“Oh?” I asked, taking a small, careful bite of my coddled egg. Romeo, remember, not Brünnhilde.
“Yes. Standish jilted a girl in his hometown upstate, and her brother came to settle the matter . . . only to find he wasn’t nearly as good a fighter as he thought he was.”
I smiled a little. “There’s a lot of that going around.”
“Isn’t there, though?” Tommy allowed himself a faint smile, too. “The upshot is, Standish isn’t dangerous, he’s just nasty.” He took a bite of his bacon.
I let out a long breath in relief, and then saw Tommy’s expression. I waited.
“And the girl?” he offered, a gleam in his eye.
“Yes?”
“Married a nice accountant, and by all reports will not be attending the opera anytime soon.”
“I do not blame her, even if I’m sorry to lose a potential patron.”
“Too true.”
“We’re still going to see Henry.”
“Yes.” Tommy took a sip of his coffee. “He missed this.”
“He’s not the only one.” We might argue that our principal mistake was trusting Henry to do his proper diligence, but it didn’t really matter in the end. I’d allowed a man who’d behaved dishonorably with a young woman to work with the ladies in my company. Quite unsettling.
Tommy and I were at Henry’s office door when he arrived that Tuesday morning. That meant a walk through the Theater District shortly before eight a.m., when everyone is sleeping off the night before. Even the most desperate beggars were still tucked away wherever they’d managed to land, and the more fortunate were resting after long nights of performance on the stage, and quite possibly various celebrations off it. The only people moving were stage crews, setting up and breaking down, bringing in new sets or cleaning theaters. Even twelve hours before curtain, there was work to do for the show.
Henry’s office was on a side street, two flights up from a store that sold musical instruments. His door, with his name stenciled on the frosted glass window, was closed when we arrived. We stood outside, waiting.
Neither Toms nor I had felt frivolous today, so we were in full dress as serious business owners. For him, a dark gray suit under his neat coat, with a tie in a slightly lighter gray, not even a pin dot for levity. For me, a navy-blue suit and plain shirtwaist, and a very simple midnight-blue hat. Anyone who knew us would be shocked by the seriousness and plainness of the attire, and probably more so by our very serious faces.
Henry certainly was, bustling up his stairs humming “Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay.” An amiable and round little man, he was both intensely focused and intensely likeable, truly enjoyable to work with. He was also tremendously good at finding and bringing along new singers, so I really hoped we could resolve this well.
“Miss Shane! Mr. Hurley. A pleasure to see you, but why so early?” He got a good look at us. “And why so serious?”
“Arden Standish,” Tommy said, the name clearly sour in his mouth.
“We have learned a few things,” I said.
The color drained from Henry’s face as he unlocked his door and motioned us in. “Please. Tell me about this.”
“Apparently, Mr. Standish jilted a young lady in his hometown and her brother came to settle the matter. Unpleasantness ensued,” Tommy explained carefully.
“Oh no.”
“You were unaware?”
“Of course. I checked his references.”
“So did we,” I said quietly.
“And I talked to some of the singers who’ve worked with him, as I always do. Where did you hear this?”
“A friend of a friend put us onto the story.” I would not go further, because we have to protect Hetty. Of course, Henry knows we have connections in the newspaper world, and might wonder, but he won’t know who. “It wasn’t nearly as serious as we first thought, but it still raises a concern.”
“And I checked it out at the singers’ bar last night,” Tommy added. “It was apparently common knowledge. In some circles.”
Henry shook his head. “I am so sorry. Especially to you, Miss Ella, I know how seriously you take matters of character, as, of course, you should.”
“How did we miss this?” I asked.
“I don’t know. But I will find out.” Henry has three daughters he protects with the ferocity of a man who knows the world.
“Obviously, we will not be retaining Mr. Standish again.”
“Of course not.” Henry shook his head. “I doubt it will be an issue anytime soon. He’s signed for a season in Philadelphia, and we’ll see what happens after that.” He nodded resolutely. “I will investigate this myself and we will talk again soon.”
