by Enslaved
Color flooded the blonde’s face, confirming Daisy’s guess she must be thirty or perhaps past it. After that, she turned about and gave Daisy her back, which suited Daisy well enough. At least the byplay had distracted her from her nervousness. By the time the call came to queue up, she was feeling almost her old self.
The stage manager offered an upside down hat from which each woman was to reach inside the crown and draw out a number. Daisy reached inside and pulled out a folded slip. Hoping she would either be last or first—coming in the middle of anything was never good—she unfolded the paper and looked down—and felt her blood turn to ice. Theater folk tended to be a superstitious lot, but other than one or two rituals she observed prior to a performance, Daisy prided herself on being free of most of the silliness—until now. Thirteen was a deucedly unlucky number, one associated with all manner of ill omens.
“Ladies, when we call your number, walk to the center of the stage, state your name and then wait for your cue to begin. You each have three minutes after which you are to make your bow and exit stage left.”
The stage manager took his seat in the front row. Beside him were two other men, including a smartly dressed man of forty-odd whom Daisy suspected was the theater manager, Sir Augustus. Though she had never before met him, Gavin’s description of the acclaimed actor, impresario, and dramatist fit the seated gentleman to a T.
One by one, the other actresses were called up, starting with the tall blonde. She’d chosen a bit from Othello where Desdemona pleads with her jealous husband to see reason. Though Daisy thought her rendition was a touch overdone, her bearing and stage voice obviously bespoke of experience and formal training. Watching the others file on one by one, she admitted they were all quite good in varying degrees and obviously at their ease in a theater of this magnitude.
Number twelve filed offstage, and it was Daisy’s turn. Blood from her pounding heart rushed her temples and she felt as if an ocean were crashing about inside her ears. Perspiration broke out on her forehead and under her arms and her hands, which had warmed since she’d come inside, felt like cakes of ice.
Scowling, the stage manager lifted his bull horn and called out again, “Number thirteen—that’s you, Miss Lake.”
She hadn’t had an attack of stage fright in years, and she’d come close to forgetting what a miserable and incapacitating state it was. Aware every eye in the auditorium was trained on her, Daisy mounted the stage steps, also aware that breathing suddenly had become an activity she had to think about rather than do naturally.
She stepped off the last step and walked to the center of the stage, feeling as if her legs had turned to jelly. Breathe, Daisy, just breathe.
From the front seats below, one of the men barked, “Do get on with it, Miss Lake. We haven’t all day.”
She summoned a mental picture of Gavin’s face as he looked when he’d fallen to sleep the week before, peaceful and nightmare free. She willed her racing heart to slow and her hitched breathing to relax. Smiling, she looked out onto the stage and directly into Sir Augustus’s mildly curious eyes.
“Daisy Lake.”
She stepped up to the front of the stage and slowly, very slowly, unfastened the front of her cloak. Holding the men’s gazes, Sir Augustus’s especially, she gave a shimmy of her shoulders, sending the garment sliding off to the floor. A collective gasp echoed through the small audience.
Drinking in the power of it, Daisy took a deep breath and began, “All the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players …”
The Garrick was fast filling up when that afternoon Gavin walked up the steps leading to the club’s Italianate façade. Standing in the crowded foyer amidst his fellow members, he waited a full five minutes before one of the circulating porters materialized to take his hat and coat. Saturdays were popular club days for any number of reasons. The unabashedly masculine environment provided a sanctuary for husbands seeking refuge from house guests and sundry social obligations imposed by the feminine world.
He found Hadrian in the smoking room. Seated in a faded wingchair by the window, he looked up from the front page of The Times when Gavin approached.
“Sorry I’m late. I dropped Daisy off at Drury Lane on my way. Today is her audition.”
Taking his seat in a leather armchair that had seen better days, Gavin flagged a waiter and ordered coffee for them both.
“No worries. As always, I made myself at home as you can see.” Grinning, Hadrian indicated the glass of whiskey he’d been sipping.
