As much as Jeremy would miss Katherine, he knew their separation was good. She would have a chance to meet men. She was beautiful and charming, but he never expected her to be fearless, intelligent, and nurturing. She had become his best friend. He relied on her. He adored her.
The morning Jeremy left London, Katherine sat in an armchair, glared at his trunk, and sipped milky tea. She always took sugar, hadn’t today, and was too upset to notice.
Busy at his desk, he wrote a letter, folded a wide five-pound-note with some coins inside the paper, then put it all into an envelope. “I’m posting the rent, so you can keep the flat straight through the summer.”
Katherine gulped the rest of her tea. “I know you have no concern for your safety, but you need to protect yourself. You should marry me… really marry me.”
He sighed, long and hard. “After what Tommy has suffered, I can never live that lie.”
“But you care for me. It would not be a lie.”
“Caring for someone and being in love are very different. I could never fall in love with a woman.”
She sobbed and dropped her teacup.
It crashed to the floor and he rushed to clean the mess. “I’m sorry, darling. When I’m gone, you can find a nice man who will treat you properly… Make you feel like a woman.”
She choked out, “Nice men don't keep company with actresses. Besides, I don’t care about… that.”
“You should care, and you will care about it very much, with the right chap.” He laughed sadly. “Darling, you need to stay in London to start making a name for yourself. You have had more than enough tour experience and you are good enough to get a principal engagement. I am sure you will have a wonderful career, but you need to work, to hone your craft.”
Two hours later, she tearfully waved good-bye as his train pulled out of King’s Cross Station.
Fleeing London, Archibald Perry, his tabloids, his hecklers, and Tommy Quinn felt like escaping hell. As soon as the train rolled out of town, into the lush countryside, his relief transformed into gnawing guilt. He had just deserted Katherine. Simon had deserted her the same way, less than a year before. Of course, their situations were totally different. He had had no choice, but still… He asked a porter for pen and paper, and started the first of a hundred letters he would send her. She answered promptly and their connection stayed as strong as if they were still living under one roof. For the first time since he was a schoolboy, he knew that one person on God’s green earth loved him unconditionally.
Chapter Eight
July 1892
For Jeremy O'Connell, the next three years flew fast as dry leaves in an autumn wind. Physically exhausted, sexually euphoric, and artistically rewarded, Jeremy worked with more energy and commitment than he ever thought possible. He played good theatres, and leading roles. He tried new methods of acting, playing the same role in different styles. He thought some of his performances were utter rubbish that London audiences would have crucified. Provincial audiences were forgiving, and he learned from his mistakes. He honed his technique, and became the fine actor he always dreamed he could be.
Other actors in the company asked his advice and he taught them, as the same way he had taught Katherine. When he played London again, he would become a teacher, as well as an actor-manager, and stage his own plays. The problem was: how to get hold of a London theatre. On tour, he made excellent wages and pulled in large audiences. One theatrical broadsheet read:
JEREMY O’CONNELL: TOP EARNER IN THE PROVINCES
Simon Camden had become an actor-manager. During the off-season, he rented sets and costumes from Henry Irving, engaged his own company, and toured ratty village theatres too small to afford star actors. His letters were always entertaining.
Dear Jerry,
A sweet little bird’s taking care of me just now, but I wish it were Kathy…
If all goes according to plan, my future is guaranteed. Who would have guessed that Her Majesty’s armed forces would be eager for highbrow entertainment? They long for legitimate theatre, and have engaged me to present it. I have inflated my budget almost double and, short a disaster, in five years I will have played every role I ever dreamed of, seen most of Victoria’s empire, and I will come home a wealthy man.
Jeremy pictured brash and beautiful Simon Camden, costumed like a gentleman, charming stuffy military officers into giving him anything he wanted. The letter continued:
…Tommy Quinn was desperate for work, so I got a first-class actor at half what he is worth…
Jeremy caught his breath. Long ago, Tommy had disappeared from London. Jeremy had no desire to see him, but wished him well. He was delighted Simon was keeping him employed on the other side of the planet. As always, Simon ended by writing about Katherine.
