They Call Her Dana

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Evenin’, ladies,” he drawled.

  “Evenin’,” Laura replied.

  “You ladies look like you could use a little company.”

  “We’re doing fine,” she informed him.

  “It’s a lovely evening,” he persisted, “much too lovely to spend all by yourselves.”

  “Sweetheart”—her voice was bored—“we’re not interested.”

  “Let me take you to the main salon. There’s music. I’ll buy us a bottle of champagne and we can get to know each other. Later on we—uh—we might get to know each other even better.”

  “Do me a favor, love,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Go take a flying leap at the moon.”

  Affronted, the man scowled and moved on, muttering something quite uncomplimentary under his breath. Laura sighed, not in the least perturbed. I had the feeling she had fended off dozens of similar advances in the past with the same cool aplomb. We stood at the railing for a few moments more and then began to stroll, skirts rustling, a cool, gentle breeze sweeping over the river. Laura adjusted the black lace shawl around her arms. How wonderful it was to have a friend. We had known each other such a short time, yet in some ways I felt closer to her than I had to anyone. I felt I could tell her anything, share anything with her. This must be the way you felt when you had a sister, I thought.

  If I went to St. Louis, I would be entirely on my own. I wasn’t sure Herbie Kramer would remember me. I had no guarantee he would give me a job at his emporium. If I got off the boat at Memphis, at least I would be with Laura. I wouldn’t be alone. She seemed to be reading my mind.

  “Live dangerously, love,” she said. “You weren’t meant to languish behind a ribbon counter.”

  “Do—do you really think I could go onstage?”

  “I know you could,” she replied. “I’d help you. So would Ollie. Who knows, love—you might really be good. You’re sensitive and intelligent and gorgeous. You might put us all to shame.”

  “If it doesn’t work out, I—I suppose I could find work in Memphis as easily as I could in St. Louis.”

  “You’ll do it? You’ll come with me?”

  I nodded. Laura reached for my hand and squeezed it.

  “We’re going to have glorious times, love,” she promised.

  I prayed I had made the right decision.

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE SKY WAS LADEN with ponderous gray-black clouds swollen with rain, and everything below looked gray, too. Although it was barely ten o’clock in the morning, it was almost as dark as night as Laura and I walked down the gangplank at Memphis, she in blue, me in my yellow linen, followed by a single gentleman she had conned into carrying our bags. I was so nervous I felt certain I’d lose my footing on the tilting, serrated wooden plank and fall crashing into the people in front of us, but I reached the safety of the dock without mishap. There was a huge crowd and there was bustle, everyone in a hurry to be gone before it began to pour. Only Laura seemed calm. She smiled warmly at the gentleman as he set our bags down. He asked if we were going to be in town long. She gave him an evasive answer and brushed him off politely. She handled men with the expertise of a veteran, I thought admiringly.

  Thunder rumbled ominously. There was a shattering, blinding flash of silver-blue lightning. People hurried even more, scrambling toward the carriages waiting beyond the dock area. I caught glimpses of old brown warehouses yawning open and dirty bales of cotton and untidy stacks of wooden boxes. Memphis had a distinct smell, like soot and old smoke, I thought, combined with the mossy, muddy smell of the river which was more pungent than it had been elsewhere. A wind began to blow, causing our skirts to flutter. Laura glanced around calmly, unperturbed by the scurrying, jostling crowd or excited voices or the imminent threat of deluge. It might have been a sunny spring day. Her cousin was to meet us. She searched for him, an expectant smile on her lips. I wanted to flee. What madness this was. I should still be on the boat, preparing to move on to St. Louis. Jason Donovan would take one look at me and see I was a fraud and shove me into the river. I should never have let Laura talk me into this. It wasn’t too late. My passage was paid to St. Louis. I could still snatch up my bags and rush back to my cabin.

  “Here he comes,” Laura said, waving. “Oh dear, he looks awfully grumpy, but then he usually does. Don’t be alarmed, love. He stamps and roars and carries on like a surly bear, but he’s really a pet.”

  “Laura, what—what if he—”

  “Relax, love. It’s in the bag.”

  “I’m terrified,” I admitted.

