City of Ash

by Megan Chance

  Nathan said, “Come along then. You can ride in my carriage.”

  And that was even more uncomfortable. We went to the carriage, and Nathan handed me in and sat beside me, very close—not that he could do otherwise in such a small space—and Sebastian DeWitt sat opposite me, his knees brushing my skirts, and looked at me with those strange eyes, and even though his desire was banked, I felt it.

  We’d barely started before Nathan said to DeWitt, “Enjoy the occasional beer, do you?”

  It was the kind of stupid, casual comment men often made to each other, and I rolled my eyes as I stared out the window and waited for Sebastian DeWitt to make some stupid comment back, when he said instead,

  “You heard.”

  “The whole city heard. It’s all anyone’s talking about.”

  People were talking about Sebastian DeWitt having a beer? I frowned and looked back at Nathan, who ignored me.

  DeWitt said, “It was nothing, just—”

  “Just a beer, I know,” Nathan said. He was smiling. “Drinking. Talking. You know, Mr. DeWitt, you may be one of the best investments I’ve ever made.”

  I was confused, and it was clear DeWitt was as well. His gaze met mine for a moment before he looked back at Nathan. “It won’t happen again.”

  “Now, now, Mr. DeWitt, do you want to be a famous playwright or not?”

  “Not at someone else’s expense,” DeWitt said.

  “No one’s paying any price.” Nathan leaned forward reassuringly—or as reassuringly as that smile could make him, which wasn’t much. “You’re gaining quite a name around town, which is exactly what we want. Why, think what it will do when your play finally debuts. Every seat will be full. And with society, no less, which can hardly serve you ill.”

  Now he had my attention. “Society? But the Regal gets society all the time.”

  Nathan didn’t look at me. His gaze was focused on Sebastian DeWitt. “Not like this, my dear. When I say the seats will be full, I meant not just one or two coming for an occasional evening’s entertainment, but people like the Dennys. Governor Semple. How will it feel, do you think, to know the most powerful people in the city are watching you?”

  I glanced at DeWitt, whose expression had gone very still.

  “Lucius would be over the moon,” I said.

  “Perhaps he would even give you a raise, my dear,” Nathan said. “And from everything I hear, this play—what is it called again?”

  “Penelope Justis,” DeWitt answered.

  “Yes, this Penelope Justis—I’ve heard it’s a masterpiece.”

  “It is nearly that,” I said, quietly now, because there were undercurrents here I didn’t understand, and I didn’t like the way Sebastian DeWitt looked, as if he might be sick.

  “If it is, it’s because the actors will make it so,” he said.

  “Mr. DeWitt is too modest,” I said.

  “So I hear.” Again, Nathan smiled. “How easily you make the world fall in love with you, Mr. DeWitt. Why, you’re a veritable talent in many, many ways, aren’t you? Do you know, I think I should like to see one talent in particular put to use.”

  They stared at each other, and I had this nasty sense that they were fighting some kind of duel, only with words and meanings that weren’t what they seemed to be, and I wished I hadn’t decided to go to the Broken Pitcher after all. Because then Nathan and I would already be in my room, and he’d be thinking of nothing but getting my clothes off, and this baiting of Sebastian DeWitt—if that’s what it was—wouldn’t be happening, and I wouldn’t be feeling as if I somehow needed to come to his rescue when I couldn’t even see if he was in trouble.

  “I think you misunderstand me,” DeWitt said quietly. “My interests lie in a different direction.”

  “Do they?” Nathan looked surprised. “How fascinating. But should you want to change your mind … well, you have my permission. In fact, I encourage it.”

  DeWitt glanced at me. “Let’s not speak of this now.”

  “Of course,” Nathan said smoothly. “There’s no need to speak of it again. So long as we understand each other.”

  “We do,” DeWitt said shortly.

  “Well, I don’t,” I said, because I couldn’t help myself, and then I wished I hadn’t said anything when Nathan put his arm around my shoulders and let his hand dangle to caress my breast. I saw how DeWitt’s gaze snapped there, and I had to resist the urge to bat Nathan away.