… I wish Kathy would join my tour. Then everything would be perfect. I cannot believe she is still working for Eric Bates. He is a nice chap, but soooo dull.
Katherine was also doing well.
Darling Jerry,
I have been employed by a new actor-manager, Eric Bates. Do you know him? Simon acted with him on tour.
Mr. Bates is married to a rich wife who leased him a small theatre. Hilda Bates does not appreciate her husband’s craft, disrupts rehearsals, and demands that he attend social functions he despises. They have two sweet little girls.
Mr. Bates is soft spoken, kind and patient. Sadly, he has little imagination and no technique. He is quite a good actor in character roles, but not handsome. He often casts himself as the leading man, which does not suit.
The first production is Twelfth Night, and I play Viola. Mr. Bates prepared a detailed staging chart, moving us like chess pieces, with one move for every spoken line. It was dreadful, of course, and he tossed it out. Now, he lets us do whatever we please, and that is equally dreadful. Some actors are outrageously slapstick, some are melodramatic, and others are absurdly introspective.
As principal actress, I am receiving brilliant reviews and the same fine treatment I remember as a headline dancer in Variety.
Jerry darling, you are a better actor than either Simon or Eric Bates. You say you will not come back to London until you can lease a theatre, but Simon had to leave the continent and Eric had to marry a harridan to find that much money. I fear there is no other way.
Please come home. I have changed nothing in the flat, and miss you terribly.
Katherine wrote regularly and each time mentioned Eric Bates. At first he was, “Mr. Bates.” Eventually he became, “Eric,” and finally, “Darling Eric.” Jeremy could not be sure, but guessed they were having an affair. Play after play, the reviewers raved about her and panned Darling Eric’s productions. Audiences stayed away in droves. Jeremy encouraged her to move on, but she was determined to stay with Darling Eric. Jeremy was about to sign a contract for another touring season when a telegram arrived.
ERIC DESPERATE -- STOP -- WIFE CLOSING THEATRE UNLESS NEXT SEASON SUCCESS -- STOP -- OFFERS YOU ONE PRODUCTION TO STAGE -- STOP -- MUST ACT IN THREE OF HIS -- STOP -- PAY SAME AS STRAND – STOP
Without hesitation he wired back:
ARRIVING LONDON FIFTEEN DAYS -- STOP -- WANT SHREW – STOP
Immediately after sending the telegram, he wrote Katherine a long letter giving his arrival time and describing the entire Taming Of The Shrew he staged in his imagination. They would be brilliant together. He was bursting to begin rehearsals, return to his lovely little flat, and the arms of his darling girl. He began focusing on the success he so desperately wanted and knew he could achieve.
TONIGHT AT 8:00200th PERFORMANCE
Mr. JEREMY O’CONNELL
Miss KATHERINE STEWART
In THE TAMING OF THE SHREW
At eight-fifteen, Darling Eric’s wife, Hilda Bates, gleefully tallied the evening’s receipts. The sold-out audience howled with laughter as Petruchio twisted Kate’s arm behind her back.
“Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting?
In his tail.”
“Whose tongue?”
“Yours if you talk of tails: and so farewell.” Katherine thrashed violently as Jeremy pressed his front up against her back.
“What. With my tongue in your tail?”
Katherine kicked behind her, appearing to strike him in the groin. He lurched back in pretend pain, and the audience howled once more.
Two hours later, the audience rose to their feet, cheering. Jeremy stood center-stage with Katherine on one side and Eric, dressed as her father Baptista, on the other. A dozen more actors spread out on either side as they bowed and smiled, again-and-again.
When the curtain-call finally ended, Eric raised his hands to heaven. “Two-hundred sold out performances and three other plays doing nearly as well. Soon we’ll need a bigger theatre. Thank you, God. Thank you, Jerry.”
He pumped Jeremy’s hand and hugged Katherine. She leaned against him and gazed adoringly at Jeremy. Several handsomely dressed young men appeared in the wings. Jeremy waved and went to join them. Katherine gazed sadly after him as he left the stage.
