“. . . two men there are not living . . .”
The lump welled from chest to throat. Nausea overwhelmed her. She gulped air, tried to continue. The young actors before her traded worried glances.
She could picture Roger out there, smiling.
“. . . two men there are not living . . .” she repeated, digging fingernails into her palms, “to whom he more adheres. It will please you . . .”
The line was supposed to be if it will please you. Those things happened. Never to her, but she knew that it was best to carry on.
“. . . to expend your time with us a while . . .”
Guildenstern’s eyes fairly bulged. She had left out a whole line!
From a seat out in the darkened audience, surely no farther away than the third row, a pair of hands began clapping. That led to murmurs from all over and rustling in seats.
You’re a professional, Charlotte reminded herself, blinking tears.
What was the next line?
“Curtain!” came from the wings. Mercifully, pulleys began humming, and the curtain started lowering.
She buried her face in her hands. As curtain met stage, despair seized her with such violence that every nerve in her body felt on fire. Yet her teeth chattered, and she felt pressed upon from all sides, as if under water.
The pair who had dressed her, Mrs. Dowey and Miss Wren, hurried onstage. Mrs. Dowey touched her shoulder. “Come, Mrs. Ward. Let us see after you.”
Charlotte gaped at her.
She was led to the wing in a fog. She felt damp cloth against her skin, clothes being loosened, others pulled over her head. Whimpering, she was escorted into a carriage. A ride through gaslit streets. A cot with starched sheets. A spoonful of bitter liquid pushed past her lips. And blessed nothing.
As Charlotte eased into consciousness, dream characters floated about speaking bits and pieces of sentences. She had the vague notion of yet another carriage ride through dark streets. She had no concept of time, save light and shadows. At length, she regained some lucidity, and was informed by a Dr. Jacobs that she was in an isolation room at Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead.
“You’ve been here two days. You spent three in a ward in St. Thomas’ Hospital.” His brows joined and sprouted like weeds above narrow eyes, but his voice was soothing. “Reporters became nuisances, so you were brought here in secret under the identity of Mrs. Iris Jones.”
“Why can’t I remember?” Charlotte asked.
“You were treated with opium for exhaustion and melancholia.”
“Opium! I don’t want—”
“I discontinued it when you arrived. I wish to see how you respond to bed rest.”
That was a relief. She had witnessed the results of opium addiction firsthand. “I have very little money. A brooch and bracelet in my bag, wherever it is . . .”
“There is only a small fee for the use of this room, as technically you’re not an isolation patient. Mr. Irving intends to pay it on behalf of the Lyceum and asked that we protect your identity.”
“How kind.”
“He asked me to assure you that the production went on the night of your unfortunate departure. And that your trunk and belongings from the hotel are being stored at the theatre.”
“Henry Irving is a good man.” Charlotte sighed. “And I’m a charity case.”
Dr. Jacobs wagged a finger at her. “Few of us go through life without needing assistance at some time, Mrs. Ward. My mother was a widowed parlormaid, and her employer kindly paid for my education. No doubt you’ve helped others as well.”
Charlotte thought, shook her head. “I’m afraid not. Oh, little encouragements to fellow actors here and there, but nothing to the degree of your employer.”
“We do what we can, Mrs. Ward. And your time on earth is not up.”
Being that poverty was all Charlotte could see for her future, it was unlikely she would be able to help anyone. But such thinking exhausted her, and she was grateful when Dr. Jacobs left and she could sink back into sleep.
The following day, or it could have been the same day, for she had lost all sense of time, she tried to figure out what she would do after leaving the hospital. The thought of trying to find another acting job made her physically ill, yet the thought of asking Roger to take her back was far worse, if he would even deign to do so.
No letters arrived.
“Few know you’re here,” Dr. Jacobs explained when Charlotte asked. “I’m certain they’re being held at St. Thomas’s. Shall I inquire?”
She was tempted. Perhaps some of her old acquaintances had written? Theatre people were generous, as a rule. She had but to ask, and hospitality would be offered.
