by Megan Chance
“Look how they all stare,” I said to him in a low voice.
“They can’t help but wonder why the lovely Mrs. Langley is hobnobbing with a peasant.”
I laughed. “Is that what you are?”
“Oh, I come from humble enough stock, madam. I think you would turn up your nose at me if you passed me on the street.”
“I am convinced I would not.” I turned, unable to resist touching him, and tapped my finger to his lapel. “We really must get you a finer coat, Mr. DeWitt. One more befitting of your new rank.”
“As your escort?”
“As America’s new Shakespeare.”
He laughed, flashing white teeth, pure amusement. “A compliment I’ve no doubt you will rethink once Julius Caesar ends, and you remember what genius it is.”
“Perhaps not, with Mr. Reading acting Brutus.”
“Perhaps not,” he agreed with a smile.
The orchestra began to play; the crimson velvet curtain swished aside to reveal a Roman street and village, and I was plunged into the story, despite the fact that Caesar wore a doublet that had seen better days and Marc Antony a frock coat and James Reading was often so softly spoken as to go unheard.
Even so, I was held rapt, as I always was. By the beginning of the fourth act, as Brutus defended himself against Cassius—“Did not great Julius bleed for justice’s sake?”—I was leaning forward, caught completely. When Brutus committed suicide at the end, I did not see James Reading lay himself gently upon the stage floor as if afraid of bruising himself, but Brutus falling insensate. And when the company bowed to the hoots and jeers of the gallery above and the polite applause of the boxes, I stood and clapped loudly.
“You are an actor’s favorite audience,” Mr. DeWitt said as we rose to leave. “Enthusiastic and uncritical.”
“My friend Ambrose Rivers often said so,” I told him. “He used to say I would be useless as a reviewer, as I found the grossest actors on par with the best. But that’s not really true, you know. It’s only that I’m willing to overlook everything else if the story is a good one.”
“Then you are precious indeed,” he said, guiding me into the throng making its way to the stairs.
Right in front of the Stebbings. Mrs. Stebbing glanced at Sebastian DeWitt and then to me, giving me a polite, cold smile.
“Ah, Mrs. Langley,” said Mr. Stebbing as we moved into the crowd beside them. “Your husband said you would be here this evening.”
“Yes indeed. I wouldn’t miss it.” I introduced DeWitt to them, noting the slight widening of Mrs. Stebbing’s nostrils, as if she smelled something rotten. “Mr. DeWitt is a playwright of quite astonishing talent.”
“Mrs. Langley is very kind,” DeWitt said modestly.
Mrs. Stebbing said, “Is she?” And then, suspiciously, to me, “Wherever did you meet a playwright?”
The implication was there quite clearly, that I’d gone slumming into one of the worse neighborhoods and stumbled upon him, and I smiled and said, “My husband introduced us. Nathan is invested in the Regal Theater.”
“Then he has the power to hire Reading should he decide to make acting his occupation,” Mr. Stebbing said. “Which is good, because I fear otherwise no one would have him.”
We laughed. I said, “I think him very brave to try it, but I do think he should not relinquish his job at the water company.”
Mr. Stebbing winked. “Luckily, he’s an amusing fellow. We mean to go backstage to offer our congratulations. Will you join us?”
I turned to Sebastian DeWitt. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” he said.
We followed the Stebbings down the stairs to the hall that led to the parquet. Mr. Stebbing had a commanding presence; the crowd parted for us as we bucked them to go back inside, past the rows of seats and those patrons still making their leisurely way out, the musicians putting away their instruments, programs littering the floor beneath our steps. When we reached the short flight leading to the stage, Mr. Stebbing went up as if he owned them, despite the fact that the stage was crowded with men rushing about, moving sets, taking up props, one sweeping away the detritus the audience had thrown in either appreciation or mockery.
