by Maggie Ford
‘Would you like to come in for a while so we can talk?’
She needed to find out more about him and be sure of that sensation she’d experienced. If she knew more of his background, his marriage, his earlier life, it would make him seem in a way more human.
‘I’ve got a little sherry in my room.’ She’d bought it when continuous rehearsals had got on top of her, hoping it might help quell the confusion in her head. It had worked and after the first glass or two she hadn’t needed it again. It remained on her bedside commode, but now was a time to share it with him and settle her own mind on how she really felt about him.
He regarded her with that steady, penetrating stare that could unnerve, as if reading her thoughts, his mind-reading actually becoming real. Then he nodded and she turned to lead the way.
There was only one chair in the room. She thought he would take it while she sat on the edge of her bed, but to her surprise he ignored it, sitting beside her instead. She wanted to spring up.
‘The sherry,’ she reminded, but before she could move, his hand came over hers.
Emma stiffened. Had he mistaken her invitation to enter her room as an entirely different sort of offer? Alarm increased as he leaned towards her, but it wasn’t for what she had expected.
‘Will you take advantage of that proposal?’
‘What proposal?’
‘The King’s proposal to have supper with him at some time.’
Emma gave a small giggle of relief. ‘Of course not! The likes of me?’
Theodore didn’t laugh. ‘It is the likes of you, as you put it, whom he finds intriguing. Everyone knows of Edward’s fondness for the fairer sex, whereas I speak nothing but truth when I say you are the loveliest creature I have ever known.’
Emma looked down at the hand covering hers to hide her blush that stemmed not just from self-consciousness. The hand was large. It felt warm. There was a hint of pressure in its grip, and suddenly she knew what had so upset him. He’d been jealous of the King’s attention to her. One had to be in love to be jealous. A warm happiness spread through her. All else forgotten, she still couldn’t believe what had happened to her, an ordinary girl like her, first receiving attention from the King of England who had suggested she have supper with him – whether said light-heartedly or not, she was still dazzled – and now Theo, the Great Theodore, with promise of wonderful things to come from this one appearance before royalty, behaving as though he adored her.
Looking up at him, her eyes bright, she saw his face very close to hers so that his breath caressed her cheek.
‘I am in love with you, Amelia,’ she heard him whisper.
His lips were on hers, his moustache and beard soft against her skin. Too dazed to pull away, whether she had wanted to or not, she felt her body being slowly eased downward until her head and shoulders were on the pillow.
‘I could not have borne to have you to accept that man’s offer,’ he whispered between kisses moving over her cheeks, her eyelids, and back to her mouth. ‘Tell me, my dearest, do you return my love? Or are your sights set on a king?’
Theatrical enough to draw a laugh in any other circumstances, but she could only nod to the first question and shake her head to the second, unable to speak under the increasing pressure of his lips on hers.
Not quite sure what to do, she lay still. He was undoing the buttons of her outdoor jacket, undoing those of her blouse. Warm fingers were between her bare flesh and the camisole and corset. The touch brought a wonderful sensation that seemed to climb all over her as the groping hand eased her breast free of its prison. His lips moving downward to the exposed flesh brought a whimper of joy to her lips.
Instantly the hand was pulled away. ‘Dear God!’ The exclamation wasn’t directed at her, but himself. ‘In God’s name what am I doing?’
His weight lifted off her. His eyes seemed to bore into hers, holding her questioning stare. Then he turned away to sit up, his back to her.
‘Why didn’t you stop me? Why didn’t you protest?’ It was as though he was blaming her, almost accusing her of enticing him. Maybe he thought she had, inviting him into her room. But it had been in all innocence. Yet had it been so innocent? Had she known all along, deep down, that she was asking for something like this to happen? Maybe it was her fault.
‘I’m sorry,’ was all she could say.
As if her words were a searing iron, he leaped up from the bed, making for the door. There he paused, still with his back to her. ‘Never,’ she heard him say, ‘never, ever try to tempt me again,’ leaving her in a daze.
