City of Ash

by Megan Chance

  “Well … thank you.”

  He smiled, his dark eyes twinkling. “Fear not, Mrs. Langley. I’m no Trojan horse.” He touched my arm lightly and then moved away, back to where Mr. Galloway and Mrs. Chace stood chattering.

  “Metairie makes a good champion,” Mr. DeWitt said in a low voice.

  I was puzzled. “Champion? But only yesterday—”

  “He’s the chief tragedian,” he said pointedly, and when I looked uncomprehendingly at him, he explained, “The others follow him, not the other way ’round.”

  Mr. Geary shouted, “Act four, scene one. Places, everyone!”

  Despite Mr. Metairie’s and Mr. DeWitt’s reassurance, I was wary. Mr. Greene sent me and Mr. Metairie climbing together to the top of a scaffold that would eventually become the cataract that emptied into a pool below. The platform was very narrow, and my bustle was a distinct disadvantage, both in allowing me to climb and in giving us enough room to stand together at the top. I was afraid even my slightest turn would send Mr. Metairie plunging twenty feet to the floor. He had his arm about my waist, holding me tightly, while Mr. Greene called up from below:

  “The pool will be quite deep, Mrs. Langley. I assure you that you shan’t injure yourself in falling.”

  “In falling?” I asked.

  “You can swim, can’t you, madam?”

  I swallowed. It seemed very far down. “I am not a strong swimmer, no.”

  From where she stood near the wings, I saw Mrs. Wilkes lean close to whisper something to Mr. Wheeler, who laughed.

  “Good enough!” Mr. Greene said. “All you need to do is struggle to the surface. Ah, I wish we had a horse that could plunge in with you. People love a horse. Add a horse, Mr. DeWitt.”

  “We haven’t time to make the waterfall big enough for a horse, Lucius.” The carpenter looked up from where he stood beside Mr. Greene. “We’re falling behind as it is.”

  “If you recall the disaster in Mazeppa, Lucius, Jack was lucky to escape with a broken leg,” Mr. Metairie said drolly from beside me.

  “A mere anomaly,” Mr. Wheeler called out. “I don’t mind a horse, and I’ve no doubt Mrs. Langley is a skilled rider.”

  I could not suppress my shudder at the thought. “I’m afraid I haven’t the skill to ride a horse up a … scaffold.”

  “There’s not enough time, Lucius,” the carpenter said again.

  Mr. Greene sighed heavily. “Oh, very well. No horse. But … what about a dog, DeWitt? Perhaps Miss Justis could have a little dog? One that does tricks, perhaps?”

  “We could get that spaniel we used in Murder on the Cliff,” said Mrs. Wilkes sweetly.

  “It didn’t bite that hard,” said Brody Townshend, smiling. “I’ve barely got any scar.”

  “It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it, Lucius?” Mr. Metairie said. “The play is to be performed the week after next.”

  “Days still to get a dog,” Mr. Greene said.

  “Why not a little circus of dogs?” Mrs. Wilkes suggested.

  Mr. Greene stroked his mustache. “Yes. Yes, a good idea! Last year Langford had that circus at the Palace. It did very well. Mrs. Langley, have you experience with dogs?”

  We were very high up. I was feeling dizzy. “I—”

  “I think a circus of dogs might lessen the suspense,” Mr. DeWitt interjected drily. “Barnabus means to seduce Penny, after all—very hard to do with dogs performing tricks all about.”

  “Ah, yes of course,” Mr. Greene said. “A bit distracting. I see. Ah well, then, no dog circus. Carry on.”

  “So am I to throw Penelope to the pool, or simply lose hold of her?” Mr. Metairie asked.

  Mr. Townshend offered, “Perhaps you could try it both ways. I guess with that bustle, she’d bounce right back.”

  Mrs. Wilkes laughed out loud. I looked down into her jeering face, and I could not stop myself from saying, “I do wish we could find a way to put Marjory in this scene. With all the changes, I’m quite worried that she’s barely in the play now.”