  “It’s business, my dear. Nothing for you to concern yourself with.” Nathan’s voice was forceful, and a little needling too, I thought, as if he noticed the way DeWitt was looking at us.

  DeWitt slid his gaze to the window. We came to a stop, and I was never so glad to get out of a carriage in my life. Whatever this game was, I didn’t want any part of it; I had enough trouble keeping the players straight in my own.

  DeWitt was the first out, and he strode to the door of the Broken Pitcher without waiting for Nathan and me, which was a relief, and Nathan took my arm as if I were a lady he was escorting to some fancy dress ball instead of just into a tavern where the only dancing was when some drunk took it into his head to reel to the tune of a tone-deaf fiddler.

  Most of the others were already there. Aloys and Brody and Jack and Stella and Mrs. Chace gathered around tables they’d pushed together, and Stella laughed and hung on Jack, and I could tell she’d already had one or two drinks by the way her cheeks were flushed, though she couldn’t have been there long. DeWitt went to the bar, and Nathan went to get me a beer, and it was all I could do to keep from looking at them to see if they were talking again.

  “There you are, Bea!” Brody motioned me over to the table, and when I went to him, he said to me in a low voice, “Stella says she’s playing at the Elysium next.”

  “There’s an appropriate name,” I said, “as she’ll no doubt put them to sleep.”

  We both laughed, and then Jack made some sally and Stella gave him a wet kiss and spilled her drink all over her breasts, which set Jack wiping furiously with a handkerchief, and I forgot about Nathan and DeWitt for a time, except to see that they weren’t together. Nathan lounged against the bar, looking for all the world like an indulgent, rich prince, and DeWitt sat watching the way he always did. I liked the way they both had their eyes on me, and I was half aware of putting on a show for them, laughing prettily, flirting with Jack and Aloys, cocking my hip just so as I leaned against the table.

  Brody said, “Well, why don’t you leave again tomorrow, Stella, an’ we can have another party.”

  Stella pursed her mouth in a pretty little moue I’d seen her practice a hundred times before the mirror. “Then I’d be late for my debut”—a quick, feline glance at me—“and that would be unforgivable. They tell me the theater is already sold out, and subscriptions are up ten percent.”

  “They go up ten percent at the Palace when Johnny Langford books that cat who can carry a bottle,” I said. “So you’re in good company.”

  Jack laughed, and she boxed his ears, but he was drunk, and that only made him laugh some more, and for the next hour and a half, we were as bosom friends, joking and laughing and singing at the top of our voices, and Aloysius and I acted out the scene from Baron Rudolph where Rudolph comes home drunk and his wife leaves him, and it was so affecting I saw tears in the eyes of bar patrons who might have thought it was real—because they were as drunk as most of us were, and when I cried out, “You shall never see your son again!” some man at the bar jerked to his feet as if he might come at me, and shouted, “You cruel bitch! You can’t do that to the man!”

  Nathan stirred from his place against the bar and said something to him. I don’t know what it was, but it calmed the man down enough that he just cried piteously into his beer. I glanced at Sebastian DeWitt, who was watching me with this thoughtful little expression. Then Nathan came over and took my arm and whispered, “What a good show, my dear,” and I knew he had delayed as long as he was going to, and I forgot about DeWitt.
/>   I said my good-byes, and Nathan took me out to the carriage and back to my room, and after he’d had me—no gentleness this time either, and there was that anger again that I didn’t understand—he rolled off me and onto his back and said, “Do you and your friends do such things often?”

  It took me a moment to know what he was talking about. “Oh, you mean the play. Now and again. When we feel like having fun.”

  “It doesn’t bother you that people think it’s real?”

  I shrugged. “Not really.”

  “Well, it was very clever,” he said in this thoughtful way that made me a little uncomfortable. He rose and began to dress.

  I said, “Should I expect you tomorrow night?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I imagine not. I should tend to my wife.”

  “Tend to her? Is she ill?”