Katherine and Jeremy had slipped back to a comfortable routine. They both made decent salaries and could easily afford a larger flat. Moving house was a nuisance, so they never bothered. They did engage a maid-of-all-work to do the cleaning and washing up. Most nights Jeremy stayed out late, but still loved coming home to Katherine. As much as he preached that she should find a nice regular chap, he was secretly delighted that very married Darling Eric Bates was serving her womanly requirements.
One night, Jeremy left his dressing room flanked by two handsome young admirers. “Jerry!” Katherine smiled at the young men and pulled him away, whispering frantically. “I’m sorry, but there’s something I’ve got to discuss with you. Please stay, just for a minute.”
She looked very upset, but he gestured toward his guests. “I promised the lads…,”
“Please. I’d never ask if it wasn’t urgent.” There were tears in her eyes.
He turned to the young men. “Go ahead chaps. I’ll catch you up. Order whatever you like, just put it on my tab.”
Katherine led Jeremy into her dressing room and shut the door. He waited, coat on, hat in hand, as she leaned on the dressing table, breathing hard. “I’m carrying a child and I have to get rid of it. Eric mustn’t be told.”
Jeremy was stunned. “But… he has to be told.”
“Our affair is scandal enough. Hilda has twice threatened to divorce him.”
“Would that be bad? He loves you. He’ll marry you, if you want him.”
She swung around. “Of course it would be bad. He’ll lose the theatre. Fifty people will lose their positions and his daughter’s reputations will be ruined. Please darling, you know people… doctors.”
He stared at her. “I do not know any butchers.”
“There are good doctors who do this. They’re expensive, but…,”
“It is too dangerous. I will not hear of it.”
They were silent for a few minutes. Slowly, Jeremy's lips spread into a mischievous smile. “I don’t really know why you are so concerned. If you recall, half the tabloids report that you are married to me.”
She sneered, “The other half ‘report’ that you’re a pouf and I’m a harlot. Help me.”
“All right. I’ll help you.” He tossed his hat on a chair. “I will see you through the birth of this child. Give the baby away if you must, but do not give your life over to a butcher.”
They were both silent. Beginning to sweat, Jeremy took off his coat and studied her. A happy excitement sent his heart racing. “Katie -- Marry me -- Really.”
“That’s the daftest suggestion of all.”
“You know I adore children. I’ve longed to have one of my own. I never thought I could.”
She was appalled. “You’re actually serious… What about your -- young men?”
“This has nothing to do with them.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “I will take care of you and the child. You will never lack for anything. Not ever.” His face was close to hers. Tears rolled down her cheeks and he thought his heart would break.
“Oh, Jerry, you were wonderful the last time I needed you. But that was temporary. Raising a child is a commitment, for years and years.”
“I know. Won’t it be fun.”
Chapter Nine
Yorkshire: October 1896
“Whoa, Billy!” Elisa Roundtree nearly slid off the back of her shaggy highland pony. Riding without saddle or bridle, she straightened up, gripped her strong, short legs around his smooth belly, and reached wiry arms around his neck. Pulling his head to one side, she steered him away from a dangerous gully. Once all four hoofs were on solid ground, she pulled on his mane. He obediently stopped, then impatiently shook his head.
She patted his neck, laughing affectionately. “Silly pony. You could have broken a leg and dropped me in the mud.”
She hugged his neck, and pulled a sugar cube from her pocket. Once again, she gripped her legs, stretched her arm, and reached low enough so he could take it with his soft lips.
“It’s all right. You’re still my best friend.” He whinnied in agreement. She laughed, scratching his ear. “I know you want to run, but we have to get off this sinking marsh.”
She gripped his mane, gently squeezed his sides with her knees, and eased him forward. “Just go slowly to the top of the ridge, Billy. Then we can gallop home.” Her sharp eyes watched every inch of soggy ground, and kept the pony winding along a safe path. Once they reached the hilltop, a half-mile from the estate, she put her face against the pony’s neck.