  Beatrice Wilkes gave me exactly what I wanted. In her expression I saw a stunned and angry surprise. I smiled at her as coldly as I could and was rewarded with her gaping mouth, eyes narrowed to slits. It was the most perfect moment.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Beatrice

  She was clever enough, I had to admit. An insult delivered with such smooth polish, and that bearing—what the hell did they do, breed for it? Just one more reason to dislike her, and don’t think I didn’t.

  Susan stifled a laugh and looked away from me guiltily, and I thought, there goes another one. And then, to make it all worse, when Geary called for a scene change, Lucius grabbed my arm, stopping me. “No trifling with her today, Beatrice.”

  Not Bea. Beatrice. I frowned. “Of course not.”

  “One should not prick a sleeping lion.”

  “I fancy myself the lion in this case, Lucius, but never fear, I’ll tread lightly today.”

  He nodded and let me go, and I looked across the stage at Jackson, raising my eyebrow in question. He only shrugged.

  And then Mrs. Langley approached center stage to meet me, frosty as ice on a pump handle, and angry besides, in that way people are when they’re thwarted, and I wished once again that I’d managed to keep quiet about my arrangement with her husband. I thought of the note I’d sent Nathan this morning begging for forgiveness—I couldn’t go on being such a fool, after all—and hoped to hell I’d see him tonight.

  “You seem distressed, Mrs. Wilkes,” Mrs. Langley said.

  “Why should I be distressed, Mrs. Langley?”

  “I’ve no idea. It’s only that you sighed so prettily. It was quite dramatic. But then, I suppose you know exactly what gives the best effect.”

  Cuttingly said, coldly too. And lowering, all at the same time. I felt like a barnacle beneath her boot. How did one master such a tone? “Ah, but I’m always looking for ways to perfect it. By studying society, for example, I’ve learned how to sound pompous and say nothing at the same time.”

  “Your line, Mrs. Langley,” called Mr. Geary.

  She ignored him. Her eyes narrowed. “How is it that you can get close enough to study society, Mrs. Wilkes, when you’re kept so well outside it?”

  “How can I help it? Society is always popping up where it’s not welcome. Rather like a boil. Or a bedbug.”

  Mr. Geary said, “Can we begin, ladies, please? We’re wasting time.”

  “A bedbug,” she repeated. “Yes, I imagine you know all about those, Mrs. Wilkes.”

  Everything she thought about me was in those words, and I felt the heat in my face and spat back, “Even a bedbug might prefer a warm bed to a cold one, Mrs. Langley.”

  She looked as if I’d slapped her, and I felt a vicious little stab of satisfaction. She turned on her heel and strode to the edge of the stage. “Mr. Greene, may I have a word with you?”

  “Yes, Lucius,” I called out. “Run and speak with Mrs. Langley like a good little slave.”

  “Bea,” Jackson warned.

  Mrs. Langley looked over her shoulder at me. “I haven’t any idea why you thought you could be leading lady, Mrs. Wilkes. You truly haven’t the style.”

  “Why, how else? I’ll copy yours. Or perhaps it would be wiser not to take someone like you as my example.”

  “Beatrice!” I heard the fury in Lucius’s voice.

  Jack winced. Brody whistled low through his teeth.

  “I will not go onstage with her,” Mrs. Langley said loudly.

  “You won’t have to,” Lucius assured her quickly, and I wished to hell I’d shut up. Lucius glared at me. “Mrs. Wilkes, may I see you in my office?”

  The stage went eerily quiet. Even the carpenters stopped working; on the scaffold, a painter’s stilled brush dripped onto the oilcloth spread below. I felt them all looking at me.

  I didn’t look at the others. I tried not to think of the fact that Nathan Langley would no doubt take his wife’s side. I squared
my shoulders and said, regal as a queen, “As you wish, Mr. Greene,” and followed him offstage. I didn’t hazard a glance at Mrs. Langley, because I knew the smug satisfaction I would see on her face.

  Down the stairs, down the hallway, and Lucius wrenched open the door to his office and ushered me sternly in, following after, closing the door with a near slam.

  “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snapped—all geniality gone, flamboyance reduced to quick, angry gestures.

  “Why don’t you just say it? Why prolong it? She wants me gone, and you haven’t the courage God gave a worm to go against her.”