  “Nonsense. He’s going to love you.”

  The man who moved toward us in a loose-limbed, impatient stride was lanky, well-muscled but much too thin, every bit as tall as Charles. He wore scuffed dark brown knee boots and shabby tobacco-brown breeches and frock coat, the latter flapping open in the breeze. He wore no waistcoat. His white shirt looked threadbare. A disreputable forest-green scarf was knotted around his throat in lieu of a neckcloth, and his hair, as black as Laura’s, was poorly cut and much too long, tumbling over his brow in unruly locks. My God, I thought. He looks like an escaped criminal or … or a mad poet. He was scowling. He exuded a frightening vitality, seemed charged with energy and impatience he could barely contain.

  “Here you are, darling,” Laura said.

  She gave him her dazzling smile. He was immune to the smile. He scowled even more when she stood up on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. He looked as though he wanted to strangle her on the spot. His hands were big, with broad palms and long, blunt fingers, the nails chewed down to the quick. Hands quite capable of seizing a throat and squeezing, I thought, moving back a step or two. What a horribly unpleasant person he was. His face was lean, with a wide, surly slash of pink mouth and a long nose that had been broken and was slightly twisted and gray-green eyes that seemed to burn with intensity. His cheekbones were too broad, too flat, and he was anything but handsome. He was almost ugly, in fact, yet … what a fascinating face it was. I could see why women would be strongly attracted to him. Jason Donovan was no well-bred southern gentleman. He had a rough-and-tumble aura that was curiously exciting.

  “I’ve been waiting for two bloody hours,” he snarled. “I’m using a hired carriage. It’s costing me a fortune.”

  “Really, Jason, you can hardly blame us for the boat being late. I understand there were some sandbars they had to navigate around. Anyway, we’re here now.”

  He gave her a suspicious look. “We?” He seemed to notice my presence for the first time. He glared at me. “Who’s she?”

  “My discovery, darling. I want you to meet Dana O’Malley.”

  “Discovery? What’s this all about?”

  He had a peculiar voice, light, almost soft, but with a scratchy, guttural quality nevertheless. A fascinating voice that could bark a command or croak a husky endearment. I had never heard anything quite like it, and it suited Jason Donovan perfectly.

  “Dana’s an actress,” Laura explained. “I found her in New Orleans, and I knew you were going to need a new ingenue, and—”

  “Maisie! That ungrateful little slut! She left me in the lurch without a word of warning. I got a letter from her yesterday—yesterday, mind you, and the company already assembling. How the hell am I supposed to find a new ingenue in—” He paused, glowering. “How did you find out about her defection?”

  “She wrote a letter to Melinda. Melinda told me. I knew you were going to need a new ingenue and—”

  “Married! Why the hell would she want to get married? And to a Yankee to boot!”

  “He’s a banker, love. Loaded, I understand. Maisie’s done quite well for herself, considering that unfortunate overbite. I don’t want to distress you, Jason, but it’s going to pour any minute now. Don’t you think we might possibly continue this conversation in the carriage?”

  He glared at me again. His eyes were more green than gray, I noticed, and smoldering with emerald fire. Deeply
set, heavily lidded, they were surmounted by unusual, quirky eyebrows as dark and smooth as sable. They rose into a high arch, then swept down and flared winglike at the corners. Jason Donovan might not be handsome, not with that twisted nose and mobile, too wide mouth, but his was a face you would never forget. A pirate might have a face like his, I fancied, or some western desperado. One would hardly expect to encounter it in polite society.

  “So you’re an actress?” he rasped.

  “I—”

  “She’s marvelous, darling,” Laura said quickly. “Better than Maisie ever hoped to be.”

  “Yeah?” His eyes never left me.

  “When I saw her in—in A Rose for Angelina, I knew she was just what the company needed.”

  “A Rose for Angelina? Never heard of it.”

  “A huge success, darling. Ran for three months at the Court Theater.”

  “Court Theater? Never heard of it, either.”

  “It’s new,” she said glibly. “They just built it last year.”

  “She played the ingenue?”

  “Brilliantly,” Laura lied. “I just felt a raindrop, Jason. Do let’s get to the carriage.”