“Go! Billy, go!” Pony and rider bolted as one. Elisa’s long matted hair blended with the pony’s mane, blowing wildly against the wind. Her small body swayed with Billy and the rhythmic beat of his pounding hoofs.
They were almost at the house before Elisa noticed the black motor car. Three figures stood on the porch. Oh, no! Wishing she could turn Billy back, she closed her eyes the rest of the way. Her heart raced as Billy slowed enough to enter the stable without injuring them both.
The groom unceremoniously pulled Elisa off the pony’s back. “Yer in for it now, Missie. They’ve been callin’ y’ fer hours.”
Elisa looked herself over and shuddered. She wore torn boots, jodhpurs, and a stable boy’s tight weave coat. Her hands and face were splattered with dried mud. On the porch, her father Anthony Roundtree gripped the railing. He was dressed in one of his best suits and his face was red with rage.
“Elisa! Come here at once. You were told Sir John was visiting, today. You deliberately disobeyed….,”
“I didn’t father. Honestly. I forgot.” She ran up the stoop, stopped just out of his reach, and curtsied. “I am very sorry, father.”
She turned to Sir John Garingham. “How-do-you-do, Sir John? I beg your pardon for being late.”
Her father’s friend glowered as Elisa curtsied again, this time banging her heavy boot on the wood planking. The unladylike sound made her cowering Aunt Lillian whimper and cover her mouth.
“It’s all right, Aunt. I haven’t caught cold.” Her spinster aunt’s frightened expression warned that Elisa was in deep trouble.
Her father took a menacing step forward, and Elisa lurched back against the porch rail. “You’ll catch far more than a cold, my girl.”
He reached for her, but she sped past him, into the house and upstairs to her room. She slammed the door and reached to turn the key. It was gone. Her father’s heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs. She heard a key go into the keyhole from the other side and turn. Her father’s footsteps started again, first loud then softer as he hurried back downstairs. She tried the door. It held fast. She heard the car engine start up, threw open a window and leaned out. Below, she could see Sir John berating her father.
“Two days, Roundtree. Do you hear me?”
Roundtree wiped sweat off his brow. “Yes, Sir John, two days. I promise.”
Sir John clim
bed into his car, motioning for the chauffeur to drive away.
Elisa pulled herself back inside, closed the window, and slumped onto the floor. Two days? What’s happening in two days? Her stomach growled, but she knew she would go hungry as punishment. Cook used to sneak her food. Then her father threatened to sack any servant who disobeyed his orders.
Elisa often climbed down the trellis to steal food from the pantry. When she was caught she got a beating… Suddenly cold, she shivered, stood up and stared at her reflection in the mirror.
“I look like a tramp.” She grabbed a comb, stuck it into her hair, and pulled. “Ouch!” The comb did not move. Determined, she tried again. This time, the comb lowered an inch and stopped. When she took her hand away, the comb stayed, sticking out from her head. She laughed at the silly sight, then soberly put the comb back on the dresser. She sat on her bed, watching the trees outside her window fade, then disappear into the black night. Tired, hungry, lonely, and frightened, she kicked off her boots and curled up in a quilt. What will happen in two days?
*
Pony Billy whinnied in distress and Elisa woke with a start. She tried the door. It was still bolted. She raced to a window, threw a leg over the sill onto the trellis, then climbed down the sturdy rose canes. She ignored the thorns piercing her bare feet, jumped the last yard, and ran around the corner of the house. The pony was being driven away in a cart.
“No!” She screamed and ran after him.
Her arm was nearly wrenched from its socket as she flipped backward, face to face with Sir John Garingham. He grabbed her other arm, lifted her off the ground and slammed her down again. She winced with pain, too frightened to make a sound.
Sir John visited every year, but had never spoken to Elisa. Now his face was inches above hers. She could see pores in his skin and stains on his teeth. His voice was a threatening rumble. “From today, you will learn to be a lady.”
Not From the Stars (His Majesty's Theatre Book 1) Page 5
