“Horses can see better in the dark than people.”
Blackness had faded to dark blue when the coach came to a halt. Through the window, Charlotte could vaguely make out the short canopy between the pitched roofs of the modest main station and the stationmaster’s house.
A busy day lay ahead. They would take the train from Spilsby to the market town Firsby, then on to Lincoln to meet the London and North Eastern Railway.
Mr. Perry rang less than twenty-four hours ago, she marveled.
Mr. Heaton opened the door, took the bags that Oswald proffered, and set them upon the cobblestones. “Keep the rugs. Mr. Perry bought them for the train. I must go and fetch him now.”
“I beg your pardon for the wait,” Oswald said as they shared an iron bench beneath the canopy, swaddled in rugs. “The stationmaster should open up in an hour or so. But I could rouse him, say that Lord Fosberry’s wife—”
“No!”
He looked embarrassed. She had not intended to spit that out so sharply. Softening her voice, she said, “It’s been a long time since I’ve watched the sun rise. So, Mr. Perry offered you a job.”
“He said he could always use good riders.”
She hoped Mr. Perry had not made his commitment for her sake.
“It’s an answer to prayer,” Oswald went on. “Seven years is a long time to clean stables.”
Charlotte had to smile. “I should think seven minutes would be a long time to clean them.”
He smiled back. “I don’t mind hard work, but there wasn’t much leave for advancement. Mr. Douglas is as healthy as I am, even though he’s been stable master since before I was born. Not that I would wish anything upon him.”
“You’re setting out on an adventure.”
“I’ve put aside wages for years in hope of starting over in London. I can scarcely believe I’ll soon be walking the streets of Oliver Twist and David Copperfield.”
“You’re a reader, then.”
“Aye, Your Ladyship.” He paused. “You’re setting out on an adventure as well. Are you at all afraid?”
Petrified, she thought. But she didn’t wish to give vent to her fears, not now, when any moment she could hear hoofbeats.
Oswald gave her a sidelong look. “The lamp belonged to Mr. Heaton. He lent it to me yesterday. Wouldn’t want you to think I nicked it from his lordship.”
“I would never have assumed so,” Charlotte said, meaning it. It was obvious that this young man had character. Not that she had been the best judge over the years, but even an off-key piano could sometimes strike a proper chord.
She lowered her chin to cover a yawn with the rug.
“Rest your eyes, Your Ladyship,” Oswald said. “I’ll keep watch.”
“I’m quite sure I can’t.” But folding arms and lowering her chin again, she sank into a muddled half slumber.
“Good morning?”
She roused herself and looked up at a thickset man in a coat and bowler hat.
“I’m Mr. Sparks. Would you care to wait inside?”
The town of Spilsby was waking to their backs: sounds of wheels and hooves upon stones; St. James’s six bells striking a quarter past seven.
“Thank you, yes.” She gave Oswald a gentle elbow and smiled when he snorted awake. Inside the station house, Mr. Sparks offered tea. The familiar warmth of the cup in her hand was reassuring.
Still, her insides flinched every time the door opened.
A handful of passengers assembled upon the benches. Charlotte drew some curious looks, but no one ventured over. She did not think her nerves could stand the strain of polite chatter.
The young man with her studied the door just as intently.
Roger can make a scene, but he cannot force us to return, she had to remind herself.
She felt better at the sight of Mr. Perry approaching. Charlotte held out her hands; he set his grip upon the floor and took them.
“So here you are. Please forgive my not accompanying the coach. I took to heart Lord Fosberry’s threat to have me arrested.”
“I understand.”
Releasing her hands, he took a purse from his waistcoat pocket and turned to Oswald. “Mr. Green, go and purchase three first-class tickets to King’s Cross.”
Oswald looked at the coins in his hand. “Third is fine for me, sir.”
Mr. Perry smiled. “Just don’t become accustomed to it, my good man.”
“Are you all right, Lady Fosberry?” he said to Charlotte as they shared a bench.
