Tommy was still taking care of vermin removal, Anna had helped me out of my cape and I’d loosened my hair from its tight stage knot to a more comfortable braid, when the second of my regular admirers arrived.
“The milksop and his mommy,” Anna whispered as Teddy Bridgewater and his formidable parent swept in.
On his own (not that I’d ever seen him alone), Teddy was an amiable nonentity with a fortune that made Grover Duquesne seem like a pauper. But he came with his mama. Mama Bridgewater would have made an admirable Valkyrie, but instead of a horned helmet and metal breastplate, she wore a fashionable black mourning bonnet and a bombazine dress straining to do its yeoman’s work. Teddy handed me a bouquet of lilies of the valley, his signature offering, with a smell that nauseates me, and bowed over my hand.
“Magnificent as ever, Miss Shane.”
Mama B stood behind him and glared. She had never yet spoken to me, since as a person on the stage, I am beneath her oh-so-respectable notice. It always amused me to realize that, while she looked at least twenty years my senior, I was actually less than five years younger than she. Yes, I am aware that it would be (barely) biologically possible for me to be Teddy’s mother. We will do well to walk right past that fact.
“Thank you, Mr. Bridgewater. Lovely to see you and your mother.”
Teddy’s beardless skin flushed and his colorless eyes lingered on my face. “Lovely to see you, too.”
And so we made what must be smaller than small talk for a few moments while Teddy stared at me, and Mama B attempted to set my clothing on fire with her eyes. Anna made herself very, very busy with the costumes, so as not to giggle, and I conjugated Latin verbs in my head in hopes of distracting myself: amo, amas, amat.
“Yes, the weather has been rather chilly . . .”
After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably all of five minutes, Mama B reminded Teddy that he had to get home to bed, and I did my best not to snicker as they left. Teddy followed her docilely, but with a dusky flush creeping up under his collar. Even if I’d found him remotely appealing (not on your tintype!), there was no way I would have allowed an adult man who permitted his mother to set his bedtime to court me.
I allowed myself a small sigh of relief as the door closed behind them, tossed the offending flowers to Anna, who threw them right out the window, and picked up my cold cream jar, in the hope that the worst of the night was at long last over. And, of course, there was still another knock.
“Come in,” I called, only slightly wearily, shaking my head at Anna, who looked as disappointed as I felt at the thought of yet another visitor. Until I saw who it was.
* * *
Gilbert Saint Aubyn walked in. Of course, he was appropriate in black tie, and, thankfully, without flowers. He had an odd expression on his face, though, and I was afraid I knew what it meant. People I know socially always look at me differently after they see me sing. Sometimes it becomes very uncomfortable. Hetty had a hard time with Ella Shane, the Diva, until I showed up at her family’s town house one afternoon on my velocipede and dragged her back into the park to remind her who we really are.
Don’t be like those awful men, I begged the Fates as I looked at Saint Aubyn. Please, please, don’t be just another backstage Lothario.
“Brava, Diva,” Saint Aubyn said, giving me a wry smile that allayed my concerns. “General Shane wins the day.”
I returned the smile, wondering why it had mattered so much to me that he not be another smitten fan. “Thank you, Your Grace. It was a good night.”
“May I ask you a few questions about that?”
“Certainly.” I motioned him into the room. “If you don’t mind my taking my makeup off while we talk. I cannot stand another second with this paint.”
He chuckled as he sat. “Fair enough.”
I opened the cold cream jar, watching him in the mirror as he looked around the dingy and crowded space, and then returned his gaze to me. “This is not really about tonight’s performance, is it?”
“Perceptive as always, Miss Shane.” He nodded. “I am attempting to understand what might have drawn Frances to this life. And what might have made her desperate enough to end it.”
“I don’t know that she was desperate.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve learned a few things about your cousin’s death.”
“Such as?” He sat down on the only other chair in the room, a spindly olive-green metal thing that looked as if it would barely hold him.
“A reporter friend of mine gave me a copy of the report from New Haven, and I asked my doctor to look at it.”
Saint Aubyn’s eyes narrowed. “You have a reporter friend?”
“We met on a settlement house committee. We have a great deal in common as working women.”
“Aren’t you uncomfortable with the idea that she might write about you?”
“People write about me often enough. And good reporters live by a code of ethics. My friendship with her is confidential, as any other friend would be.”
“You’ve placed a great deal of trust in her.”
I shook my head. “I have nothing to hide, Your Grace. If anyone looks into the deep secrets of my life, they will find nothing more than a fondness for shepherd’s pie. And violet ice cream.”
Saint Aubyn blinked. “Not together, surely.”
“No.”
“I do not fancy ices, having been forced to toy with far too many at various society balls, but I do enjoy a good shepherd’s pie.”
“Before you return to England, you should come to our town house for luncheon or dinner with Tommy and me and sample Mrs. Grazich’s version.”
“I would like that.”
“So would she. We’ll never hear the end of it. ‘I cooked for a duke!’ ”
He laughed. “Is everyone around you a character, or is it just the way you tell the story?”
