“Laura!” he exclaimed in a surprisingly deep voice. “You’re back! Have you any idea how I’ve missed you? All the long, lonely nights I’ve spent pining, with only my pillow for company. Quick! To my bedroom! We must recapture the splendor at once!”
“Your ardor overwhelms me,” she said.
“You look ravishing, poppet, even if you are drenched.”
“You look outrageous. Where’d you get the robe?”
“A lady friend gave it to me. Splendid, isn’t it?”
“Blinding.”
“How was our Melinda?”
“Sassy as ever. Running her own hat shop. Divinely happy to be away from Jason Donovan and company. Billy, I want you to meet Dana O’Malley. She’s our new ingenue. This is Billy Barton, Dana. I told you about him.”
“Lies,” he said, “all lies. Don’t believe a word she said. I’ll marry you if I must, but I’d much rather have a mad, passionate affair, beginning immediately. Let’s haste to my bedroom. I’ll help you out of those wet clothes and teach you the real meaning of bliss.”
“I never sleep with men who haven’t started shaving,” I told him.
“I’ve been shaving for over a decade!” he protested.
“You started at age seven?”
Billy Barton grinned. “She’s sharp, Laura. I like her. Welcome to the company, poppet,” he told me. “I really should hate you, you know. Jason has finally managed to hire someone prettier than I am.”
“That’s debatable,” I said.
“I do like her,” Billy declared. “What fun to have someone lively to romance and terrorize onstage. Maisie had no wit whatsoever, and there was that unfortunate overbite. She managed to nab herself a rich banker, nevertheless. You, my lovely, will probably capture a king.”
He gave Laura an exuberant hug and then, to my total amazement, hugged me, too, as friendly and inoffensive as a puppy. Theater people were certainly demonstrative and free with endearments, I thought.
“I’m on my way to the kitchen,” he confided. “I hope to steal a snack before lunch. Breakfast was inedible, children. Soggy scrambled eggs and stewed mushrooms. Guess what we’re having for lunch.”
“Corned beef and cabbage,” I said.
He arched a brow. “You’re psychic?”
“I have a keen sense of smell.”
At this point the front door flew open and a thoroughly drenched, thoroughly disgruntled Jason Donovan staggered in with our bags. The three of us stood watching as he dropped the bags, shook himself like a wolfhound and shoved dripping wet black locks from his brow. He grumbled. He glared. Billy scurried off through one of the archways, maroon satin flapping, and Laura tactfully informed her cousin that he was dripping all over the carpet. He shouted a reply that should have brought a blush to my cheeks. I had heard worse in the swamps, though not often. Laura merely smiled at his obscenity.
“Temper, love. So sweet of you to bring in our bags. You’d better run up and change into some dry clothes. Can’t have our resident playwright and manager coming down with pneumonia.”
Jason spluttered another reply almost as obscene and marched past us, shaking water with every step. Laura followed him with fond eyes as he went up the stairs with, I thought, an unnecessary amount of stomping. I doubted seriously that any of his “artists” possessed a more volatile temperament than he did himself. I had the curious feeling that I had stepped into a madhouse.
“What was all that ruckus about?” a tiny, squeaking voice inquired.
I turned to see a tiny, round-cheeked, drab little woman standing in one of the archways. She wore a drab brown dress and had drab gray hair worn in a severe bun, but the blue eyes twinkling behind a pair of thick spectacles were unusually lively and filled with good humor.
“Jason,” Laura said.
“Oh dear, look at my carpet.”
“Jason,” Laura repeated.
“What a relief. I feared it might be Theodore. I happen to know Bartholomew hasn’t let him out since it started raining.”
“Theodore is Bartholomew’s dog,” Laura explained. “This is Birdie. Birdie, I’d like for you to meet Dana O’Malley, our new ingenue. She’s come with me from New Orleans.”