“Quite, thanks to you.” She had to address the question in the back of her mind. “Did you hire Oswald for my sake?”
He shook his head. “My couriers ofttimes deliver money and valuables; thus, integrity is vital. I can teach a man to ride but not to be honest. I was having my pipe in the courtyard when he rode up. His horsemanship was obvious.”
“But how could you discern his integrity?”
“After I read Lord Fosberry’s letter, I offered him five pounds to get word to you that I would take this to the local authorities. He turned down the money and warned that Lord Fosberry and the chief constable sometimes ride together. Whilst I pondered what to do, he came up with the plan. I had given no indication that he would be offered a position.”
“God sent you and Oswald,” Charlotte said. “You’re surely angels.”
Mr. Perry chuckled. “Mrs. Perry would beg to differ.”
Midday London glistened from morning rains. Two gray horses pulled the coach along Euston Street, among hansoms and drays and costermonger carts and omnibuses. Charlotte alternated between watching familiar landmarks and Oswald’s glowing face.
Up the Strand toward Wellington, Charlotte kept her eyes to the window and was rewarded with the sight of the six Ionic limestone columns of the Lyceum’s grand portico.
The coach rocked to a gentle stop. The cabby opened the door and offered his hand. She handed him her bag, stepped out onto the pavement, and turned. Both men were half rising as if to accompany her.
“Kind sirs, it is time to return to your lives.” She smiled at Oswald. “Your new life.”
“Your bag . . .” they said in unison.
“Is not heavy. I shall give your names to the box office, and I do hope you will attend a performance as my guest and stay for refreshments backstage. And Mr. Perry, that includes Mrs. Perry, of course.”
“We should be delighted,” Mr. Perry said, settling back into his seat.
Oswald nodded. “Godspeed, Lady Fosberry.”
“Thank you,” she said. “But it’s Ward, if you please. I left Lady Fosberry back in Lincolnshire.”
A sunken-cheeked woman was mopping the lobby’s marble floor with wide swabs.
“Waste of effort,” she hissed through gaping teeth. “Tonight there’ll be two thousand pair of boots mucking it up.”
“Good morning?”
The woman turned, hand to throat. “Oootch! You gave us a fright!”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Ah, no matter. Box office ain’t open for—” She studied Charlotte’s face. “Would you be . . . Missus Charlotte Ward?”
“Yes. Here to see Mr. Irving.”
The aged eyes traveled the length of her, or rather, the breadth of her.
Charlotte stood straighter. “Will you direct me to his office?”
“I am here, Charlotte.”
Henry Irving strode into the lobby from the side door. He was as handsome as ever, even though some gray had cropped up in the hair parted above his long face.
“Good morning, Henry.”
He took her proffered hand in both of his. “So, Mr. Perry pulled it off.”
“It was quite an enterprise.”
“You’ve put on some weight.” He was not one to mince words.
“Too much?” she asked, resisting the urge to fold her arms across her body.
“’Tis the bane of bein’ woman, Mr. Irving,” the cleaner offered. “My George once could put both hands round my middle.”
He gave her a bemused look, and she snorted and returned to mopping.
“I’ve had nothing but tea since your letter,” Charlotte said. “I’m determined to make myself thin again. And I intend to buy a corset.”
“No, not necessary,” Henry said. “Our dressers will truss you up.”
Charlotte’s breath caught in her throat. “I may stay, then?”
“But of course. It’s an honor to have you. Can you be ready Saturday night?”
Three days away? “I can be ready tonight.”
Finally, he smiled. “We must inform the newspapers and squeeze in a rehearsal with the cast. I’ll have someone carry you over to the Mona Hotel in Covent Garden. Rehearsal at one o’clock on Friday.”
With a wave of his hand, he turned. Charlotte watched his retreating back.
“This is as a dream,” she said.
The woman with the mop snorted. “If this be a dream, dearie, give us a good pinch.”