But for how long? There was a not-too-fine line between houseguest and burden. Especially when that houseguest was almost penniless.
Self-recrimination filled her prayers.
I never asked you once if Roger was the right man for me. Or if it was your will that I should marry again at all.
Her most frequent prayer was not for herself, however, but that the faculty of Cheltenham Ladies’ College, one hundred miles away in Gloucestershire, were too busy educating young minds to read theatre columns from London newspapers.
5
The sun had started glazing the neo-Gothic windows of Cheltenham Ladies’ College when Rosalind approached the main entrance on Thursday, the fourth of March.
“Good morning, Miss Kent,” said sixth-form prefect Carina Hadley. “Miss Beale asks to see you.”
Lectures were to begin in half an hour. Rosalind hastened to the principal’s office, pausing in the open doorway. Dorothea Beale removed her reading spectacles and smiled up at her. The calm, almost placid face belied the intensity of her decades-long struggle for women’s educational rights.
“Do come in, dear. Did you take your stroll?”
“It was invigorating,” Rosalind said. “I spotted a song thrush building a nest.”
“It’s a wonder you haven’t caught your death in those damp fields.”
“It energizes me for the day. And where best to speak with God?”
After seven years on staff, minus four months tending her ailing aunt, Rosalind could speak easily with Miss Beale.
“Well, you’re the picture of health and serenity. There must be something to it.” Her face became serious. “Do sit, dear.”
Rosalind slipped into the chair facing the desk. Miss Beale’s gray British shorthair cat, Hetty, raised her head long enough for a disinterested look before resuming her lie-in on the windowsill.
“Is something the matter?” Rosalind asked.
Miss Beale passed a newspaper clipping across the desk. “It’s from The Times.”
With a sense of dread, Rosalind scanned past a glowing account of Henry Irving’s Hamlet and found her mother’s name.
As to Charlotte Ward’s portrayal of Gertrude, I can only echo Hamlet’s words: “O, woe is me, to have seen what I have seen!” While one cannot logically fault any person for aging, one must wonder when our beloved Lady Charlotte’s legendary passion for acting gave way to passion for food. The brain may process only so much information at one time. Could it be that a craving for after-party cake dominated Mrs. Ward’s to the detriment of her lines during Saturday’s ill-fated performance?
All criticism aside, we are encouraged that Mrs. Ward sought treatment at St. Thomas’ Hospital. We hope she will grace the boards again, as she did so eloquently in the past.
“He’s encouraged,” Rosalind muttered as all serenity from her stroll escaped her. “What a hypocrite.”
“It is cruel. There are a couple more reviews of the same ilk in other newspapers.”
“Why didn’t she stay in Lincolnshire? Whatever was she thinking?”
Rosalind had used the surname of her mother’s maiden aunt, Vesta Kent, since childhood. Miss Beale was the only person at the college aware of her family connection.
“Your mother and I are the same age,” Miss Beale said. “
When you feel past your prime, you wonder how many opportunities you have left.”
“One more opportunity to bask in the glow of everyone’s admiration.”
“That hardly seems the case now, does it? I wonder if she has anyone to offer support.”
“She has never lacked for support,” Rosalind said, setting the clipping onto the desk. “I’m certain she’s home again, being consoled by her husband. He’ll buy her a gold bracelet or some such bauble, and she’ll recover.”
Miss Beale picked up another clipping and passed it to her. “That one is ten days old. Last night, I decided to catch up with news of the world. This one is from The Daily Telegraph.”
The second clipping contained an etching of her mother and Lord Fosberry from their wedding day. The headline read
LORD FOSBERRY HEARTBROKEN OVER CHARLOTTE WARD’S DESERTION WITH YOUNG SERVANT
Rosalind’s face went hot. “How could she!”
“Wait before you pass judgment.”
“I’m grateful Aunt Vesta isn’t around to witness this. She always said my mother had no morals.”