  “Do not try me, Beatrice, or I will.”

  I laughed. “Don’t pretend you might not. Don’t forget, I know you, Lucius. Once she gets Nathan involved—”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Langley is involved. Whatever you’re doing to him must be damned good, because he doesn’t want you gone. At least not yet.”

  “He said that?”

  A short nod. “He told me this morning that she wanted you dismissed and he was considering it. But only considering it, mind you. So for now, I’m not letting you go.” Lucius leaned forward. “But I’ll take you off Penelope.”

  “Who will play Marjory?”

  “I’ll move Susan into the part. You’re still with the company; you’re just not doing this show. Do you understand me, Bea?”

  I nodded, and then, to my horror, my eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, Lucius.”

  “Don’t thank me,” he said shortly, unmoved. “Who knows what the hell Langley will want tomorrow? If I were you, my dear, I’d fuck him tonight until he can’t walk.”

  I wiped at my eyes. “Yes. Yes, I will.”

  He leaned back in his chair again and waved his hand at me. “That’s all. Now get out. Be back at four. You’re still on Debts tonight.”

  I didn’t hesitate. I fled his office before he could change his mind. I was half blind with tears. I didn’t see Sebastian DeWitt until I ran into him.

  “Sorry,” I said, pushing away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

  “Steady,” DeWitt said. His hands were on my arms, holding me out. “What happened? Are you all right?”

  “I’m off Penelope,” I told him.

  “But Marjory—”

  “Susan will play her.” I tried to laugh, not very successfully. “Maybe you’d better trim the part more.”

  “He can’t do this,” he said in a low voice. “I wrote the play—”

  “For me. Yes, I know. Everyone knows. It doesn’t matter.” I loosed myself from his grasp. “It’s all right. I don’t care.”

  “Let me walk you home.”

  “You have a rehearsal to see to.” I pushed past him.

  “Wait for me then. I’d like to speak to you.”

  “I can’t.” I only wanted to be away. I took the three steps to the back door and pushed on it. Light flooded in, along with dust. “Good-bye, Mr. DeWitt.” I let the door slam shut behind me.

  Lucius’s advice rang in my ears. Hadn’t I already known that Nathan Langley was the key to everything? I thought of my note, delivered by now, and prayed that he would heed it.

  I had to wait two hours for his answer, pacing my room all the while until there was a knock on the door and I opened it to find some errand boy, and my hands were shaking as I paid him a penny for the envelope he carried. I tore open that envelope as if it were some damned edict from God—which in a way it was, you know—and when I read those words I felt such a flurry of relief I had to sit down.

  Tonight. Wear the cloak and hairpins. We’re going to dinner. N.

  Geneva

  When Mr. Greene returned, he said tersely, “The role of Marjory will now be played by Miss Jenks.”

  He excused us then, and I left quickly, not daring to glance at any of the others; I did not think I could hide my smile of victory, and I didn’t want to try. I wanted to celebrate that she was gone without being made to feel guilty over it and without thinking of what Nathan might say when I returned home, or about the fact that I’d taken the play from the muse it had been written for. I deliberately did not search out Sebastian DeWitt.

  But I’d no sooner stepped out the backstage door than my relief at escaping turned to trepidation. Because just outside, leaning against the building, was the man I’d been hoping to avoid.

  Mr. DeWitt’s cool glance flickered over me. “Mrs. Langley, I salute you for so efficiently ridding yourself of a thorn.”

  “She turned the rehearsals into a circus,” I defended myself. “She would not even try. And surely I should not have been required to bear my husband’s mistress.”

  Quite reasonably, he said, “Perhaps you should blame your husband for that, and not her.”

  “Perhaps I would have,” I said acidly, “had she made any attempt at all to bear me. It was clear from the start that she wished me to perdition.”

  “I tried to warn you. What did you expect when you took her part?”

  “I didn’t know. In fact, I didn’t know a great many things, any of which you could have told me.” I took a deep breath. “I am sorry for your sake, Mr. DeWitt. I know you admire her. Though I admit I don’t quite see her allure.”

  “You could learn something from watching her, you know,” he said. “She’s a very good actress. She has the potential to be exceptional.”