4
Backstage at the Lyceum was an anthill of activity one hour before curtain. Actors and musicians, wardrobe and hairdressers, managers and stagehands traveled the labyrinthine passageways and narrow staircases at half trot.
The hairdresser had just left Charlotte’s dressing room. A silvery crown perched upon her coiled hair. She closed the door and practiced projecting her voice while using only the upper portion of her body.
“Doctor Foster
went to Gloucester
In a shower of rain.
He stepped in a puddle
Right up to his middle
And never went there again.”
A whalebone corset constrained her lower lungs. She had arrived three hours ago in order to have the full attention of the dressers. Tucking and tugging and grunting, they had managed to transform her into Gertrude without having to let out any seams in the loose-flowing blue brocade gown.
Her hands went often to her waist. The firmness was comforting. The hunger pangs had finally eased last night, along with the blinding headache. How good to feel in control! She could do this for as long as it took.
“Come in!” she said when someone rapped at her door. One of the assistants, a wizened, affable fellow named Bayard Rook, entered with a bouquet of roses.
“From His Highness,” he announced.
“How lovely.”
It seemed unpatriotic to set the vase upon the floor with the half-dozen others, so she pushed aside jars and bottles upon the dressing table.
Welcome back! the card read simply, signed Edward.
Edward VII, Prince of Wales, was a great patron of the arts. The flowers meant he and his entourage would be in his usual box 1. She was accustomed to royalty in the audience. This was, after all, London.
She continued breathing techniques.
“Doctor Foster
went to Gloucester . . .”
Half an hour later, Mr. Rook knocked again and stuck his head around the door. “It’s time.”
Meaning, time to assemble in the greenroom. Her fluttering of nerves mingled with relief that the waiting would soon be over.
“You’re stunning, Mrs. Ward,” Geoffrey Fisher called from his open door. He would soon be King Claudius to her Queen Gertrude. He sat upon a stool as a woman dresser stitched an apparent rent in the sleeve of his tunic.
“Why, thank you, Mr. Fisher,” Charlotte said and floated down the corridor, buoyed by his compliment.
The hum of conversation met her ears. A pair of young actresses stood at the greenroom door, wearing silks appropriate for Ladies of the Court.
“. . . didn’t realize it was missing until I looked into the mirror. They were cheap as last week’s trout, but the jade matched my eyes.”
“Well, mind you keep the other, or the missing one will turn up next day. It always happens that way.”
“Mrs. Ward!” exclaimed the one with green eyes. “I didn’t have the chance to speak with you yesterday. My aunt took me to see The Octoroon when I was but seven. We waited at the stage door, and you were so kind. I kept the program you inscribed for me.”
Charlotte smiled. “And now here you are, an actress yourself.”
The young woman sighed. “Standing about with no lines.”
“Now there. William Shakespeare thought enough of your part to include it, so let’s hold our head up high, shall we?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Ward.” Smiling, the two stood aside to allow her entrance.
Gentlemen and gravediggers, lords and ladies conversed in worn chairs and sofas before the fireplace, or sipped from beakers of water on the table. There was no need to be silent as yet, for from the theatre came faint sounds of voices and shuffling of feet. Most actors had been in the production since its inception, thus there were few frenzied scans of playscripts.
“Ah, and there you are,” called Tom Folks, soon to play Horatio. He crossed the room and handed her an envelope bearing her name.
The sight of the familiar bold script sent a chill through her. “Where did you get this?”
“I was the first one here.” He motioned toward the far wall. “It was attached.”
Through the costumed bodies, she spotted what appeared to be her trunk. Her constrained lungs labored to pull in breaths. Surely he would not give up so easily and extend an olive branch. Did he intend to shake her nerve?
Brows rose beneath Tom’s flatcap. “Mrs. Ward?”
“Just . . . an old acquaintance. If you’ll excuse me.” Walking over to a relatively quiet corner of the room, she broke the seal and opened the vellum paper. She could not stop herself from reading. If he were out there in the audience, she must know.