I had known many actors, but I had never been backstage before, and now I felt as if I’d entered an unknown land. Of course it was all illusion; I’d known that, but the buildings that had looked so large and substantial from the box were nothing but painted wooden flats, and the backdrop of a Roman street was coarse and undetailed now with proximity. We plunged into the darkness of the wings, a dozen or more ropes snaking up the walls, a bulky table tangled with gas tubing, the prompter’s high stool and podium. Down another set of stairs and then into a narrow hallway crowded with people. It was so hot and close it was hard to breathe, and my corset felt much too tight, my hands sweating in my fine kid gloves.
Beyond the waiting admirers there was an open door through which I heard James Reading’s voice.
“… Do you think so? I’m flattered, truly I am.”
We went inside. The dressing room was small. There was a mirror, a dressing table littered with pots of rouge and powder. Reading turned to us, throwing up his hands in delight. “Ah, my dear Stebbing, your presence humbles me. And Catherine!” His face crinkled with obvious delight. “And Mrs. Langley! How kind of you to come!”
“I’ve brought my friend, Mr. DeWitt,” I said. “He’s a playwright, Mr. Reading, so you must be kind to him, else he’ll write you as a villain in his next play.”
“Well, then, I shall be my most genial self!” Reading said, shaking DeWitt’s hand. “I am gratified beyond measure to see you all.”
“We could not let you linger in obscurity, could we, man?” Mr. Stebbing said, shaking Reading’s hand, clapping him on the back. “Orion and Narcissa Denny were here too.”
“Both of them? Well, excellent, excellent! How did you all enjoy the play?”
“Delightful,” Mrs. Stebbing said.
“And you, Mrs. Langley? I’m afire for your opinion, you know.”
“I enjoyed it very much,” I told him.
Reading had on a dressing gown now, but the soft leather boots he’d worn onstage were still on his feet. His costume—a blue silk doublet—hung on a hook near the door, brushing my shoulder. Not silk at all, but broadcloth, the cloak only a very heavy and stiff brown serge that had been painted or dyed to look like leather.
“How funny,” I said. “It looks nothing here as it does upon the stage.”
Reading turned from Mr. Stebbing. “Not at all,” he agreed. “You’d be amazed at the secrets I’ve learned about the theater, Mrs. Langley. No doubt you know them all already, Mr. DeWitt, but for me it’s a most singular experience. It’s been the most exciting thing I’ve done.”
Stebbing said, “More exciting than climbing Mount Rainier?”
“Oh, by far,” Reading said enthusiastically.
Stebbing laughed. “A dusty backstage better than incomparable glaciers?”
“I’m quite serious.” James Reading’s gaze came to me. “Mrs. Langley, I can see your fascination from where I stand! Have you ever given thought to trying this yourself?”
Mrs. Stebbing frowned. “Goodness, James, you can’t mean to suggest that Mrs. Langley take a turn upon the stage?”
“Why not? She seems a braver soul than most.” Mr. Reading wiped at his face, smearing kohl. “It takes little imagination to see her treading the boards. But I suppose you’ve already got her well tied up with charity work, eh, Catherine? Ah well, I suppose we actors must sacrifice that little orphans might have succor.”
“I’m afraid the orphans must do without me,” I said. “My task now is to make certain Seattle sees what a talent they have in Mr. DeWitt.”
“A poor trade, I’ve told her,” DeWitt said with a pained smile.
“We could certainly use some talent in this city,” Mr. Reading said. “Don’t you agree, Catherine?”
“As long as it’s no
t of the lowering kind,” Mrs. Stebbing said stiffly, glancing at DeWitt.
It pricked at me, but I managed to say politely, “Not all of us have the eye to appreciate the difference, it’s true. I do think it takes a superior mind. Most genius was disparaged in its early days. Why, even Shakespeare was thought to be common once.”
She frowned, as if uncertain she heard an insult.
I turned to Mr. Reading. “Sir, I thank you for a most diverting evening. I am grateful for the invitation; I will not soon forget your presence upon the stage.”
