that you wear two pairs upon your arrest. Visitors can sneak in clean sets and carry out the old.” He stopped, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and continued. “You should wear a warm frock, because you will not be allowed to keep a coat. There will be no artificial light or heat in the cell, and they supply only one thin blanket. There will be a single window that will let in light, but be too high for you see outside. You will be allowed to wear your own clothes, but since you will not be allowed a change of clothes for several weeks …”
“Several weeks?” She was on her feet. “It can’t be.”
Rory closed his eyes.
Brown held out a shaky hand. “Please, Miss Roundtree, calm yourself. It is usual for a prisoner to remain in custody for at least a month before his … or her trial, often longer. As I said, your date is being pushed up the calendar. You may be held for as little as two weeks.”
Overcome with fear and anger, she fought to keep from shaking. “As little as two weeks? I’d best choose my wardrobe carefully.” She wanted to bolt. “Is there anything else, gentlemen?” She closed her eyes against the blood pounding in her head.
Rory stayed perfectly still. Sweat beads covered his upper lip. He continued as if by rote. “You will be allowed visitors every day, during daylight hours. Personal guests may only visit in your cell. There is a pleasanter room where you may meet with your barrister.”
Furious tears welled in her eyes. “What a charming place to entertain. Is there anything else?”
Brown nodded. “Unfortunately, there is.”
She staggered back onto her chair.
“Three days ago, Richard Reims’ only son injured his spine playing football at Eton.” Brown ran a handkerchief over his face. “Mr Reims travelled to Eton, planning to return to London the next day. Finding the boy’s condition to be serious, he has sent word that he may have to withdraw from the case. We should know by tomorrow.”
Rory continued before anyone could speak. “We all feel for Mr Reims, but it need not affect our cause. Sir Douglas is still the attorney of record. While he is not well enough to personally conduct Miss Roundtree’s defence, a change in junior will not change the trial date. Should Mr Reims not return, his probable successor will be Andrew Milligan.”
Sir William lurched up and wheezed, “The prosecutor?”
“Anthony Roundtree’s prosecutor, yes, sir. Mr Milligan was also a student of Sir Douglas’s at Oxford. He is familiar with the history of this case and, as we well know, he is a very able barrister. Elly …” He looked at her for the first time. “Miss Roundtree, you have nothing to fear from that quarter.”
Sir William wiped his brow.
Elly looked at the clock. “Tomorrow at 3 o’clock. It’s nearly 3 o’clock now. Twenty-four hours left of my life.”
Rory’s legs felt like water. “No, please. You mustn’t think that way.”
She reached for him and he pulled away. Unable to endure more, she ran out, sobbing.
Ned pushed Rory toward the door. “Go after her, man.”
Rory pushed back. “I can’t.” Sweat poured down his face. He gasped for breath. “I gave my oath as a gentleman.”
“Damn your schoolboy oath. The girl needs you.”
“She doesn’t need a bloke who can’t keep his word.”
“Reims might not even be back, and you’d have lost … Christ! This could be her last bloody night.”
&n
bsp; “I won’t even think that way. I can’t.” Tears filled Rory’s eyes as he tore loose from Ned’s grasp, stormed through the foyer and out of the house.
Chapter Nine
It was another half-hour before Frederick Brown left the house. After seeing him out, Sir William and Ned nervously climbed the stairs to Elly’s room.
Before they reached her open door, Ned pulled Sir William aside, whispering frantically, “Listen, Bill. The girl’s terrified. You’re her guardian. She’s depending on you to say something comforting.”
Sir William shrugged helplessly. “Oh, bloody hell. Isabelle always handles things like this. I’m no good. I don’t know what to say.” He wiped his brow. “Tell me what to say.”
Ned leaned against the wall. “Well … what would you want someone to say to you, under the circumstances?”
Sir William threw up his arms, “I’d want someone to tell me it was all a bad dream.”
“That’s good.” Ned urged him forward. “Tell her it’ll soon be over, like a bad dream.”
The men stopped at the open door. Elly and Mary silently moved about, preparing seven packets of Elly’s linen. A navy-blue woollen school frock and matching cardigan, hung ready on the wardrobe door. A matching hair ribbon lay on her dressing table. Plain black shoes sat to the side. When they saw the men, both girls stopped what they were doing and curtsied politely.
Elly forced a smile. “Good evening, gentleman. Please come in.”
Trying to appear calm, Sir William paced the room, smiling. “Well, my dear, you seem to have everything under control.” With shaking fingers, he took out his pocket watch and checked the time. “Well done.” Dramatically closing the watch cover with a loud click, he made a grand flourish, putting it into his vest pocket. “Very well done.”
“Thank you for your concern, Sir William. You’re very kind, trying to cheer me.”
“Well then …” He turned to leave. “Carry on.”
Beauty's Doom: The final instalment of the romantic Victorian mystery (His Majesty's Theatre Book 4) Page 8