“The same Aunt Vesta who shamed you for going to college?” Miss Beale asked.
Rosalind cast about in vain for a reply. She regretted being so forthcoming during her interview those seven years ago, though that very openness had helped land her the position. When Miss Beale asked, “How are you different from the thirteen other qualified young women who have applied for this position?” Rosalind had answered, “Because I value education so much that I fought for it tooth and nail.”
Face burning, she attempted to read the article’s first sentence.
“Here, I would rather you read this one from six days ago,” Miss Beale said, holding out a third clipping. “It sheds some light.”
This one contained an interview with a Mr. Milton Perry and an Oswald Green, a former servant of Lord Fosberry.
“Lady Fosberry was the soul of goodness, like Lucie Manette in A Tale of Two Cities,” claims Mr. Green. “That is why we want to set things right. There was never any untoward action on her part to me, nor any of the other menservants.”
Mr. Perry, who admittedly had never met Lord Fosberry, detailed his and Mr. Green’s parts in assisting Mrs. Ward in her escape through the dark winter’s night. It seemed some intrigue from a play.
The article ended with a question: Where is Charlotte Ward now?
Rosalind pushed aside another tug of pity. “No doubt one of her theatre friends is hiding her until this blows over.”
“Spring lectures conclude Wednesday next,” Miss Beale said. “I started out teaching mathematics. It would be gratifying to have a classroom again for a bit. And I haven’t forgotten how to give examinations. That would give you five weeks.”
“To see after my mother, you mean,” Rosalind said. “No, thank you.”
“I realize you haven’t a close relationship.”
“We have no relationship.”
She should be grateful that her mother had turned her over to an aunt twenty-six years ago, instead of leaving her on the steps of an orphanage.
“I can hardly fault your bitterness,” Miss Beale said.
“I’m not bitter. I simply have no interest.”
“Again, I understand. But you are now living the days your mind will revisit during old age. Will you wish you had reached out to her? Regret is a bitter pill.”
When has she reached out to me? Rosalind thought. But sitting across from Miss Beale, whom she admired more than any person on earth, she felt vindictive and petty.
“I don’t even know where to find her.”
“Someone does. You could start with the theatre.”
Rosalind sighed. “I’ll go.”
“That’s our girl.”
“But what if she doesn’t want me?”
Miss Beale was opening her mouth.
Cutting her off, Rosalind said, “It happened before.”
“I trust this time will be different. Why don’t you pack a few things in a valise? If you see that you need to stay, we’ll send your trunk.”
“My trunk.” Rosalind sighed. Five weeks with a stranger.
“There, there now,” Miss Beale said. “If she needs to leave London, I could ask about for a nearby house to let.”
“Miss Beale, I cannot have my mother in Cheltenham,” Rosalind said. “Lord Fosberry is surely aware of my existence and location. What if he’s vindictive enough to inform reporters?”
“Very well.” Miss Beale pursed her lips. “You may find helpful an agency that lists lodging opportunities. Just today, I saw an advertisement in The Times for one on Charing Cross Road. I shall find it for you.”
The Great Western Railway wound through fog-shrouded farms and hedgerows. London will be even drearier, Rosalind thought. All this effort, just to find that her mother had bounced back. She was a tough old bird.
Please let it be so, she prayed.
Did not Scripture say that God would supply the desires of a believer’s heart? Rosalind was far from perfect, but she had lived a clean life, had cared for Aunt Vesta during her declining weeks, had passed up an offer of marriage to a man of means, simply because he was unkind to a shop assistant.
Not the only reason, she conceded.
Still, she had asked for very little. Now she was asking to be on the return train tomorrow to resume her unfettered way of life.
6
“Help!”
Charlotte’s cry tore from her as a whimper. The passengers carried on boarding as if a scowling man was not forcing a woman across the platform.
“No!” she attempted, frustrated at her frozen throat.
“Get onto the train, Charlotte!” Roger barked.