He laughed, and the talk turned to other things, and Sebastian DeWitt and I made our good-byes and left. But once we were in the carriage, I found I was loathe to say good-bye to DeWitt, not so soon. The play and his company had worked a kind of magic; I wanted to prolong the evening, and it occurred to me once again that it was dangerous—there were things about him that reminded me too well of Claude, and I was a little afraid of that.
But these last months had been too miserable to give up what little joy I found now, and Sebastian DeWitt was not Jean-Claude Marat. Nathan said he wanted me to be happy, and I knew better now the boundaries I dared not cross.
“Oh, I’ve no wish to go home yet,” I told him. “Is there a place around here you know? A little café, perhaps?”
Quietly, he said, “Are you certain that’s wise, Mrs. Langley?”
“Wise? How do you mean?”
“Your friends find me disreputable.”
“They aren’t my friends. Well, Mr. Reading is, but not the Stebbings. Not really.”
“Still, I can’t think you’d care to have your reputation blemished by having a drink in a café with a playwright.”
I leaned forward to touch his hand. “You’re very kind to worry, but I fear my reputation is already blemished beyond repair.”
“Your husband—”
“My husband asked me to help make you and your play a success. That’s what I’m doing. If you like, think of it as a business meeting.”
“Mrs. Langley—”
“Have you another obligation this evening, Mr. DeWitt?”
He paused. Then he shook his head.
“Then I insist you have a glass of … beer with me. Or absinthe—oh, no, you don’t like it. Beer then.”
He sighed. “There’s a café a block or so from here. It’s not in the best part of town.”
“Then the fewer eyes there are to see us. And if you’re worried for my safety, why, you’re here to protect me, are you not?”
He knocked on the roof of the carriage, and when the driver called down, I told him, “We’re going to a café, John. On—” I looked to Mr. DeWitt.
“Commercial and Main,” he provided.
“—Commercial and Main.” I sat back, unable to keep from laughing as the carriage started off again. “Oh, you look so dour, Mr. DeWitt.”
“Your husband asked me to escort you to a play.”
“You’re worried he might revoke his patronage if he learns where else you’ve taken me?”
He looked uncomfortable. He glanced out the window.
“Believe me, Mr. DeWitt, my husband is no doubt at the Rainier Club right now, talking about mining contracts and what-have-you and drinking and smoking cigars. I assure you he won’t be back until quite late. He’ll never know. And even if he does discover where we’ve been, I’ll tell him I insisted. Your position is quite safe.”
DeWitt looked at me, and there was an expression in his eyes—pity, was it? I could not see well enough in the dark, but I thought that was it.
“You’ve no need to pity me,” I said. “Nathan and I … we have not rubbed well together for some time. But I hope that will change. I have reason to believe it might.”
DeWitt looked as if he might say something, but then he glanced back out the window, and the carriage came to a stop. “Here we are. I hope you don’t find it too rough.”
“Don’t you mean colorful?” I asked.
The place was small, tucked between a saddlery and a grocer. The lights glowed from tiny windows, and inside was dim and close. In the corner a man played a fiddle, not very well. The room was heavy with smoke and talk and laughter. At one table a man who looked familiar, though I could not place him, glanced up with interest, and I felt a tremor of anxiety that I quickly quelled.
I glanced away again, dismissing him, as DeWitt unerringly led me to the only empty table, in the opposite corner from the fiddler. As we sat, he leaned forward to ask, “Do you really want a beer, Mrs. Langley?”
“Is that what you’re having?”
“There’s not much else to choose from, I’m afraid.”
“Then a beer it is.”
He rose and went to the bar to get it, and I thought too late that I should have given him the money to do so, but then he was back, carrying two glasses that were foaming over his hands, and I did not want to embarrass him by offering to repay him. He set them on the table and wiped his fingers ruefully on his coat as he sat down again.
“Not the best beer in the city, but it’s not too bad,” he said.
I picked up the glass, which slipped a little in my gloved hands, and took a sip. “There was better lager in Chicago. But then there were more Germans there.”
“Did you drink a lot of beer in Chicago?”
“Does that shock you?”
“No more than anything else about you.”