“Enchanted, I’m sure,” Birdie squeaked. “No overbite,” she added, studying me closely. “I do hope you’re comfortable here, Miss O’Malley. I’m afraid we’re a bit short of help at the moment. My best girl quit last week. ‘I came here to sweep floors and make beds, Miss Birdie, not to be pinched on the backside every time I turn around,’ Adele told me as she handed in her apron.”
“Billy?” Laura asked.
“Bartholomew,” Birdie replied.
“Who would have thought it?”
“The new girl is built like an ox and unfortunately moves like one, too. She’s terribly slow, but she has yet to complain of untoward behavior from one of the guests. You have your old room, Miss Laura. The one right across the hall from it was reserved for Miss Maisie. I’ll have Bertha bring your bags up.”
“The big one is mine,” Laura said. “The other two are Dana’s.”
“Both of you could probably use a nice hot bath. I’ll make arrangements.”
“You’re a darling, Birdie.”
“I do’ try. I don’t know why everyone objects to theatrical folk. It’s a bit taxing, I’ll admit, but so much more interesting than taking in dull spinsters and fussy old bachelors. I’m rarely bored.”
She made a vague gesture and wandered away, and Laura and I went upstairs. The house was large and sprawling and redolent of camphor and beeswax, face powder and cooking, corned beef and cabbage prevalent at the moment. Blue wallpaper with faded purple flowers covered the walls of the upstairs corridor, and a shabby purple-gray rug covered the floor. The floorboards squeaked. The place was anything but grand, I mused, but it was surprisingly pleasant, particularly with the rain pounding on the roof. As we moved past an open doorway, a crisp, cracking voice called out to us, and we stopped. Laura smiled warmly as an old woman in a flamboyant purple frock came out into the hall.
I tried not to gape. Imposingly tall and as skinny as a bean pole, the woman had blazing red curls stacked untidily on top of her head and a ruined, sagging face garishly painted: eyelids deep mauve, cheeks bright pink, lips a vivid scarlet. The curls couldn’t possibly be real, and the paint couldn’t possibly conceal the cruel inroads of time, but there was something vital and youthful about her nevertheless. Her emerald-green eyes were shrewd, witty and intelligent, and although she might look like a painted old scarecrow, she exuded authority and a striking presence. Commanding was the word for her, I thought. There was no way you could possibly ignore her.
“You’re back, I see,” the woman said.
“Hale and hearty,” Laura replied.
“I feared you’d succumb to the temptations of New Orleans, duckie. I was afraid you’d decide to abandon us and live in lovely sin with a handsome Creole dandy or some wealthy planter with a mustache. Knowing Melinda, she tried her best to match you up with someone.”
“She tried,” Laura confessed. “The Creole dandy had a wife and two children. The planter had a paunch. I passed.”
“Very sensible of you,” the woman declared “Don’t despair, duckie. One day your knight in shining armor will arrive right on cue.”
Her voice, while cracking, had unusual resonance and, had she wished it to be, could have been heard all the way across the street. It was crisp and dramatic, despite the shaky tremolo, with an undeniable British accent. This must be Mrs. Helena Oliphant, Laura’s beloved Ollie.
“And who have we here?” she asked, examining me with those brilliant emerald eyes.
“This is my friend Dana O’Malley,” Laura said.
Ollie extended a thin, wrinkled but elegant hand. “Mrs. Helena Oliphant,” she said. “Delighted to meet you, duckie.”
I shook her hand, slightly intimidated.
“We’re going to need your help, Ollie. Dana has never even
been inside a theater and—well, I lied outrageously to Jason and he has taken her on as our new ingenue.”
Ollie slowly arched one caustic brow. “There’s a story behind this, I assume.”
“I’ll tell you everything later, love.”
Those shrewd emerald-green eyes swept over me again, taking in each detail of my dress and person.
“So you want to go on the stage?” she asked crisply.
“Not really,” I confessed. “This was all Laura’s idea. I was prepared to go to work at an emporium in St. Louis, selling ribbons or gloves behind one of the counters.”