  “Well, she can sing,” I said dismissively. “And I liked her in Black Jack, but as for more than that.… I mean no offense, you understand. I realize that one must make allowances for inspiration. No artist can dictate its source. But perhaps you could make allowances for the fact that you might not see her clearly.”

  “You’re being patronizing, Mrs. Langley.”

  “I only mean—”

  “You mean that Mrs. Wilkes isn’t worthy of being my muse.”

  “I think you don’t realize the depth of your talent, Mr. DeWitt. An artist such as yourself … perhaps you’d be better served by someone who can understand you.”

  “Yes, you said that before. I suppose you’ve someone in mind.”

  “In many circles, I am regarded as something of an inspiration myself.”

  “One cannot simply replace one muse with another.”

  I was stung, but I tried to hide it. “Of course I know that. I’m not suggesting it. I understand the rather … coarse … appeal of a woman like Mrs. Wilkes, and I imagine it has its satisfactions, but I’m speaking of something more elevated, something like—”

  “The relationship you had with Marat.”

  “I was able to help him a great deal, Mr. DeWitt. Without me—”

  “He would not have been so brilliant as he was?”

  I foundered. “He would have been brilliant in any case. But I did introduce him to a society that appreciated him. My father’s patronage secured him a great many commissions.”

  “I’m certain you brought his genius to light,” he said quietly. “It’s your gift, after all. But did you inspire him?”

  “You should have seen Andromeda, Mr. DeWitt. It was … magnificent.”

  DeWitt nodded and stared off into the little view we had of the street, given that we stood in the narrow pass between two buildings. Carriages and wagons flashed into sight and then disappeared again. “Did you commission Andromeda?”

  “No one did. It was an exhibition piece.”

  “Marat paid for the marble himself?”

  “No, of course not. Have you any idea the cost of that much stone? And Claude was … well, he was a peasant, really. Money ran through his fingers.”

  “So you bought the stone for him?”

  “I considered it essential. I wanted the world to discover him as I had.”

  “You and your husband are very generous patrons.”

  “Nathan had nothing to do with it. Claude’s talent didn’t matter to him, just as yours doesn’t. He’s financing you for her, Mr. DeWitt. He’ll be happy to take credit for discovering y
ou, though.”

  DeWitt smiled. “Discover me? As if I’m a bit of gold buried in quartz?”

  “Yes, exactly. I assure you, you have no idea how heady it can be. It’s intoxicating. When others realize that you’ve glimpsed the gold when they had already looked away … well, I lack the words to fully explain it. I don’t know, of course, but I imagine it must feel very like creation. I thought I could put it aside when we came here. I thought I could be … different. But I miss it so terribly. It’s like … I suppose it’s an addiction, really.”

  He said gently, “Sometimes I think of writing that way too. If I could only stop … well, there’s no point in thinking that. I can’t stop. I’m like a moth beating its wings against a flame. As long as the fire is there, I can’t fly away.”

  “The fire of inspiration?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “For lack of a better word. But there are different types of fire.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For example, your husband pays me fifty dollars and asks me to write a play—well, money’s a fire of one kind. I can be … inspired … to write whatever he wants. If he says to add a circus of dogs, why, I’m happy to do so. Tie the heroine to train tracks? As you wish, sir. And what good taste you have, if you don’t mind my saying so. You’ve a wit beyond ages, sir; I’ve never worked for anyone so discerning.”

  I began to feel vaguely uncomfortable, though I could not say why.

  “And then … then there’s the kind of fire that seems to come from nowhere. It knocks you to the ground. Suddenly you can’t sleep for the ideas racing through your brain. Your fingers itch for a pen, and you can imagine a thousand ways … well, it’s like God is inside you. Perhaps it’s a form of madness—I don’t know. All I know is that it so rarely happens that you don’t let go of it when it does. Not for anything, not for any amount of money. I’d rather starve than give it up.”

  He spoke so passionately; his eyes blazed, his face animated. And I began to feel this strange, disturbing awareness, a discomfiting sense that I was on the cusp of understanding something I wasn’t certain I wished to know.