The two men shared a chuckle. Though the Garrick was likely the least stuffy of the London gentlemen’s clubs, the bylaws mandated that members abide by a certain code of conduct. As in other clubs, the old black balling system operated in full force. Whether he styled himself as Hadrian or went by his real name, Harry, his friend had created quite a scandal the year before by publicly announcing he was the bastard of an East End prostitute. That he sacrificed himself to expose the villainous Member of Parliament who hired him to take a damning photograph of Callie, then the president of the London Women’s Suffrage Society, and thereby ensure the defeat of the suffrage bill coming before Parliament, was considered to be a tertiary point. Regardless of the nobility of his motive, sons of whores were quite simply not “clubbable.” Though Gavin held a seat on the board of directors, it wasn’t in his power to alter the membership bylaws to admit his friend. Even so, he wasn’t above using his legal mind to find the means to get around them. In the present case, it meant inviting Hadrian to join him as his guest every bloody chance he got. Except for voting rights, the photographer enjoyed all the privileges of club membership without having to pay the exorbitant fee.
Hadrian folded the newspaper and replaced it on the leather-top table. “How are you and Daisy getting on?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The acting lessons, do you fancy she’s showing improvement?”
Oh, that. Paranoia must be getting the better of him because for a moment Gavin felt like a guilty person working to cover for himself on the trial stand.
The coffee arrived. Gavin took a sip of the strong black brew before answering, “She ran through her audition monologue with me the other night, and she really is quite good.”
“I never doubted it. I still remember her crack rendition of Puss-in-Boots, after all.”
Hadrian grinned and Gavin joined him though in truth he felt as nervous as if he were the one auditioning before the theater manager and director of Drury Lane. For the past two decades, serious drama had fallen out of fashion, prompting one former lease holder to exclaim, “Shakespeare spells ruin, and Byron bankruptcy.” Fortunately, As You Like It was one of the best loved of the Shakespearean comedies. Given Daisy’s background in burlesque, Gavin reasoned the farcical play with its layers of innuendo and myriad mistaken identities should allow her to showcase her strengths. His main worry was that stage fright might get the better of her. When he dropped her off at the theater entrance, she looked to be on tenterhooks.
Hadrian added a second lump of sugar to his coffee and stirred the spoon. “What do you make of her chances for a part?”
“She has a fine sense of comic timing and her enunciation is vastly improved since working with the acting coach.” The latter, a retired actress from Bath, had been nothing short of a godsend. “Wishful thinking aside, I’d say she has a real chance at winning the part of Audrey.”
“Audrey? I’d ask you to refresh my memory but as I’ve never read Shakespeare, or much else beyond photography books and newspapers, you’ll have to explain.”
“As You Like It is a comedy. The majority of scenes take place in the pastoral setting of The Forest of Arden. Audrey is the female rustic clown of the piece. It’s a small role but a speaking part. She might also make a fine Phebe, the proud shepherdess who falls in love with Rosalind when she’s disguised as a boy—Ganymede.”
“Rosalind?”
Gavin took another sip of his coffee and then
clarified, “The female lead.”
“What about Daisy as Rosalind?”
Gavin almost choked on the strong brew. “Rosalind carries the play. The director will surely go with an established actress.”
“You don’t think Daisy has a shot at least?”
It was a reasonable enough question and yet Gavin didn’t entirely care for his friend’s tone. “She still has a lot to learn about how things are done in a proper playhouse. Drury Lane is no dance hall after all.”
Hadrian opened his mouth as if to say more, but the waiter returned with the silver coffee pot and a tray of biscuits.
Gavin waited for him to top off their cups before broaching the subject that had been weighing on his mind. “Daisy mentioned your dropping by the other week. I’m sorry I missed you.”
“Actually, I came to see her. I thought we two needed a catch-up chat. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind, why should I?” Gavin asked and yet for whatever reason, perhaps none at all, he felt himself bristling. “May I ask what you two spoke about or is it private?”