Jack Simmons leaned back in his creaking swivel chair, fiddling with a pencil between the fingers and thumbs of both hands while he regarded Theodore Barrington. ‘I take it, it went well.’
Behind Theodore, Emma stood in silence, subdued by all that had happened on Saturday evening. The traumatic experience of finding herself on stage before royalty, then King Edward himself attempting to proposition her, she’d been delighted and flattered. Then she had experienced Theo’s unreasonably jealous behaiviour. Then to welcome his advances only to have him blame her for something that had been of his doing. Then as if he was punishing her still more, he had stayed in his room throughout Sunday.
He hadn’t appeared for any meals. Mrs Tankerton was asked politely if she would kindly take a snack and a pot of tea up to him some time during the day, something she was quite willing to do, as by Sunday lunch she had become a little concerned for him.
‘Is he feeling unwell, your Mr Barrington?’ she had asked Emma when he didn’t appear at breakfast. Emma said she wasn’t sure, that she’d knocked on his door and been told to please go and leave him be. ‘He’s likely a bit under the weather, then,’ Mrs Tankerton had concluded. ‘A cold night and having a little too much to drink.’ Her eyes never missed a thing. She even perhaps knew what had gone on in Emma’s room. No doubt she saw it her job to know what her guests were up to, and so get rid of undesirables.
In Jack Simmons’s office this Monday morning, Emma kept discreetly in the background, hoping not to be noticed, leaving the two men to get on with their business.
‘It went very well,’ Theo was saying to Simmons’s question. ‘But why didn’t you tell me the King and Queen would be there? Or didn’t you know that?’ Listening, Emma silently forgave Theo – he hadn’t known after all.
Simmons leaned further back in his chair, making it creak even more, his broad face wreathed in a grin. ‘If I’d told you, old boy, you’d have got cold feet and backed out with stage fright.’
‘I never have stage fright.’
Simmons’s eyes widened with mock surprise. ‘So what were these last eighteen months in the wilderness all about?’
‘My reasons are my own, Jack, my agent or not.’ Having given a curt answer, he went on more amiably, ‘So now, what else do you have for me?’
Simmons pursed thick lips, as sanguine as his cheeks, and creaked forward in the chair to begin thumbing through an untidy sheath of papers on his desk.
‘There’s an opening at the Pavilion, Whitechapel, variety show, this Saturday coming until the twenty-fourth. Not top billing, of course.’
‘It should be,’ interrupted Theodore. ‘I have just played before the King, and you offer me a flea-pit?’
‘Not the grandest of places I admit, but give it time. The word of you playing before the King won’t have got around yet. When it does, you’ll be in demand right enough. You couldn’t have a better start than you did on Saturday. I leaned over backwards there for you. You should be grateful, old boy. So thank me!’
His client said nothing.
‘Look,’ Simmons went on. ‘Take this for now. Pantomime season, y’know. Most places are busy with that. I only got this opening this morning – singer they booked gone down with laryngitis, left them in a spot. It’ll keep you going until word gets around of your tremendous success after eighteen months’ silence.’
He let the papers rest on his deck while he
looked earnestly across it at Theo. ‘I telephoned the hostess yesterday, even though it was Christmas Day. She was singing your praises. Her little soirée was a roaring success, and apparently the King was well taken by your little assistant there. Couldn’t stop talking about her. Queen wasn’t too happy, but that’s too bad.’
He nodded towards Emma without looking at her. ‘You’ll go far with someone as pretty as that. Hang on to her. She’s a splendid draw to the male audience. While you’re about it, Barrington, how about thinking again about taking on that second assistant I spoke about a while ago. Dare I mention that young man Martin Page? He’s a handsome young man. He’d take the wives’ eyes off their ogling husbands.’
He threw Emma a significant glance. ‘Know what I mean?’
Theodore ignored it. Simmons shrugged. ‘Well, think about it. But I can assure you, Theodore, after Saturday, theatre managers will be lining up to book you. As I said, you couldn’t have had a better start. Count yourself lucky. I heard that a bonus was arranged on top of your fee. Apparently it was King Edward’s personal wish.’ Simmons was looking at her at last. ‘You did all right, young lady?’