  Jason Donovan ignored his cousin and studied me intently, as though searching for hidden imperfections. I saw no masculine appreciation in those critical eyes, only rude examination. He might have been inspecting a horse. I half expected him to ask me to show him my teeth. I could feel a blush coloring my cheeks. I could also feel the raindrops.

  “At least she doesn’t have an overbite,” he snapped.

  “Thanks for nothing,” I said crisply.

  “Why’d you leave the play?”

  “It closed,” I replied.

  “Every manager in New Orleans was after her, Jason, but I persuaded her to come to Memphis. I knew you’d be in a bind with Maisie leaving like that, and I knew you’d love Dana.”

  “I could kill the little trollop!”

  “Me?” I asked.

  “Maisie,” he said.

  “It’s going to pour, Jason,” Laura reminded him.

  “What are you dawdling for? Come along!”

  He turned and marched away, leaving the two of us with our bags. His cousin shook her head, gave an exasperated sigh and lifted her bag. I picked mine up, too, and we hurried to catch up with him. There was another deafening rumble of thunder, another bright flash of lightning, and it began to pour in earnest, heavy raindrops pounding down in sheets, splattering all around. People shouted. Horses neighed. We were running now, lugging the heavy bags, finally reaching the carriage Jason had already climbed into. The driver had opened up a huge black umbrella. The horses were stamping. Laura threw her bag into the carriage and scrambled inside and took my bags. I climbed in hastily, stumbled and fell sprawling across Jason Donovan’s lap. He gave me a look.

  “You’ve already got the job,” he said dryly. “I don’t demand extra favors.”

  I longed with all my heart to punch him in the nose. I didn’t. I wiggled across his knees, straightened myself up and, with all the dignity I could muster, moved across to sit-down beside Laura on the opposite seat. Jason reached over and pulled the door shut and we began to move. Rain lashed at the windows and pounded on the roof. The carriage shook and jiggled. It smelled of tobacco juice and damp wool.

  “You all right, love?” Laura asked.

  “I’m fine,” I said bitterly.

  She smiled, clearly amused. I wasn’t feeling any too generous toward her at the moment, either. My hair was damp, tumbling limply across my cheeks. My yellow linen was spotted with raindrops, and my arms ached from running through the crowd carrying the heavy bags. I smoothed my skirt down, brushed the limp waves from my face and took a deep breath, willing myself to maintain some semblance of calm.

  “Where are we staying?” Laura asked her cousin.

  “Birdie’s,” he replied.

  “Again?”

  “It’s cheap,” he told her.

  “The food’s abominable,” she protested.

  “Birdie’s happens to be one of the very few boardinghouses that will take actors, and she gives us free run of the house.”

  “There’s that,” she admitted. “has everyone arrived?”

  “Everyone but Carmelita and the new man. Carmelita’s arriving by train at six o’clock. New man’s supposed to get in sometime this afternoon.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Big strapping fellow named Michael Prichard. Had a stroke of luck there. He was with Bradshaw’s company—best company in the South, I don’t need to remind you—got fired for pulling a six-shooter on the boss.”

  “A six-shooter!”

  “He was raised in Texas. Old habits die hard, I suppose.”

  “You’ve hired a bandit?”

  Jason allowed a wry smile to play across that wide slash of mouth. “Mike grew tired of the territory—too many Comanches, too many Mexicans imposing too many new laws—so he pulled up stakes and journeyed to Alabama. He caught the eye of Doreen Falkner, Bradshaw’s leading lady. She persuaded Bradshaw to take him into the company. Apparently the fellow had a natural flair for acting. In less than a year he was a bigger draw than Doreen, idol of all the ladies. Got decent notices, too.”

  “What about the six-shooter, Jason?” she asked patiently.

  “According to Mike, Bradshaw refused to pay him his full salary, said there were ‘expenses’ that had to be deducted. Mike refused to accept the deductions and demanded the full amount. Bradshaw wouldn’t bend, so Mike whipped out his gun.”

  “Did he shoot him?”

  “No, but he collected his full salary.”

  “Charming,” Laura observed. “Just what the company needs.”