“Both.”
“I don’t doubt it.” He watched me in the mirror for a moment. “All right, so what did you learn from your friends?”
“I apologize for the indelicacy,” I started.
His face tensed.
“Nothing like that,” I said quickly. “She apparently had a sort of . . . nervous illness.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was apparently vomiting up what she ate.” I just forced the words out. Best get it over with.
“Again?”
That was probably the last thing I expected him to say. I simply stared.
“Perhaps five years ago,” he started, “she got very thin, and her mother told me that she had a sort of eating problem. She started singing lessons soon after, and all I heard after that was about music, and how she wished she could make it a career.”
So the music saved her, too.
“You are thinking that the music saved her, just as it saved you.”
I blinked at him.
“I’ve checked your bona fides, as I’m sure you did mine, Miss Shane. I’m aware that you grew up a poor orphan girl on the Lower East Side. I don’t doubt you believe you owe your life to the music, or that Frances did, too.”
“True. I was thinking that.”
“But you did not want to be unkind to me by saying so.” He was looking much too deeply into my eyes.
“I try not to be unkind if I can avoid it.”
He smiled. “That, you do.”
“There’s more.”
“What else?”
“You will know this, since you saw the report, but it came as a surprise to me. She was poisoned with nicotine.”
“Yes. I wondered why she chose such a nasty end.”
“I’m no longer entirely certain she did.”
He stood, knocking the little chair over, and took a step toward me. “What?”
The sound and sudden movement stunned me for a second. I found myself backing away, wondering where my sword was, and Tommy, too. I glanced at Anna, who was holding the clothing brush like a club.<
br />
“I’m sorry, ladies,” Saint Aubyn said as he righted the chair and composed himself. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I wasn’t going to give him that. “No offense taken.”
Anna returned to brushing my cape.
“Perhaps I misunderstood.”
“No. You didn’t.” I took a breath and a hard look at him as he sat back down. He was genuinely concerned and upset, as I surely would have been, and clearly hadn’t intended any threat. Which, considering my skills, and the fact that Tommy would soon return to pick me up, was quite good for his continued well-being. “Dr. Silver says she may have been using some kind of patent emetic or purgative with nicotine in it, and there is just the possibility that she mistakenly filled the prop bottle with the medicine instead of water or whatever she normally used.”
His eyes burned into mine. “Just the possibility.”
“A possibility that might bring some comfort to a family in grief.”
He let out a long breath. “Very true. Thank you, Miss Shane.”
“I am glad to be of help,” I replied, realizing how stiff it sounded as he watched me. “Losing a loved one is painful enough, without the added suffering of unanswered questions.”
Saint Aubyn nodded, watched me. And then: “Do you know what she was taking?”
“I don’t. From what my doctor said, I got the impression that nicotine is not an uncommon ingredient in patent medicines.”
“Not as common as opiates, but I have heard of it. I’d never seen any sign of her using such things, though.”
“Would you? Dr. Silver told me girls hide it quite well.”
“A fair question, and one for which I don’t have a good answer.”
I looked away, and realized I still had a handful of cold cream and a face full of makeup. I left him to his thoughts as I got to work, well aware that he was watching as I wiped off the cold cream, revealing my normal face, with just a few smudges under the eyes from the heavy liner.
“You wouldn’t really need to be beautiful, would you?”
I laughed. “As long as the people in the back row can see your eyes and mouth, it doesn’t matter if you look like a pair of old shoes.”
“And yet you are.”
“A pair of old shoes?” I teased.
“No, a beauty.” He looked a little flustered, but by now, I was used to his occasional awkward comments.
“Very kind,” I said, turning away from my mirror. “We have also learned that your cousin was moving along in her career.”
“Yes?”
“Her booking agent was ready to sign her for a four-role season contract in Philadelphia.” He waited, so I continued. “It would have been exactly the perfect step in launching her.”
“So whatever was wrong, it wasn’t in the progress of her work.”
“Likely not.” I returned to my table, giving him a moment to contemplate. I thought about Arden, but remembered Father Michael’s advice. “She was very gifted.”
“But apparently not happy.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps careless. All of us mortals have our dark times.”
“True.” He was silent for a moment, thinking. “Artists more than others?”
I shrugged. “We do pour a lot of feeling into what we do.”
“How does it feel when you sing?”
“Better than anything under Heaven,” I told him honestly. “It’s my gift. I hold the audience in my hand, and I can make them feel what I feel . . . or what I want them to.”
He nodded gravely. “I trained as a barrister before I became heir to the title, and I’ve given the occasional speech in the Lords. There is something to be said for the limelight.”
“It makes us more than we are.” I returned the nod. “And it’s very hard not to want to continue that feeling, once you’ve had it.”
“Like love, perhaps.”
“I wouldn’t know.” I picked up my charm bracelet and started putting it back on, but between the slippery cold cream and my tiredness, it was a struggle.