“And a shocking waste it would have been,” Ollie declared. “You have incredible beauty and a very good voice. We’ll have to work on projection, but I can foresee no problems there. No presence, not yet, too timid, unsure of yourself, but that can be fixed, too.”
“In three weeks?” Laura asked.
“Shortly after I arrived in America with Sir Cyril Hampton-Croft’s company and that rogue absconded and left us stranded in Washington, I opened a school for the spoiled, empty-headed daughters of diplomats who were always doing amateur theatrics. I taught ‘elocution’ and ‘expression’ and I turned a number of them into competent thespians—it was uphill work, children, believe me. We have much more to work with in this instance.”
“You think we can do it?”
“Give me three weeks,” Ollie said grandly, “and I could teach a block of wood to act. We’ll do it, duckie. After all, our Maisie was no Sarah Siddons. Any chit of a girl who can memorize lines and make herself heard onstage could do as good a job.”
“My sentiments exactly, love.”
“The company rehearsals don’t begin until next week. We’ll begin tomorrow morning—in the back parlor, I think. No one ever goes there, and we wouldn’t want Jason to know what’s afoot.”
“Definitely not,” Laura agreed.
Ollie gave me a firm look. “You’ll have to work very, very hard, duckie,” she informed me, “and, I must warn you, I’m a tyrant. I brook no nonsense. I demand complete obedience.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, thoroughly intimidated now.
She continued to skewer me with that firm look for another moment and then she smiled, mischief twinkling in her eyes. She touched my cheek. “Don’t look so frightened, ducks. Actually, we’ll have fun. You’ll be fine—I can sense it—and what a lark it will be putting one over on Jason. Run along to your rooms now, children. I’ll see you both at lunch.”
I felt dazed as we moved on down the hall. Laura was smiling to herself, amused by my reaction to her friend.
“We’ll do it, love,” she assured me. “Ollie’s really a wonderful teacher. You’ll be in fine shape before Jason ever sees you emote.”
“She mentioned being stranded in Washington,” I said. “I—I wonder why she never returned to England.”
“Politics,” Laura said.
“Politics?”
“Intrigue. Romance. Ollie has a past, you see. You’ll hear all about it ere long—you’ll hear about it constantly, I fear. Ollie was a famous beauty several decades ago and the toast of the London stage and had several important lovers, and one day the Prince Regent spied her and was immediately infatuated. He swept her off the Royal Pavilion at Brighton and Mrs. Fitzherbert was insanely jealous and Parliament was appalled and secret meetings were held. Ollie was advised to leave the country if she wanted to stay healthy. According to her, she was the great love of Prinny’s life—though naturally it was kept very hush-hush.”
“Goodness, she does have a past.”
“Or a very vivid imagination,” Laura said wryly. “Anyway, she’s remained in America all these years, and we’re lucky to have her in the company. Here’s your room, love. Mine’s over there. After you’ve had your bath and everything, come on over and we’ll visit before we go down to lunch.”
The room I entered was large and comfortable-looking with faded blue wallpaper and heavy, rather battered furniture. A flowered counterpane was spread over the large four-poster, and curtains with matching floral print hung at the windows. The mirror, over the dressing table was murky silver-gray, and the mahogany veneer of the immense wardrobe had tiny networks of weblike cracks. Behind a threadbare lilac silk screen I found pitcher, ewer, chamber pot, all the necessities. It was a welcoming, womblike room, shabby and snug, a perfect retreat. But you didn’t come here to retreat, I reminded myself. You came here to forge ahead, to forget. That’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to immerse yourself in a new life and … and put the pain behind you.
I was startled when the door banged open and a large, lumbering woman with flat brown eyes and lifeless blond hair came shambling in with my bags, dumping them beside the bed and giving me a sullen look. Bertha, I assumed. She did rather resemble an ox. She departed without a word and returned fifteen minutes later carrying a huge tin tub, followed by a skinny, skittish girl in mobcap and apron who carried towels, soap and sponge. Bertha set the tub down in the middle of the room and muttered something about water coming soon and left. The skinny girl, surely no more than thirteen, grinned shyly, dropped a nervous curtsey and scurried out after Bertha. I had scarcely finished hanging up my clothes in the wardrobe when they came back with buckets of water. Steam rose as they poured water into the tub. I thanked them profusely. Bertha grunted. The girl giggled. I was relieved when they left.