  “Good leading men are hard to come by,” Jason told her. “Mike’s a pleasant fellow, natural and unassuming, down-to-earth. You’d never take him for an actor. No temperament whatsoever.”

  “Just quick on the trigger,” she said.

  The wry smile widened on his mouth, and amusement actually sparkled in the gray-green eyes. Loose-limbed, lanky, he lounged there across from us in those disreputable clothes, and although I disliked him intensely, I had to admit that he was utterly intriguing. Laura had told me that he wrote all the plays they performed himself, so he must be very gifted, I thought. You would never guess it from the looks of him.

  “Has Jackson done all the booking?” she inquired.

  Jason nodded. “Everything’s set up. He did unusually well for us, got us three full weeks in Savannah this time.”

  “What about Atlanta?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “It figures,” she said.

  “One day we’ll play Atlanta,” he promised her. “One day we’ll take over the National Theater for the entire season. I’m going to write a play that’ll bowl them over. They’ll be clamoring to have us. One day Donovan’s is going to be the most famous company in the country.”

  “And one day pigs will undoubtedly sprout wings and fly. What are we doing this season?”

  “Sweetheart of the West, The Captive Bride—it’s new, I just finished the last act three weeks ago, marvelous part for you, a wicked courtesan determined to marry the heir, poisons all the competition, gets impaled in the last scene. We’re also doing Purple Nights, Lord Roderick’s Revenge—”

  “That old turkey?”

  “Audiences love it. It’s a very well-made play. Lena Marlow, The Three Musketeers—”

  “The Three Musketeers?” I interrupted. “I read that novel. I loved it. Alexandre Dumas must be very pleased to have it on the stage.”

  “Alexandre Dumas doesn’t know anything about it,” he informed me, “and you keep quiet about it.”

  “You mean you—you just stole his book and turned it into a play?”

  “I prefer not to use that word. My version is much better than his, more passion, less swordplay. Milady de Winter seduces all the musketeers.”

  “It sounds like a winner,” I said dryly.


  “Everyone’s a critic,” he grumbled.

  Laura and Jason continued to discuss business, and I looked out the window at the rain-swept streets. Memphis seemed vast, much more spacious than New Orleans, with wider streets, the houses and buildings not so crowded up. Through the swirling gray sheets of rain I saw lots of greenery and lofty trees and old frame houses set back behind lawns with picket fences in front. Life here must be more casual, more neighborly, I thought. It was hard for me to believe that I was in Tennessee, even harder to believe that I had just been accepted as the new ingenue in Jason Donovan’s theatrical company. What would he do to me when he discovered I couldn’t act? I preferred not to think about it.

  The rain hadn’t slackened a bit when, ten minutes later, the carriage came to a halt in front of one of the large frame houses with a wide verandah. The house was painted yellow, I saw through the rain, with white trim. Shrubs grew around the verandah, and two tall trees shaded the currently sodden front lawn. The driver climbed down from his perch and, holding the huge black umbrella up, opened the door and hurriedly escorted Laura and me to the safety of the verandah. The umbrella protected us from most of the rain, although our skirts were splattered. Jason Donovan was left to bring in all our bags, and it served him right, I thought, following Laura into the house. We found ourselves in a cozy front foyer with mahogany wainscotting and a faded wine-colored carpet. Lamps glowed pleasantly despite the hour, revealing archways leading into other rooms and, at the rear of the foyer, a wide staircase with mahogany banister leading up to the second floor.

  An excessively handsome, very young man was tripping nimbly down the steps, humming to himself. Seeing us, he stopped, slammed a hand to his heart and pretended to swoon. He had thick, floppy blond hair, merry brown eyes and a beautifully shaped pink mouth. His features were clean-cut and almost too perfect. Young men weren’t supposed to be so absurdly good-looking. He wore black leather slippers, gray breeches, a white shirt and, over them, a maroon satin dressing robe with black satin lapels and cuffs, this outlandish garment tied loosely at the waist with a maroon satin sash. Recovering from his false swoon, he waved, blew kisses and tripped on down the stairs, hurrying toward us. He reminded me of a naughty seraphim. He couldn’t be all of twenty.