“Good.” Tommy nodded.
“I was quite sure you were unaware,” I said. “But I was very concerned. If we could miss this . . .”
Henry shuddered appropriately. “I know, Miss Ella. I’m going to have to take up drinking at the singers’ bar.”
“Don’t you have a son-in-law these days?” Tommy asked.
The agent’s serious scowl softened. “I will soon. And he’s a smart, sharp fellow. Quite right. He can do his part in the family with a little information gathering.”
“And congratulations on your daughter’s engagement.” As I offered the felicitation, I made a mental note to send flowers. “Your eldest, right?”
“Thankfully. Beatrice would never forgive my middle one, Corinne, if she’d gotten out first.”
We all chuckled at that, balance restored for the moment.
“I’ll take a good hard look at this matter, folks, and we’ll see it doesn’t happen again.”
We both nodded at Henry.
“Thank you,” I said with an honestly relieved smile. “I was just quite concerned.”
“Understandably, Miss Ella. We have standards to maintain.”
“That, we do.” Tommy nodded.
We made our good-byes soon after, and we were both feeling far more optimistic as we headed back to the town house to resume our usual performance day routine. It could have been a great deal worse; and now Henry and his son-in-law–to–be were on the case, so it would not happen again. I felt almost relaxed as I settled onto my chaise with a cup of tea and my book for a few good hours’ rest.
Chapter 13
Backstage Dramas
The girls’ school benefit that Tuesday night took place at a fairly small, older theater very close to home, not a large Broadway venue like the one where Marie and I would sing a couple weeks hence. I was easily the marquee attraction, on a bill of mostly younger rising talents, and a couple of older singers who still enjoyed pitching in for a good cause with a piece comfortably within the range they had left. I had no doubt that I would someday be in that position, and I hoped to be able to handle it with similar grace, choosing repertoire suited to what I actually could do, not what I imagined possible.
As the top performer, I was last on the bill, and got a reasonably acceptable, if dingy, dressing room of my own. Anna and I arrived a couple of hours before curtain time, even though it was entirely unnecessary, because that’s what professionals do. Of course, we also end up reading or playing cards backstage for hours, but we’re there, warmed up and in full costume, ready to go on. I took a few moments to walk out on the stage and look around.
While I would wear my costume from Xerxes, all I would have behind me was one simple scenic drop Tommy had selected earlier, and I required no props. We try to make things easy for small benefits. But you still don’t know a stage until you stand on it, tread the boards, if you will, and get the feeling of it. It doesn’t hurt to sing a few bars at full volume, either, just so you know how the sound moves through the theater. That, of course, will be somewhat different when there are people in the seats.
As I stepped off the stage, I heard a strange creak, and reflexively moved away. Just in time to avoid the falling sandbag. It froze me where I stood for a second, even as I reminded myself that such things can happen in theater
s, especially old, poorly-kept places like this one. I’d rather it didn’t happen so close to my head, though.
As I caught my breath, I heard running footsteps.
“Miss Ella! Are you all right?”
I recognized the voice. Arden Standish. Clearly, not the person I wanted to see at this precise moment. Of course, I’d known he was also performing that night, and had a chance to steel myself after our conversations with Henry and Anthony Stratford. But, of course, that was before I almost got brained.
“Just fine. A little mishap is all,” I called as he ran toward me.
“Are you quite sure?”
He put a hand on my arm, and I summoned all of my diva training to stay cool and friendly, and not slap it away. It did me no good to give any hint of the unpleasant things I had learned. Even if it wasn’t the worst, it still put him well beyond the range of anyone I wanted to know, or wanted associating with my company.
But if I said so, it raised questions about my judgment. And Tommy’s. Best to keep my own counsel.
I straightened myself, careful to detach from him without showing any sign of revulsion, and managed a polite greeting. “Good to see you again.”