  He laughed shortly. “More so than she realizes, I think.”

  I had no idea what the hell that meant, and I didn’t care either, and I fell silent as he finished dressing. When he went to the door, he was laughing again, low and quiet beneath his breath, the way he’d done the night he’d made me wear the cloak, and this time I asked, “What’s so funny?”

  “I was just thinking of you and your fellows tonight.”

  “I’m glad we amused you.”

  Nathan’s hand was on the doorknob, and he turned and smiled at me. “Oh, you did. You don’t know how much.”

  And then he was gone, and I was left wondering if there was some way to end things with Nathan Langley without losing everything he’d given me, because I was discovering that I really didn’t like him at all.

  Chapter Eleven

  Geneva

  My evening with Sebastian DeWitt had left me with more than thoughts that leaped often and regularly to the stage; it had also left me with a slight cold, and one that settled into my throat.

  Nathan eyed me dispassionately when I complained and said, “Did you enjoy the café, at least?”

  I looked at him in surprise. “The café?”

  “It was the talk of the Relief Society, I hear,” he said wryly. “You should have been a bit more circumspect, darling. Did you not see John Barrister sitting at the table next to yours?”

  John Barrister. I vaguely remembered seeing a man I recognized, though I still could not have put this name to him. Nathan did not seem upset, but I rushed to say, “It was nothing. Mr. DeWitt and I had a beer, that’s all. We discussed his play. There was nothing wrong in it. I cannot help small minds that would see something untoward in my every action. And you did tell me to guide Mr. DeWitt.”

  Nathan eyed me thoughtfully. “So I did. But you must be a bit more careful, my dear. Slowly, remember.”

  I looked studiously down into my tea. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I was too … enthusiastic.”

  “Your usual flaw,” Nathan said with a smile. “Well, no harm’s done this time, I think.”

  The charm of the old Nathan, with none of the anger, and though I should have been relieved, I was still wary. But before I could speak, I was racked by a paroxysm of coughing. When it was over, I found Nathan watching me with concern.

  “Perhaps you should send for Dr. Berry—”

  I waved the comment away. “He’ll only prescribe hot tea and honey, which is what I’m drinking already. I’m perfectly well, Nathan. Better than I’ve been in some time, in fact.”

  He rose and crossed the parlor to me, leaning down to kiss me lightly on the top of my head. “Good.”

  The kiss surprised me, and filled me with hope too. I was reminded suddenly of a time when Nathan and I had sat together in my father’s parlor, and he had laughed delightedly at some joke, his hand brushing lightly against mine—such a small touch, but it had raised a desire so strong in me that I had wanted nothing more than to sweep him into some darkened alcove, to feel his body against mine, to touch his skin … how much I’d wanted him once.

  Almost desperately, I grabbed at Nathan’s hand as he stepped away. “Do you think you might attend the theater with me one night? I should like it very much. Perhaps something at the Regal, now that you’ve a stake in its success.”

  He disentangled my fingers from his, not ungently. “I’m quite busy with the new firm.” Then, at my obvious disappointment, “I’ll try, Ginny. But that’s the most I can promise, unfortunately.”

  I felt a rush of relief, a little joy.

  Nathan said, just before he left, “Take care of that cough, Ginny, or I’ll have the doctor here after all.”

  Beatrice

  Off with you all,” Lucius said, waving us away. “We’ve rehearsed enough today. Back at four, children.”

  We all scattered, but for Mr. DeWitt, who was busy scribbling Lucius’s last changes, and though I should have gone on—I must do some errands before I had to be back again—I waited. I’d been thinking over that conversation between Sebastian DeWitt and Nathan Langley, and it bothered me in ways I couldn’t explain, and I hoped DeWitt might tell me what it had been about. Or that’s what I told myself anyway, as I stood at the edge of the apron watching him gather everything up—pen nibs and ink, and papers. When he’d shoved them all into his bag and buckled it and looked up, he seemed surprised to see me there.

  “Is there something I can do for you, Mrs. Wilkes?” he asked politely.