Charlotte burst into tears. “Oh, please! Help!”
She heard a woman’s voice, and her arm felt a nudge.
Roger, the passengers, the train lingered but a sickening moment and faded. Heart pounding, she listened to the quiet and remembered she was in the hospital.
“Mother.”
Charlotte opened her eyes and blinked at the young woman looking down at her. “Rosalind?”
“Good morning, Mother.” Her daughter’s voice held no warmth.
She had changed a little in four years. Gone was the long, severe plait in favor of a cluster of ringlets at the nape of her neck, and fringe above twin slashes of brow. In the morning sunlight from the windows, a hint of red softened her hair’s mahogany brown.
“It’s really you!” In spite of her hope that news had not reached Rosalind, Charlotte was seized by joy. She sat up, moving her covered legs to the side of the cot.
Her daughter took two steps back.
Charlotte’s heart sank, but what could she expect? With a forced smile, she said, “But how did you know where to find me?”
“Mr. Irving, once I convinced him I was your daughter. I’ve come to ask if you need anything.”
Tense silence followed. A telling silence.
Charlotte shook her head. She owed her as much, and more. “No, nothing. Thank you. But it is good of you to ask. Please . . . how are you?”
“Very well.” The green eyes made a quick shift toward the door.
“Are you on school break?” Charlotte babbled on, loath for her to leave.
“Not quite yet.”
“Then, how did you . . .”
“Miss Beale. The principal. She offered to take my place.”
It was this Miss Beale who had prevailed upon her to come to London, Charlotte suspected.
“Your doctor says you cannot stay much longer,” Rosalind said. “Where will you go?”
Another tense silence. Where would she go, indeed?
But this was not her daughter’s problem. What was Rosalind to do, bring her to school?
“Home,” she said brightly.
“To Lincolnshire, you mean.” Rosalind sighed. “Mother, Lord Fosberry accuses you of adultery. It’s in the newspapers.”
Charlotte’s
stomach tightened as if someone had punched her.
“Were you not aware?”
“No. That is, he threatened, but . . .”
Was this another reason her mail was not forwarded? If she had received any at all.
Her daughter studied her face. “It’s not true. Is it?”
“Never!” Charlotte said. “Please believe me. He’s being vindictive because I left him.”
“Have you somewhere else to go?”
Be brave, for her sake! Charlotte ordered herself. She was an actress, after all. “Oh, I’ve been at a nice little hotel in Covent Garden. Perhaps they’ve kept my room for me.”
Rosalind’s shoulders rose, then fell. “Mother, Dr. Jacobs also said you have no money.”
Charlotte opened her mouth to protest, but tears betrayed her. She groped beneath her pillow for a handkerchief, wiped her eyes.
“What happened?”
“Roger . . .” Charlotte croaked. “My acquaintances don’t know I’m here. Surely some have written . . . offered . . .”
Her daughter sighed again. “I must make some arrangements and retrieve your things from the theatre. Hopefully I can come for you in a day or two.”
“No! I will not be a burden to you!”
“Too late for that,” she said in a flat voice. She turned and walked out without a backward look.
Looking back was all Charlotte could do.
The only child of touring actors, she started out in pantomimes at three years old until her first speaking part at age nine: Mamillius in The Winter’s Tale. At sixteen, she played Juliet to twenty-five-year-old Emory Gilroy’s Romeo in Manchester. Youth and the romance played onstage so blurred the lines of reality that she ignored rumors of opium-fueled visits to seedier parts of town. The marriage endured but five months. Years later, she learned he had died of syphilis in a sanatorium.
At nineteen, she landed a minor part in London’s Theatre Royal Drury Lane, and a year later, married actor Patrick Dowling. Nine months later, Patrick celebrated the imminent arrival of what he hoped would be a son by stealing a boat with a pair of friends for a drunken midnight lark on the Thames. The only one of the trio who could not swim, he was buried the day his daughter was born.
A Haven on Orchard Lane Page 4