My Dearest Charlotte,
You did not think I would miss your opening night, did you?
I understand aging has been difficult, but I believed you above corrupting the virtue of a servant barely out of boyhood. Alas, the proverb rings true: The leopard cannot change its spots.
I am too decent a man to exact revenge, hence your trunk. However, in my grief, I did pour out my heart to a very sympathetic reporter for The Daily Telegraph.
She gasped.
Conversations tapered. Eyes turned toward her.
Mr. Irving entered in flatcap and a shortcoat befitting the prince. He looked about and barked, “And who died, pray?”
“It’s nothing,” Charlotte said when nods were directed her way. She forced a smile. “A ghost from the past. Prince Hamlet and I have that in common.”
That brought on a smattering of laughter. Henry crossed over to her and said, “Your husband?”
She hesitated, nodded.
“Give it to me.” He crossed over to the fireplace and threw page and envelope into the flames. Upon his return, he quoted one of his lines. “‘The play’s the thing.’ Yes?”
“Yes. I won’t allow him to win.”
He nodded. “And so he shan’t.”
“‘The play’s the thing,’” Charlotte said under her breath, and then again.
Stagehands sprang into action once the blue velvet curtain ended act 1, scene 1. Thanks to ingenious rolling platforms, the exterior of Denmark’s royal castle became the interior room of state in seconds.
“Shall we, my dear?” Geoffrey Fisher asked in the wing.
Charlotte tucked her hand into his arm. They walked onto stage right and over to gilded thrones. Henry Irving stepped to his mark and winked at her.
Her heart welled with gratitude. She would be the best Gertrude ever played. He would not regret believing in her.
The curtain rose.
And then, miracle of miracles, hearty applause! Not for me, Charlotte thought, but when Mr. Fisher pressed her hand into his side, she knew that it was. She could feel her face glowing.
What have I ever done to deserve such grace, Father? Her prayer was brief, for the audience was silencing. She took as much breath as the corset allowed and delivered her first line.
“Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off, and let thine eye look like a
friend on Denmark!”
The scene went well. She was the Queen of Denmark, not Charlotte, aging, unloved, and betrayed. The applause as the curtain lowered was intoxicating! She could have danced for joy!
Do you hear, Roger?
She would not appear again until act 2, scene 2. Which gave her time to picture the aftermath of Roger’s deed.
The Daily Telegraph was well circulated. Lies set in newsprint might as well be carved in stone. Other publications would follow suit. Yes, she could fight to clear her name, which would amount to a retraction on some later page, but she would be fighting against the adage of Where there is smoke, there is fire. Who had the most credibility? A respected member of the peerage, or a thrice-married actress?
And how long before the gossip reached Cheltenham?
Another chill caught her, though the theatre wings seemed as hot as an oven.
She wouldn’t believe it.
But why would she not? They were essentially strangers.
Too soon, the curtain opened again on a castle room of state, where Claudius and Gertrude would ask courtiers Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to seek out the source of Hamlet’s distress.
Charlotte’s distress was acute. Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades. The gaslights made her nauseous. But she kept her eyes upon Geoffrey Fisher as he began his lines.
“Welcome, dear Rosencrantz and Guildenstern!”
She had performed in far worse condition. Hives, a broken ankle, toothache, even the onset of pneumonia.
Four months of morning sickness. Even so, she could not recall nausea this severe, nor such a lump in her chest.
Silence.
She blinked, looked about. Actors waited. Out in the darkened seats, uneasy anticipation was palpable.
“Good gentlemen, he hath much talked of you,” she said hastily.
Too hastily.
She could not believe this. Past fame or not, one more mishap and Henry would replace her with Mrs. Overton, who waited somewhere backstage.
Taking a quick breath, she continued. “And sure I am . . .”
What next?
The actor who played Guildenstern held two discreet fingers beneath his chin.
Charlotte was both grateful and resentful. This was a part she could play in her sleep.
A Haven on Orchard Lane Page 3