  Well, I couldn’t just say “What were you and Nathan talking about last night?” because he’d just tell me it was none of my business, which it wasn’t. So I scrambled for something else, and landed on, “I’ve a few questions about your notes on Penelope. I’d thought, if you had a moment.…”

  “I’m at your disposal, as always,” he said.

  So easy. As if he had nothing better to do, and suddenly I was curious. “Surely you can’t always be at my disposal, Mr. DeWitt. Haven’t you other places to go? Other things to do?”

  “None so pressing they can’t be put off.”

  “Really? What do you do all day?”

  He smiled. “Mrs. Wilkes, I’m like you. I eat, breathe, and sleep the theater.”

  “My father used to warn me about theater people,” I mused. “He said they were all selfish. I think he was very on the mark.”

  “I’ll endeavor to be different then.”

  “I’m not certain you can. Certainly I cannot.”

  He put his satchel over his shoulder and came toward me, a slow walk, an amused expression. “You don’t give yourself enough credit. I imagine you could be generous enough if you tried.”

  “I think you have me confused with your imaginary Penelope, Mr. DeWitt. I think it only fair to warn you that we are not the same.”

  “In my mind you are. There are hidden depths in Penelope, you know, just as there are in you.”

  “You see, that’s why I need you. I’ve not seen those depths. In Penelope, I mean.”

  “You’re not paying enough attention, then.” He was very close, more than I felt comfortable with.

  I took a step back. “No one spends more time learning lines than I.”

  He stepped forward. “Lines are not the only things that matter. You have more talent than that, Mrs. Wilkes. I knew it the first time I saw you in Lady of Lyons. Do you know what I thought then?”

  “That I needed a better dress to play the upper class?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “I thought: there’s a woman who loves her craft. But she’s a little afraid of it too.”

  I frowned. “Afraid of it?”

  “Afraid to invest too much in it. As if you had once, and been disappointed, and meant not to be disappointed again.”

  I stared at him, too surprised to say anything.

  “Am I right? What was it, Mrs. Wilkes? What made you lose faith in your talent? Too many unscrupulous managers? An actor or two who promised you a step up the ladder if you came to bed, and then never delivered? Or was it losing too many parts to favorites who don’t know the meaning of subtlety?”

  It was as if he were readin
g my life. I felt as if I were an open book to him, which wasn’t a good feeling, you know, because it meant I was vulnerable, and I’d spent too long trying not to be, and he was practically a stranger, and in a profession where one couldn’t even trust one’s friends, a stranger—especially a charming one—was more than dangerous. Time to walk away, Bea. But I didn’t. Instead, I heard myself saying like a fool, “All of those things.”

  “You know you’ll never move higher if you don’t unlearn those lessons,” Sebastian DeWitt said gently. “If you don’t have confidence in your talent, you’ll never transcend the material. There are actors who can do that, Mrs. Wilkes. I think you could be one of them.”

  Oh, he was clever. Pandering to my vanity, to the arrogance every actor had. “Why do you say that? What do you see?”

  “You were Pauline in Lady of Lyons. You played the upper class as if you were born to it. And when you cried, those were real tears.”

  “Stella can cry on cue too,” I said dismissively. “Any actor worth his salt can.”

  “But you felt them. Tell me—have you ever considered giving up acting?”

  I was wounded. “You think I should?”

  He shook his head. “There’s a point to be made. Have you?”

  “About a hundred times,” I said drily.

  “What stopped you?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to be a shopgirl.”

  “It was more than that, wasn’t it?”

  “I couldn’t do it,” I said honestly. “To be onstage … it was all I ever thought about. I loved it. I love it still.”

  “And if you were never a star?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose … I’ll still be here playing old ladies ’til I die.”

  “So I thought.”

  I laughed a little. “It’s pathetic, really, when you think about it.”

  He didn’t even smile. “It’s passion, Mrs. Wilkes, and too few people ever feel it. You owe it to yourself to nurture it. It’s why you’re here.”