They Call Her Dana

by Jennifer Wilde

  “I’m Laura Devon, and—”

  “Mighty pleased to meet you,” he drawled. “Go right ahead with what you were doing. Don’t mind me a bit.”

  Laura gasped. Michael Prichard looked at me, nodded. I nodded back. He removed the wide-brimmed brown western hat he was wearing, and a tumble of sun-streaked golden-brown hair spilled over his brow.

  “Dana O’Malley,” I said. “The new ingenue.”

  “Mighty pleased to meet you, too, ma’am.”

  “What are you doing in my room!” Laura cried.

  “’Fraid there’s been some error. The lady downstairs told me this was my room. Third door on your left, she said, plain as could be.”

  “This happens to be the fourth door on your left, you big lummox! Didn’t anyone ever teach you to count?”

  He didn’t answer. He grinned. It was a delightful grin, both boyish and slightly wicked. He was indeed a strapping fellow, powerfully built and solid with broad, rough-hewn features that were somehow reassuring. His clear gray eyes were hooded by heavy, drooping lids that gave him a lazy, nonchalant look, and the sun-streaked golden-brown hair was unusually thick and luxuriant. He wore tooled brown leather boots, snug tan breeches and, over a silky tan shirt open at the throat, a loose, rather battered tan kidskin jacket that looked as though it had seen many years of service. He was supremely masculine, rugged as granite, yet there was a breezy wholesomeness about him that inspired immediate confidence.

  At least in me. Laura didn’t look at all confident. She looked furious, her sapphire eyes flashing.

  “You weren’t supposed to be here till this afternoon,” she snapped.

  “Got in early,” he said lazily.

  “On horseback, I assume.”

  “Train. Never been too fond of horses. High-strung creatures, too easily spooked. Have to pamper ’em just like you’d pamper a woman. No, give me a train every time.”

  “Where’s your six-shooter?” she asked sarcastically.

  “It’s in my bag. Wanna see it?”

  Laura didn’t deign to reply. She stood there gripping the towel tightly, absolutely indignant. Intrigued, too, I could see that. She found the actor from Texas immensely intriguing, though she would undoubtedly have gone to the stake before admitting it. For all her experience and devil-may-care sophistication, she was as susceptible as any other woman to masculine charm. Michael Prichard had charm in abundance and, with those sleepy eyes and that lazy, low-key manner of his, sexual allure that was potent indeed. Laura looked at him with visible disdain.

  “You’re an actor?”

  “Yes, ma’am. One of the best in the South, I’m told. I could show you my clippings. I could also give you personal references.”

  “I’m sure Doreen Falkner would vouch for you.”

  “I’ll betcha she would, come to think of it.”

  Their eyes held. I might as well have been invisible. He grinned again and reached up to brush the thick hair from his brow, and then he examined his hand, frowning.

  “Hair’s still a bit damp from all that rain,” he said. “Think you could loan me that towel for a minute?”

  “Get out of here!” Laura snapped.

  “No need to get all riled, ma’am. I’m not gonna bite you, not unless you ask me to. Just bein’ friendly.”

  “Out!”

  The grin continued to curl on his wide, full lips, and there was a decided twinkle in those clear gray eyes. He looked at her for a moment longer and then, sighing with sad resignation, plopped the wide-brimmed brown hat back on his head and picked up his bag. “See you girls later,” he drawled and nodded to both of us and sauntered out of the room, leaving the door wide open. Laura stormed across the room and slammed it with a resounding bang. I smiled to myself. Sophisticated she might be, but she was also transparent, even to one as inexperienced as I was. I couldn’t resist making a few sly thrusts as she finished drying off and dressed for lunch.

  “What a friendly man,” I remarked.

  “Friendly! The man’s an oaf!”

  “I found him quite amiable. Attractive, too.”

  “Attractive! He’s as big as a grizzly bear. He’s got to be at least six five, and those shoulders—they’re as wide as—”

  “You noticed,” I said. “He’s big, but he’s magnificently proportioned, like—like a statue of Hercules I once saw in a picture book. He has wonderful hair, like sunshine blazing on a field of wavy brown wheat, and those eyes are a lovely clear gray.”