Emma coloured as Theo also turned to regard her, his eyes, though cold, taking her in a little too fully, she felt.
‘She did well,’ he said coolly. ‘She is exceptionally bright, though you wouldn’t have thought it had you seen her some months back.’
‘So, what d’you think about taking Page back?’
‘Why change horses mid-stream?’ queried Theodore, making Emma’s hackles rise at the remark about horses. Without her the mind-reading act, the best bit of it apart from the final butterflies trick, wouldn’t have gone on.
‘Why indeed?’ echoed Simmons. ‘But why change them at all? Why not have both, as I keep saying? Think of the draw. Think of the attention. Think of her and him standing there together, each attracting the gaze of the opposite sex. It would certainly be different.’
He ended by sitting back, well pleased with the vision he hoped he had created in Theo’s mind, while Emma seethed.
It was humiliating being discussed in this fashion, as if she were some creature in a cage, or not here at all. To her surprise Theo drew in a deep, thoughtful breath.
‘We will see. I don’t wish to count my chickens too soon. I would be insane to consider two salaries before I know if it is worth it.’
Salary? This morning Theo had given her a full quarter of his fee, eight pounds. After what had happened last night, she had let it lie where he’d left it, on her dressing table, seeing it as some sort of conscience money. But here he was talking about salary, and twenty-five per cent of his fees at that! It was generous beyond measure. Emma felt forgiveness begin to flood through her veins.
Theodore was regarding his agent. ‘Tell me, Simmons, what made you mention Page’s name?’
Simmons gave a defeated grin. ‘He came here on Saturday evening, wanting to see me, hoping you might consider him now that you’re back in business.’
‘Damn his impudence!’
Simmons let out a guffaw. ‘Impudent or not, he’s got plenty of spirit. Well, think about it, Barrington. So you’ll do the Pavilion then?’
Theo’s outgoing breath conveyed resignation. ‘If you can guarantee work from now on.’
Simmons gave a hearty nod. ‘Oh, I can guarantee that all right.’
‘And if something good comes up in the meantime, you’ll get in touch immediately.’
‘Without fail, old man.’ Simmons knew this was not a request but an order and if he didn’t agree he could lose a valuable client. Theodore and his beautiful young assistant were destined for great things. Very soon every theatrical agent in London would be slavering to have the Great Theodore on his books. But he wasn’t prepared to let go now.
Chapter Eighteen
By the end of January Emma had money enough to open a small bank account and see her mother all right – as soon as she found time to visit. She’d sent money by postal order, but it wasn’t the same as going in person.
It wasn’t easy finding the time, she and Theo appearing every night at the Pavilion, and then on to the Cambridge straight after, two venues each night – something he said he’d never do – plus the endless rehearsing that he maintained was essential. He was right of course – no magician dare let his work slip – besides which he was forever devising new illusions in which she was required to take part.
So far, they’d done ten nights at the Pavilion and the Cambridge, with Jack Simmons’s promise of greater things to come from Theo’s appearance before royalty not having materialised as yet.
‘Be patient, he tells me,’ Theo complained. ‘How long is one expected to be patient? If he doesn’t look out I shall find myself another theatrical agent. He needs to keep in mind that I have performed before royalty, no less, and if he cannot take up on that …’
The obvious threat drifting off into silence, Emma allowed him a smile of mild agreement. She’d come to know Theo’s mercurial nature, one minute filled with ego, the next morose and easily ruffled. That was when he’d take to his room and not come out, and she knew he’d be having himself more than one drink, for he’d become maudlin and benevolent.
One thing though, he hadn’t touched her since that night after the King’s proposal. She wasn’t sure whether to be glad or sorry. It had been a strange, wonderful experience, leaving her uncertain of herself.
As for His Majesty’s proposal, far from being flattered, she now saw it as outrageous. Had she taken up the offer, she could have discovered herself entirely forgotten; and how embarrassed she’d have been, faced by his equerry’s cold reception. She wasn’t sure about Theo’s jealousy, but he was right to have been annoyed. He was always right.