“You as well, though obviously not under these circumstances.”
“Ah, well.” Even as we spoke, I heard the stagehands scuffling and swearing behind us. “I’m sure it’ll be taken care of. How are you?”
“Doing just fine. I’ve signed for a season in Philadelphia.”
“Philadelphia?” It was only then that I remembered Violette was planning to go to Philadelphia too. I wondered if it meant something, and if so, what?
“They offered me several good roles, including Radamès.”
Verdi’s Radamès? I wondered. Surely, they didn’t sign him for that. Arden might have been able to manage an audition aria for Aida, but as I’d told Stratford, I doubted he’d be able to handle the entire—exceedingly demanding—role, night after night. Not for me to say, though, and the chance to try would be enough to convince a man doing smaller roles in New York to head out. And getting him away from here would be just fine by me.
I managed a smile. “Well, that’s wonderful. Congratulations.”
He smiled back only faintly. “It’s a great opportunity, and I need to lose myself in my work right now.”
I looked sharply at him, puzzled.
“Violette, of course.”
“Yes, a terrible loss, and an awful way to end our tour.” More terrible than he knew. I kept my face as neutral as my response.
“Yes. An especially terrible loss for me.” He started to say something else, but decided against it.
I watched him for a moment. To the best of my knowledge, they hadn’t been close at all; I’d been taking consolation in the fact that I’d never seen her exchange more than a few words with him. Really, I’d have thought he was beneath her notice. Not that she had seemed the sort to hope for a fancy match. Rather, like many young ladies in the early stages of their careers, she seemed to be far more interested in the work than what any man might offer. I was—and still am—quite familiar with that idea. Nearly the only thing we had in common.
For my money, Arden was hardly the man to inspire a maiden to abandon her ambitions.
But the handprint bruise.
Still, breaking hearts, even in a thoroughly repulsive way, does not mean someone is capable of physical violence. “Did you know something bad happened to her just before?”
“What do you mean?” He looked stunned.
“She had a bruise, like a handprint, on her arm.”
“How horrible! Was she accosted, or—”
“I don’t know.” And I did not know if his reaction was real or feigned. He was really only an adequate actor, but if he’d had something to do with it, he also had much better motivation than he did on the stage. “Did she say anything to you that last day?”
“Of course not. I’d have told you or Mr. Hurley immediately.”
“I thought as much.” I watched his face, which was tight and concerned, but his eyes were moving a lot. “I’m sorry to add to your pain.”
He sighed, a bit too theatrically, but he would. “The thought of her suffering some insult, and then . . .”
“Very sad,” I agreed. The thought occurred to me that whoever had left that mark on her arm could well bear responsibility one way or another. It might have sent her over the edge, or simply distracted her enough that she didn’t realize what she was doing with the vial.
But I had no reason to believe Arden had anything to do with it, beyond my dislike and discomfort with him. And since I was already feeling more than a little guilty for leaving Frances to her own devices because I didn’t like her, I could not allow my distaste for Arden to harden into accusation. It would not have been fair.
“If you hear anything else about her, Miss Ella . . .”
“Of course.” Not on your tintype, I thought. “Well, I’m sure you need to do your own rehearsal. I’ll enjoy hearing you tonight.”
“And I you.”
We bowed to each other, and I walked away, more unsettled than I’d been. I decided to ask Tommy to look into him a little more. With Henry’s recommendation, and a fine audition, we’d hired him, and he’d proved a good, if not extraordinary, singer and a decent enough swordsman. On the road, if he wasn’t as fun a touring companion as others I’ve known, he was certainly acceptable company. And while he wasn’t my idea of handsome (you’ve no doubt deduced that I admire men who are tall, dark and all grown-up), his boyish blond good looks certainly didn’t hurt with the ladies in the audience. Of course, none of that balanced out what we now knew.