  Laura pulled on her ruffled white cotton petticoat. “He does have rather nice eyes,” she admitted, “but they’re entirely too fresh. Did you see the way he was looking at me?”

  “I saw,” I said. “I loved his voice.”

  “I can just imagine him playing Porthos with that lazy, burr-filled Texas drawl.”

  “He’s the leading man,” I reminded her. “He’ll undoubtedly be playing d’Artagnan.”

  “And Milady Carmelita will undoubtedly be crawling all over him. She has the libido of a Pekingese in heat. It’ll take her no time at all to appropriate the new leading man.”

  “Why should you care?” I asked.

  “Me? I couldn’t care less. She’s welcome to him.”

  I smiled. She saw it. It didn’t improve her mood one bit.

  Laura was still in an irritable mood when we went downstairs. Wearing a lovely blue linen frock, black waves tumbling in a rich cascade, she had a visible chip on her shoulder and snapped at Billy when he greeted us in the foyer. She led me into a large parlor with a profusion of potted plants, dusty purple velvet drapes and a large gray rug with green and purple floral patterns. An elderly, distinguished-looking man with a long, oval face and silvery hair sat on a plush purple sofa, a large brown standard-size poodle sitting beside him. The man was perusing a volume of Shakespeare. The poodle was gazing contentedly into space. A stocky man in a loud checked suit stood at the window, holding the drape back and staring morosely out at the rain. All three looked up as we entered. The poodle wagged his fluffy ball of tail. The silvery-haired gentleman put down his book and stood up, smiling benignly.

  “Laura, my dear,” he said in dulcet tones, “so pleased to see you back. And this must be Miss O’Malley, the new ingenue Jason was telling us about. I am Bartholomew Hendrics, child. Delighted to meet you.”

  “I’m delighted to meet you, too.”

  “What’s this about you and Adele?” Laura asked. “I hear you caused her to hand in her apron.”

  “The girl viciously maligned me,” he protested. “There’s not a word of truth in anything she said. Would I do something like that?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me at all, love,” she told him.

  The man in the loud checked suit made a disgruntled noise, let the purple drape fall back in place and came over to greet me. He had a battered, belligerent face that reminded me of a bulldog’s. His small black eyes were full of perpetual suspicion. He smelled of cigar smoke and cheap hair oil. He sized me up, scowled and then took my hand, pumping it vigorously but with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

  “I’m Jackson,” he growled. “Advance man, assistant manager, you name it, I get it done. Jason was right. You are gorgeous, too bloody gorgeous for an ingenue. Carmelita’s not going to like it a bit. You’re gonna make her look like hash. Jason says you were appearing at the Court Theater in New Orleans. I thought I knew all the theaters in the city. Never heard of the Court.”

  “It’s new,” I replied.

  “You’re gorgeous, I grant that, but can you act?”

  “I’ve never had any complaints,” I said truthfully.

  “We’ll see,” he told me.

  Jackson didn’t intimidate me at all. I saw through him immediately. Besieged by problems, burdened by tremendous responsibilities, and no doubt constantly put upon by the demanding, temperamental members of the troupe, he had, I suspected, assumed the gruff, disgruntled manner as protective armor. I had the curious feeling that we were going to b
e friends, and I smiled at him. He scowled, thrust his hands into his pockets and stalked back over to the window to glare out at the rain. I’m going to win you over, Mr. Jackson, I vowed. Just you wait and see.

  “And we mustn’t forget Theodore,” Bartholomew Hendrics said. “Say hello to Miss O’Malley, Theodore.”

  Theodore wagged his tail, gave two barks, one high, one low—it really did sound like a canine hello, I thought—then leaped from the sofa, squatted in front of me and raised one neatly clipped brown paw. I shook it solemnly. Bartholomew looked enchanted. Theodore looked expectant. Bartholomew told me he expected a cookie. I said I’d try to have one for him next time. Jackson snorted. Laura casually asked where the new leading man was.

  “He hasn’t come down yet,” Bartholomew said. “He’s a frightfully intelligent chap. We were discussing Macbeth earlier on. He knows the play backwards and forward. Seems he read a lot of Shakespeare when he was out there on the plains.”

  “I’m surprised he knows how to read,” Laura said acidly.