This morning Theo was with his agent, no doubt reminding him yet again of that royal performance and hopefully negotiating some deal or other. He would not tell her what it was until settled, reluctant to lose face by saying too much too soon. She’d have to be patient.
Today, left alone for once, she would take advantage of Theo’s rare absence and summon up courage to go and see her mother if only to wish her a belated happy 1904. She found it difficult after two months without setting eyes on her. There had never been a single response to any of the money she’d sent in the past, much less a thank you. It proved just how deep the hurt of her leaving home had gone. Turning up this morning might even make things worse, but she had to try. There had been so many times when she had longed to put things right and now was the time.
As she entered the tenement block with its familiar musty odour, she wondered how she had ever got so used to it that she had no longer been aware of it, as she tried now not to breathe too deeply. Mrs Lovell was still living here. She came to her door to watch Emma’s progress up the bare wooden stairs. Her boy, now toddling, hung on her stained skirts, and as Emma turned to smile amiably at her, she took up the child and pulled him back inside, closing the door after her, leaving Emma with the feeling that Mum must have mentioned her leaving and she had surmised the rest.
Smiling grimly, Emma continued up the stairs. Mum answered her knock, holding a few strands of brown silk in her hand and a hostile look on her face for the caller who dared interrupt her intricate work. The many-coloured silks were pinned out on a board, the difficult pattern in her head; woe betide anyone breaking that concentration. At least, Emma deduced, she had proper work instead of making paper flowers to sell at the kerbside.
‘Hullo, Mum,’ she said tentatively, trying to be bright. ‘It’s me.’
‘I can see that.’ At least she hadn’t shut the door in her face, or told her to go away.
‘I thought I’d come to see how you are,’ Emma hurried on. ‘Just to say I think of you a lot and to wish you a happy new year. I hope you didn’t mind me coming.’
Words poured from her as though to pause for breath would have had the door close in her face. Instead, her mother opened it wider.
‘Yer�
�d best come in,’ she said curtly. ‘On the doorstep, letting the whole neighbour’ood know our business. The only thing this ’ouse is good for is ears, hers downstairs and theirs upstairs. I bet her door’s ajar, with her ear-wigging everything yer’ve said.’
‘She looked out as I came past,’ said Emma, grateful to step inside. To her relief Mum was being quite cordial. ‘As scruffy as ever,’ she added, attempting a feeble joke. Mum didn’t smile, but at least she was talking.
‘The whole place is dirty,’ she said, leading the way into the room. ‘Stinks. If I ’ad enough brass ter get out of it, I would. But yer brother’s lazy as ever. It’s left ter me ter keep us both.’ She went to the fire and stood the kettle on the trivet to boil, which it began to do immediately, most likely not long boiled for her morning mug of tea.
‘Is Ben at work?’ Emma asked, standing in the middle of the room, not wanting to take it upon herself to sit down.
Her mother remained gazing into the low fire. ‘Work? It’s a filthy word with ’im. He says he’s lookin’ fer work, but more like he’s with ’is mates, or some trollop or other. Sees a lot of some tart called Clara. Always seems to ’ave a bit of cash about ’im, and I reckon he’s up ter no good most of the time. I wouldn’t put ’im past doing a bit of tealeafing. Pity he ain’t clever enough ter really make a decent haul if that’s what he’s up to. Maybe we’d eat better.’
That was a signal for Emma to ask, ‘Did you get the money I sent at Christmas?’
She glanced around the room. This had once been home to her and, poverty-stricken though it was, there came a brief wave of nostalgia, passing as quickly as it had come. It seemed incredible that she had once accepted all this. In time she’d find Mum somewhere far more pleasant to live. At the moment it would take up every penny she was earning, but soon Theo would be getting better work and she’d make sure Mum benefited by it. She had Theo to look out for her, Mum had no one. Certainly Ben was no use. She’d struggled so hard to keep them all out of the workhouse, she deserved to be looked after, for all their differences.