As for that odd exchange about Violette, I hadn’t had any sense of a broken love affair, but if he had hopes, and she squashed them in the sharp, imperious way she could well have, he might have done his best to make her life uncomfortable. Depending on what he did, I would likely never have known about it. And I did know that someone had put that bruise on her arm. I walked back to my dressing room, contemplating a number of unpleasant possibilities.
Despite that, once I returned, I pushed the odd conversation with Arden to a corner of my mind, where it could easily wait until after the performance. Even if I had wanted to chew over it, I couldn’t have, because once the show began, it was all-consuming for me. When I’m on, I’m on. I assume that every person who is doing what they’re meant to do, and doing it well, feels the same. It doesn’t matter whether it’s teaching children, singing or—hopefully—even digging ditches, because all honest work is honorable if it’s your work. It is the greatest gift in my life, and the reason I will probably never marry. I can’t imagine anything that would be a fair trade, no matter how poetically Marie talks about love, family or a man who would not expect me to make that trade.
Performers will tell you that some nights are better than others, whether the audience can tell or not, and some nights are extraordinarily good. It wasn’t quite one of those special nights where it feels like magic, but it was certainly a very good one. My voice was in its best form, and the aria was just right for the range I had on that particular night; the audience was riding along with me. I took my bow, offered a very short encore, because it was already quite late, and walked back to my dressing room with a satisfied smile. This was one night that I’d earned the “Brava, Diva,” and I knew it.
As I stepped off the stage, I reflected that it was the kind of night that makes all the work worthwhile and reminds us why we love what we do. I hadn’t known Frances well enough to talk about matters of feeling, of course, but I hoped that after everything she’d risked for her career, she’d at least enjoyed a few such nights.
She deserved that much.
Chapter 14
No Stage-Door Lotharios Wanted
The only real problem with small charity benefits is that all sorts of well-meaning contributors get to play stage-door admirer and we have to entertain them. I left my costume and makeup on because
I knew there would be a procession of benefactors, and I was not disappointed. Most were overawed and boring, at worst, but there were a few bejeweled and overly-rouged society matrons who felt the need to glare significantly at my male dress, with an expression that would not have been out of place on Cotton Mather.
But the real stage-door Lotharios were the worst. I have a few excessively loyal and hopeful admirers, as does every performer of note, and one has to handle them with a certain degree of civility, no matter how annoying, and sometimes very nearly insulting, their behavior. Since this was my first performance in the city after the last tour, I was not surprised to see two of them.
First, with red roses clenched in his small, pudgy hands, came Grover Duquesne, “Captain of Industry,” as Hetty had christened him. Duquesne was sixty, if he was a day, with an impressive belly straining at his brocade waistcoat, an egg-bald head under his perennial top hat, and truly intimidating white-and-brown whiskers. He cultivated a carefully jovial and harmless air, but there was an oily appraisal in his narrow porcine eyes that made me want to go take a long bath.
The appraisal was, unfortunately, just part of the package. Duquesne was from the earlier generation that collected chorus girls, and had dropped broad hints that he would like to be my “patron.” So far, I had not given in to my desire to inform him that for that to happen, we would have to skate across the ice of Hell to wherever one kept a mistress, and that I would have to completely take leave of my senses, besides. But, considering the level of provocation, I could not guarantee that my forbearance would hold forever.
Luckily, Toms arrived backstage at almost the exact same moment as the Captain of Industry, and engaged him in careful, amiable conversation with a distinctly intimidating undertone. This scene had played itself out many times in the past, with precisely the same outcome: Duquesne handing off the roses to me, bowing over my hand while coming skin-crawlingly close to actually kissing it, and Tommy kindly, yet very firmly, escorting him to the stage door while I disposed of the roses and washed my hands. But my admirer apparently lived in constant hope that tonight might be the night that I would be swept away by his wealth and importance and abandon my principles. Hope, however misguided, springs eternal for the Captain of Industry.
A Fatal Finale Page 9