I’m dreaming all this, I told myself. I must be.
Half an hour later, refreshed, smelling of perfumed soap, hair brushed to a glossy honey-blond sheen, I donned my pale apricot gown and went across the hall to knock on Laura’s door. “Come in!” she called, and I was surprised to find her still sitting in her tub, rich mounds of bubbly white suds rising all around her. Her hair was piled atop her head and fastened with a ribbon. Her sapphire eyes gleamed with contentment as she squeezed her sponge and let rivulets of water spill over her arms and shoulders.
“Sorry, love. I’ve been looking forward to this for so long I just couldn’t drag myself out of this delicious water. We have plenty of time. Did you meet Bertha?”
“She’s a charmer,” I said.
“But efficient. You look radiant.”
“I don’t feel very radiant.”
“Still nervous?”
I nodded, sitting down on the dressing table stool. Laura smiled and began to rinse herself. Her arms and shoulders were as smooth and creamy as satin, and she had a beautiful body, her breasts full and firm, with rosebud-pink nipples.
“So what do you think of my cousin?” she inquired.
“He’s—different,” I said cautiously. “I—I’ve never met anyone quite like him.”
“And you never will, love. He’s brilliant, mercurial, often impossible, but he’s honest and strong and extremely protective. He watches after his own with fierce vigilance, his own being every member of the company. You’ll long to kill him several times a week, but you can always depend on his being there for you when you need him. Behind all that bluster, he’s a brick.”
“You really admire him, don’t you?”
“He’s the genuine article, love. He’s rough at the edges and unpolished and outspoken, but there’s no pretense and absolutely no hypocrisy. What you see is exactly what you get, and a great many women have tried their very best to get him. Jason has the morals of an alley cat where women are concerned, I fear, but you can hardly blame him for that. It seems he’s irresistible.”
“Oh?”
“Women will keep throwing themselves at him, and he’s always happy to oblige them. He never lies and never leads them on, always lets them know just where he stands, but they all keep right on adoring him until he finally dumps them. No strings, no entanglements, that’s Jason’s creed. Just glorious, uncomplicated coupling—and lots of it.”
I was shocked. I tried not to show it.
“What about love?” I asked.
“Oh, Jason’s never been in love. He treats his ladies with rough
affection, very fond of them while they last, but he’s never been seriously smitten with any of them. When he does fall in love, God help us all. He’ll probably be even more impossible.”
Laura reached for the large white towel, stood up, stepped out of the tub, and began to dry herself.
“He’s pleased to have you with us, incidentally. He came in here to tell me so, that’s why I was late getting into my bath. He was worried no end when he received Maisie’s letter, wondering how on earth he was going to get another ingenue on such short notice. He actually thanked me for solving his problem.”
“He won’t be so thankful when he sees me try to act.”
“By the time he sees you, you’ll be fine. Ollie and I will make sure of that. There’s really nothing to it, love. You learn your lines, you pretend, you project.”
“I think I’d rather sell ribbons,” I said.
“Nonsense. You’ll love it. Every girl dreams of going on the stage.”
“I never did. I didn’t even know what a stage was,” I added.
“You’ve come a long way,” she said merrily. “Think of it as an adventure. You’re going to have a wonderful time.”
It was at this point that the door flew open and a very big, very attractive man strolled casually into the room, carrying a large leather bag. Laura let out a little cry, clutching the towel in front of her. The man gave her a long, lazy look and calmly set his bag down. He seemed completely unperturbed and not the least surprised to find a naked woman in what he obviously assumed to be his room.
“Who the hell are you!” Laura demanded.
“Name’s Michael Prichard, ma’am. Who might you be?”
They Call Her Dana Page 40