  “He’s quite good, Laura. I saw him when he was with Bradshaw’s company. They were doing She Stoops to Conquer, and he was playing Marlow. He has tremendous stage presence and a remarkably effective technique. I was delighted when Jason said he was going to become part of our little troupe. We’re lucky to have him.”

  “I’m starving,” Laura said. “Let’s adjourn to the dining room.”

  I followed her into the foyer, Bartholomew and Jackson and Theodore close behind. Jason Donovan had just come downstairs. He had brushed his hair and changed into gray breeches and frock coat and a black silk waistcoat and would have looked almost respectable had it not been for his dark red neckcloth. He was with a short, enormously fat woman with sharp brown eyes and yellow curls, her girth covered by a long, tentlike garment of lime-green linen. Seeing me with Laura, she gave an exclamation of delight.

  “Exquisite!” she cried. “Absolutely exquisite! That glorious coloring! That divine body! It’s going to be sheer enchantment dressing her. You realize, Jason, that none of Maisie’s costumes will even begin to fit her, and the colors would be wrong anyway. We’ll have to start from scratch, new patterns, new materials—and only three weeks. I do adore a challenge!”

  “Jesus,” Jason groaned. “What’s it going to cost us?”

  “Plenty,” she said as she marched over to me. “I’m Dulcie, sugar. Jason told me we had a new ingenue, but I had no idea you’d be such a treat. You and I must get together right after lunch to discuss costumes—I’ll have to take measurements as well. I see you in pink for Cora, very pale pink, a layer of tulle over satin, perhaps, embroidered with delicate white flowers. And for Evelina—”

  “Later, Dulcie!” Jason snapped.

  Dulcie gave me an enormous hug and told me how pleased she was to have me with the company. Overwhelmed by her effusion, I thanked her and told her Laura had said several nice things about her. Billy Barton came tearing into the foyer, blond wave flopping, brown eyes snapping, face white with outrage. He raised one fist in the air and began to wave it.

  “Do you know what that bloody woman has done? She’s burned the cabbage! And the corned beef’s so tough Theodore wouldn’t even touch it. Know what she plans to serve for lunch? Ham? Last night’s ham!”

  “Out of the question,” Ollie said, coming down the stairs on the arm of Michael Prichard. “I don’t know what she did to it, but that ham was so salty, I almost died from indigestion. You’ll have to do something, Jason. I have a delicate stomach, as you very well know, and I refuse to eat any more of her ham.”

  “Theodore can’t eat ham, either,” Bartholomew put in. “Ham isn’t good for him, particularly Birdie’s ham.”

  “Hello there,” Michael Prichard said, sidling up to Laura.

  “Get stuffed,” she told him.

  The front door burst open. A very grand woman in a very damp gray satin gown and long pink velvet gloves stalked furiously into the foyer, followed by a black-clad cabbie who held a huge black umbrella over her. A very wide gray hat with now limp pink ostrich plumes was slanted atop her glossy blond coiffure. She took us all in with one blazing blue glare and then focused her attention on Jason Donovan. He turned pale. Carmelita Herring, I thought. It couldn’t be anyone else.

  “You son of a bitch!” she shrilled. “Why didn’t you meet the train!”

  “I thought—Jesus, Carmelita, I didn’t think you were due to arrive until four-thirty.”

  “That was my original schedule. I wrote and told you I was going to take an earlier train that arrived at eleven-thirty. Sharp. I arrive at the station and there’s no one to meet me and I have to find a carriage myself in the pouring rain and those bastards lost one of my bags and—”

  “Have that man close the umbrella, Carmelita,” Bartholomew said. “You know it’s bad luck to have an open umbrella inside the—”

  “Go to hell!” she shouted. “I’ve had just about enough, Jason! I’m an artist and I expect to be treated like one! It’s bad enough having to stay in this god-awful dump because you’re too cheap to put us in decent lodgings, but if you expect me to—” She paused, fuming, looking as though she were planning a particularly gruesome murder. “I won’t stand it!”she shrilled. “Do you understand me! I won’t stand it!”

  Theodore started barking. Ollie raised her eyes heavenward. Bertha lumbered in to announce that lunch was served. Laura caught my eye.