“There was a café that sold fried fish and beer,” I said, remembering it wistfully. “I spent many a delightful hour there. They let the artists draw on the walls, and there were charcoal sketches everywhere. Caricatures, mostly. There was even one of me.”
“Was there?”
“Yes. Huge eyes and a long nose, with these puffy lips.” I pushed mine out in a pout. “I miss it, even though they were barbarians, really. Shouting at the owner to bring them more fish while they threw the bones on the floor and talked of socialism and Hegel.”
“You’ll not find any of that here.”
“Really? Where do the actors spend their hours? And surely you’re not the only playwright in town. Where are your fellows?”
His smile was wry. “Unfortunately, I seem to be a nearly extinct species. Only the one of me.”
I took another sip of the beer. “What do you do with your evenings, then?”
“Drink beer with my betters in little cafés.”
“I refuse to allow you to think of me that way. You’re a writer, Mr. DeWitt, where is your egalitarian spirit?”
“Too busy trying to make a living.”
“Well, you shan’t have to worry about that any longer. I forbid you to, in fact.” Another sip. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“I see plays.”
“Every night? Is there that much variety in town?”
“I tend to stay to one house.”
“Which one?”
“The Regal.”
“Ah, my husband’s theater.” I frowned. “It seems so strange to say that, you know. He’s never shown so much interest in theater.”
DeWitt looked down into his beer. “Perhaps he’s found something new in it.”
“He’s realized there’s money to be made,” I said with a laugh. “He has an instinct for finance. It’s why my father loves him.”
“Your father?”
“Maynard Stratford, of Stratford Mining.” Then, at the sudden lift of his gaze. “I see you know the name.”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“I imagine so. I’m his only child. With an inheritance from my mother on top of it.”
“You are full of surprises, Mrs. Langley.”
I leaned over the table, feeling a little warm and loose from the beer, which was nearly gone, liking the light in his eyes. “Do you like surprises, Mr. DeWitt?”
“Good ones. Who doesn’t?”
“Am I a good one, do you think?” I should not be flirting this way, but I told myself it was harmless. We were only talking. I had no intention o
f more. I’d learned my lesson too well.
“I like you,” he admitted. “More than I thought I would.”
“More than you thought you would?” I prompted.
“I expected a bored society wife,” he said.
“I have hated it here,” I said heedlessly. “Until I met you and James Reading, I could hardly breathe. But now I think perhaps I can bear it after all. Still, I wish …”
“You wish what?” he prodded gently.
“I wish for the things I used to have. Foolish, I know, but I do. I wish to eat fish in cafés again and talk of socialism and Hegel. I wish to talk with men like you far into the night, until the stars go down and the sun comes up. And … I wish I could act upon a stage like James Reading.”
He smiled. “I cannot think your husband would like that.”
“No,” I agreed. “And that’s why I don’t do it. Because of Nathan. And my father. I’ve promised them I’ll behave.”
“I think you’d best stop talking, Mrs. Langley. Remember what I told you. I can’t keep secrets.” His warm eyes belied his words.
“I’m not telling you one.” I reached across the table for his hand, which laid flat upon it, and rested my fingers on his knuckles, liking the feel of him in my fingertips, even through my gloves. “I’m only saying what I feel.”
“Honesty is a dangerous business.”
“But I think you understand. I read Penelope. I know you understand a woman’s heart.”
“I can’t hope to do that.”
“But you do,” I insisted. My glass was empty, but his was still half full. I picked it up and brought it to my lips, and he watched me without saying a word. Nor did he pull his hand from beneath mine. I drank and set it down again, and then I said, “How do you know such things? I want to quote Byron to you—‘what woman told you this?’ ”
“None,” he said with a little smile, a shake of his head. “I watch. If you observe carefully enough, you see things people wish to keep hidden. If you’re lucky, you see into their souls. But really, I think perhaps men and women are not so different from each other in what they feel.”
“Well spoken, sir,” I said. “But I don’t believe you. There is a woman you’ve watched—you must admit it. I see her all over this play.”