He watched me for a moment. “Here. Allow me.”
I handed him the bracelet and held out my wrist. “I don’t doubt your hands are steadier than mine at this hour.”
He smiled and clasped it easily, running his fingers over the charms. “Are they all operas and roles?”
“Mostly.” I shrugged. “Some personal mementoes from Tommy and my close friends.”
“So the music is not the only thing you cherish.”
“No.” I suspected I knew what he was thinking. “But it is the center of my world.”
“So you would have no trouble understanding why someone would run off and leave their family and world to do this.”
“None at all.”
“Especially if you thought the music saved you from a life you couldn’t stand.”
“Much as it did me. Without a voice, and a teacher, I’d be a washerwoman right now.”
“I cannot begin to imagine that.”
I shrugged. “I never forget that I am one of the lucky ones. There are so many other people whose gifts will never be known.”
Saint Aubyn nodded. “Is that why you sang here tonight?”
“And why I will always sing for any school or settlement house that asks me.”
“Impressive.”
“I do very nicely with the paying customers. The least I can do is help others.”
“Did you share this philosophy with Frances?”
I shook my head. “We never had a heart-to-heart conversation, I’m sorry to say.”
“No?”
“We shared a coffee or tea a few times, and amiable chat during rehearsal, but it never went beyond the pleasantries. I’m older, I’m the company owner. I was not the one she would confide in.” And I didn’t like her, God forgive me.
“Probably true. And if you are trying to hide your identity, you would not be making close friends.”
“Equally true. She did somewhat keep to herself.”
“Did she have any friends?”
“As I said, she spent time with Anna and Louis, but I don’t believe she was close to anyone else in the company.”
He was silent for a moment as he thought about that; then he looked closely at me. “I’m sorry. I am probably keeping you from your rest.”
“I am glad to help, but, yes, I’m quite tired.”
“Understandably.” Gilbert Saint Aubyn rose, smiling. “Thank you for your time, Miss Shane.”
“My pleasure. Please don’t hesitate to call on me if you have more questions.”
“Thank you.”
“You might, at least, gain some useful insight into Juliet soon.”
“Oh?”
“Marie de l’Artois is joining me for the Balcony Scene at a benefit for the settlement house in about two weeks.”
“I should see that.”
“Would you also like me to ask Marie if she will talk to you about the role? Her time is limited because of her family responsibilities, but perhaps after our rehearsal session the day after tomorrow . . .”
Saint Aubyn looked either curious or shocked. “ ‘Family responsibilities’?”
“She has a husband and three children, and sings only occasionally. But brilliantly.”
“Good for her.”
“What?”
He shrugged. “I don’t necessarily hold with all of that ‘Angel in the House’ swill. Why shouldn’t your friend sing when she can, if she is meeting all of her family duties?”
I stared at him.
“My mother and aunts are absolutely angels, and they have always spent much of their time out of the house helping those in need.” He smiled, apparently at the thought of those excellent ladies. “Perhaps we all must think of some new answers in this new century.”
Will you marry me? I thought, and quickly shook that off. “It is good to hear a man with such modern ideas.”
“Not that modern, Miss Shane. I’m not at all convinced abo
ut woman suffrage.”
I laughed. “What? You don’t mind the idea of a woman continuing to sing while raising a family, but you don’t want her to vote?”
“Politics is a filthy game.” Saint Aubyn shook his head. “I suspect women will not improve it, but be harmed by it.”
I smiled. “I would very much enjoy having this debate with you when I am not so tired.”
“I would enjoy it as well.” He bowed. “Until next time, then.”
“I shall look forward to it.”
As he walked out, Anna shook her head. “That’s some odd fish of a man. Not bad to look at, but one odd fish.”
It was only as I took off my stockings that night, and saw the fading mark on my ankle from almost falling in front of the grocery wagon, that I remembered I hadn’t mentioned the handprint bruise. I consoled myself with the thought that he’d read the report and must surely know.
Chapter 15
In Which the Agent Calls
People who do not know performers tend to think we lead lives of luxury and decadence, dancing all night and sleeping until noon. Even if I were inclined to late-night misbehavior, which I am not, I would not be able to engage in much of it and maintain a voice. I have no idea what’s required to maintain a chorus girl’s skills (whatever they may be), but an opera singer has to live quite a disciplined life. The instrument only works properly if the body in which it lives is in good health, and the voice is especially sensitive to lack of sleep. Which does mean, yes, that the morning after a performance, I might well sleep deep into the midday, simply to restore myself. Decadent, no. Disciplined, yes.
I do not, however, hold with breakfast in bed. Unless one is genuinely sick, decently-brought-up people get out of bed and eat at a table. Which, admittedly, may mean luncheon for breakfast. Not the worst thing, when Mrs. G is making it. And so it was that Wednesday, the morning after the girls’ school benefit, I rose well after eleven. I buttoned my purple plush wrapper over my nightclothes, stepped into the matching purple slippers, with sweet pink flowers on the toes, and headed downstairs.
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