Hadrian looked him squarely in the eye and admitted, “I told her if she was looking for a light-o'-love only, you weren’t the man, but if she were willing to entertain something more, something deeper, she couldn’t find a finer fellow than you. Was I mistaken?”
Gavin shook his head. “I suppose I should thank you for the ringing endorsement, but Daisy and I are just friends. My helping her is no different than my helping you when you first came to London.” What a whopper of a lie that was.
Hadrian didn’t hesitate to call him on it. “The hell it is. You’re in love with her.”
Gavin sat his cup and saucer down with a bang. Was he truly that transparent? “If I was in love with her, and I’m not saying I am, I wouldn’t know which woman that might be. At times I see glimpses of the girl we all remember but at other times she insists she’s Delilah, not Daisy. It’s as if she relishes the role of the hard-bitten tart, not to mention seizing on every opportunity she can to shock me.”
Hadrian sent him a sage smile. “Harboring a dual identity is a means of hiding. I can say so from experience. You tell yourself you’re hiding from others, from the world, but the truth is the only person you’re hiding from is yourself. Give her time, Gavin. This is all new to her. Even though she’s used to living in a large city, London can be a very daunting place. In time she may come around.”
In time. She only promised him a month and the first half was spent already. “Even if she should come around, I’m not at all sure what I can reasonably offer her.”
“Aren’t you? You might start with your heart—and your name.”
“Marriage.” Gavin let the word stand.
Hadrian nodded. “I’m the last man you’d ever expect to hear say so, but marriage to the right person is the nearest thing to bliss on earth.”
Gavin looked at him and shook his head. “So speaks the newlywed.”
Hadrian paused in biting into his biscuit and shook his head. “Daisy said as much the other day. What a cynical pair you’ve become.”
The problem, from Gavin’s standpoint, was they weren’t a pair at all. Nor had Daisy given any indication she wanted more from him than a fleeting physical affair. Even if she were willing to let him be more to her than a casual lover, what more might he be? Given the vastly different social strata they occupied, it was difficult to envision on what plane they might exist as a couple, let alone as man and wife. Had he been left to finish out his youth at Roxbury House rather than been reclaimed and placed in the gilded prison known as “good society,” there would be no problem at all. As it was, he was a prominent barrister as well as heir to one of England’s finer if not precisely top drawer families, and Daisy was a former showgirl who aspired to be an actress. What kind of life could he reasonably expect to offer her? It was a conundrum for which his supposed brilliant legal mind had yet to come up with a solution. Until he could, he was more than willing to let the topic die.
Apparently Hadrian wasn’t. “You used to be the romantic among us, the true believer. What’s happened to you, Gav?”
Life had happened to him. For him, love and loss always seemed to go hand-in-hand. If there was any lesson hidden amidst all the pain it was that once you committed your heart, once you loved something or someone, the Universe swept in and stole your happiness straightaway. Gavin opened his mouth to say as much when he caught sight of Sir Augustus Harris, manager of the Drury Lane Theatre, making brisk strides in his direction.
“Sir Augustus, this is a pleasant surprise.” Surprised indeed, he rose to shake the older man’s hand, wondering whether the theater manager’s early appearance boded well or ill for Daisy’s audition. From what little he gleaned of the behind-the-scenes of theatrical life, casting try-outs typically took hours, with call-backs extending into the following day or more.
Introductions made the rounds and Gavin gestured to the vacant wing chair in their circle. “Join us, won’t you?”
“I don’t mind if I do.”
The waiter returned and additional coffee and biscuits were brought for the newcomer. Sir Augustus selected a lemon biscuit and ordered a glass of port to accompany his coffee.
When they settled in once more, Gavin said, “I want to thank you for including Miss Lake in your audition this afternoon. I trust she did not disappoint?”
Sir Augustus brushed biscuit crumbs from his beard. He washed the last bite of the cookie down with a mouthful of port before answering, “Quite the contrary, her reading was stellar and her delivery most … unique.”