  “Welcome to the theater, love,” she said.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I WAS NUMB WITH TERROR and knew I would never be able to go through with it. I was going to be violently ill, I could feel it coming on, and I wouldn’t remember a single line and I would make an absolute idiot of myself and disgrace the entire company and it would be much better if I just slipped out of the theater right now. I hated to leave them in the lurch, particularly since everyone but Jason and Carmelita had been so kind to me, making me feel a part of it all and making me feel important, a member of the family. Jason hadn’t really been unkind, just snappish and distracted, and Carmelita was bitchy to everyone. Ollie and Laura had worked with me until I was ready to drop, and I hadn’t really been that bad in company rehearsals. Billy and Bart had been very supportive, helping me through the scenes, giving me advice and showing me little tricks to make my performance more effective. Michael had been a dream, like a teasing, affectionate older brother, constantly encouraging me. They were all in on my secret and thought it was a lark, pulling the wool over Jason’s eyes. Carmelita didn’t know, of course, nor did Jason, and Dulcie couldn’t have cared less as long as the costumes were right and “moved” onstage.

  We had left Memphis three days ago and arrived in this little town in Alabama whose name I had already forgotten in the confusion, and yesterday had been spent blocking everything out on the stage of this rickety, dusty theater, and I had felt the terror coming on then. Jason had been in a fury because the crew hadn’t arrived on time and the set hadn’t been ready and one of the painted canvas backdrops had been damaged in transit. Confusion reigned. Tempers flared. Nerves were on edge. Carmelita threw a fit. Laura and Michael got into a loud shouting match. Ollie was testy and out of sorts. Billy was more interested in the girls who had been following him about ever since we arrived than in doing his job and threw away all his lines during rehearsal. Bartholomew was upset because Theodore had turned down his food, and Dulcie still wasn’t completely satisfied with the fit of my pink ball gown and kept dragging me away whenever I wasn’t actually onstage in order to make yet another adjustment. Somehow we managed to get through the block-out and, late last night, the dress rehearsal, and now—I glanced at the clock—in forty-seven minutes they expected me to step out onstage as Cora and fend off the advances of the wicked Hugh Northcliff, and I couldn’t do it.

  The play had already started. Even as I sat here in this cramped and dingy dressing room staring stony-eyed at my reflection in the mirror, Michael as the widowed Lord Roderick was wooing C
armelita as the poor but aristocratic Angela Hampton and telling her that his pure young daughter Cora would be leaving the convent and returning in time for the engagement ball, even as, unbeknownst to either, Billy as the wicked Hugh Northcliff was plotting with Laura as femme fatale Lorena to kidnap Cora the night of the ball and hold her in hiding until Lord Roderick handed over the priceless Manners-Croft rubies which had once belonged to Good Queen Bess. Thank God I didn’t appear in the first act. I wondered what they would do when the curtain came up on Act Two and the lovely and virginal Cora didn’t wander into the antechamber where Hugh was lurking. Cora would already be on her way back to the hotel to pack her bags and head for the train station as fast as her feet would carry her.

  The dressing room door opened. Laura came in, looking very exotic in dark brown velvet and blue egret feathers. Her face was heavily made-up, eye shadow and black liner and dark lip rouge giving her a look of wicked sensuality suitable for the scheming Lorena.

  “My word, love!” she exclaimed. “Act One is almost over and you haven’t even put on your ball gown.”

  “I’m not putting it on,” I informed her. “I’m not going on tonight. I’m sick. I’m going to throw up any minute now. I’ve forgotten every single line. I’m leaving. I’m leaving the company. I’m leaving town. If I’m lucky, I can still get that job in St. Louis.”

  Laura wasn’t at all alarmed. She plucked the arrangement of egret feathers from her head and removed the fake sapphire jewelry that adorned her wrists and throat.

  “Nonsense,” she said. “You’re going on and you’re going to be fine. You were wonderful in rehearsal.”

  “I was awful. Everyone said so.”

  “Carmelita is the only one who said so, and she’s a rotten bitch scared to death you’re going to steal her thunder. Michael said you have a natural flair for acting.”

  “You two are speaking again?”

  “Barely. And Ollie said you were the best student she’d ever had. You’re just experiencing first-night nerves, love. All of us do. I played Cora when I first joined the company, as you know, and you’re much better than I ever was. It’s hard to believe I was ever an ingenue,” she added wistfully.