Wondering what he meant by the latter, Gavin took his cue from the theater manager’s smiling face and relaxed back into his seat. He hadn’t realized until now he had quite literally been sitting on its edge. “You cannot know how happy I am to hear it. Do you think you might find a speaking part for her, then? I was just telling Mr. St. Claire I thought she’d make an admirable Audrey.” He caught Harry’s eye and wondered if he should say more or if perhaps he’d already said too much.
Sir Augustus stared at him for a long moment. He took another sip of port and Gavin thought, For the love of God, get on with it. “My dear Mr. Carmichael, your protégée would be wasted on such a paltry part.”
Daisy’s try-out must have gone off well then. Gavin mentally reviewed the play’s cast of characters. Would Sir Augustus offer her the somewhat meatier part of Phebe, or perhaps Hymen?” The latter role was a walk-on in the final scene, but still it was a speaking part and, as the goddess came on at the finale of the play, theater goers might be more apt to remember her.
Sir Augustus slapped his thigh as though Gavin had said something droll. Knocking back the rest of his port, he shook his head. “On the contrary, Mr. Carmichael, I have found her.”
“Found who, sir?” Gavin and Hadrian exchanged glances. He’s drunk, Gavin thought. It’s the only explanation. Turning to Sir Augustus, he admitted, “Sorry, sir, but I don’t follow you.”
A grin wreathed the theater manager’s face from ear to ear. “Your protégée, Miss Lake, is Rosalind!”
When Gavin returned home from the club, Daisy was waiting for him at the flat door. Cheeks flushed and eyes beaming, she threw herself at him before he even got the door closed. “Oh, Gav, I have the most wonderful, the most amazing news.”
Having her pressed against him was bittersweet torment and yet he couldn’t find the will to set her aside and move away. She wore only her black silk wrapper with no corset underneath and through the slippery fabric her skin all but scorched his fingertips. He braced his hands along her supple sides, for the moment content just to hold her.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, the sort of chaste embrace he might have given her were they children still, surrogate siblings, though her body brushing against his brought out feelings that were anything but brotherly. “Congratulations, Rosalind.”
She pulled back and looked up at him, expression registering surprise and perhap
s a bit of disappointment. Damn, he should have let her tell him in her own way and time. “You knew? Oh, but Gavin, how could you? It all came about scarcely two hours ago.”
“London is a small town, sweetheart.” Sweetheart—how easily the old endearment rolled off his tongue when she was looking up at him as she was doing now, gaze soft and open, not veiled and distrustful as it all too often was. “Besides that, Sir Augustus is a member of the Garrick, if you’ll recall. He came in while Harry and I were having coffee all but bursting with the news.”
“Oh, Gavin, do you really think I can do it? Do you really think I’m that good?” In her excitement, she laid her hands atop his shoulders, and he couldn’t help thinking how easy it would be to lift her off her feet and into his arms as he had that first night at the supper club, only this time instead of rushing her back to her dressing room he would have very much liked to have carried her to his bed.
He hesitated, heartily hoping Sir Augustus wasn’t setting her up to fail by burdening her with too weighty a role for her first part. But what was done was done and the happiness shining forth from her eyes was cause enough for celebration. “Sir Augustus obviously thinks so and he’s a far better judge than I.” The heat pooling in his groin confirmed it was time to let go. Holding her at arm’s length, he said, “A celebration is in order, Miss Lake. You’ve only to name your fancy. Consider your wish to be my command.”
She hesitated, drawing her bottom lip between her pretty top teeth, and Gavin felt a sharp tug in the vicinity of his groin. “If we were in Paris, I could easily come up with at least a half dozen spots within a short stroll, but I don’t know London yet. Well, at least not beyond supper clubs, and truly I’d rather not go there.”
She would get no argument from him on that score. Dropping his hands to his sides, he said, “We don’t have to decide just yet. Go dress and we’ll decide from there on.”
