Tonight the separation was even harder. For as soon as I was alone in my room I could not help seeing again all of Julia’s seductive techniques: how she had leaned toward him over the table, her arms framing her bosom; how she had dimpled at him, caressed his sleeve. And from there I found myself picturing the two of them as they once had been—passionately in love. Imagining how Roderick had kissed her and held her; how his hands, so deft with violin and bow, might have been clumsy with impatience as he undressed her. And then what followed...
After an hour of tossing restlessly in my elaborate bed, I realized that if I did not learn how to control my imagination—and my longing—I might soon be forced to take a sleeping draught. And I certainly did not want to resort to anything that carried the risk of dulling my mind, for I sensed I would need my wits sharp when Julia was near.
The next night Roderick and I attended the final performance of Le Sommet de la Montagne, or The Mountain’s Peak, at the Théâtre Caprice.
Like so much of Paris, the elaborate neoclassical facade of the building had been repaired so skillfully that it was impossible to believe it had suffered damage during the war. Inside, all was red plush and gilt—a great deal of gilt. Magnificent crystal chandeliers illuminated the orchestra and the four tiers of balconies, although the gaslight was dimmed in the audience for the climax of the play, the better to focus all eyes on the spectacle at the heart of the entertainment: a mountain avalanche so realistic and thrilling that I was as dazzled as I had been when a girl of fifteen seeing my first play.
When the hero had rescued the heroine (Julia) from death and the villain had plummeted over the side of the mountain, the orchestra played its final chord and the lights were brought up in the audience as the actors took their bows. I applauded so loudly that my palms burned beneath my kid gloves. I had tears in my eyes when I turned to Roderick and exclaimed in delight, “Isn’t it amazing?”
“Yes,” he said softly. “Amazing.” But his eyes were on me and not the stage.
“I hadn’t realized how much I’ve missed it.” I groped for my handkerchief and applied it to my eyes.
Fortunately I was able to compose myself before Roderick and I encountered Kenton Ivey and Julia, and I managed to make more conventional compliments to the actor-manager.
“I am truly flattered that you think so well of my efforts,” he said in a deep, resonant voice, one that had been trained to reach the far wall of the largest theaters. He bowed and took my offered hand. “Allow me to welcome you to Théâtre Caprice, Miss Ingram, and may I say what an admirer I am.”
“The feeling is mutual,” I said, for I had seen this man act. It had been many years ago, before his long, bony face had grown quite so mournful, and before his brown hair had receded so much from his high brow, but I still recognized the actor who had given such an impressive performance as Richard III.
“And you must be Mr. Brooke, of whom I’ve heard so much. This is a pleasure, sir!” Mr. Ivey gripped Roderick’s hand strongly. Though thin and wiry, and probably nearing sixty years old, the actor did not seem to lack energy. “I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up a playbill on Julia’s advice. How does this suit you?”
With a theatrical flourish he produced a roll of paper. The three of us gathered closer as Mr. Ivey slowly unrolled the paper, deliberately drawing out the suspense until its contents were fully revealed. It read: “EXCLUSIVE ENGAGEMENT / THRILLING REUNION / RORY BROOKE & JULIA DE LIONCOURT / DUO THAT TOOK EUROPE BY STORM / TOGETHER AGAIN / ONLY AT THÉTRE CAPRICE!”
“Absolutely not,” said Roderick at once. “This is no reunion.”
“Ah, indeed? I was under the impression... that is, I gathered from Julia...”
“You must have misunderstood me, Ivey,” Julia said, and I knew at once that he had not. This was part of Julia’s plan, which I had scuttled by coming to Paris with Roderick. “I may have said I would have liked there to be such a reunion engagement, but clearly that is impossible with the presence of Roderick’s delightful fiancée.”
This gave me a most uncomfortable feeling. It seemed but half a step removed from wondering aloud, “Will no one rid me of this troublesome actress?” and I could almost envision assassins rushing to oblige Julia by removing this obstacle from her path.
Roderick drew my hand through his arm, as if to demonstrate that he and I were not to be parted. “Without Sybil, I might never have returned to the violin. So you see, far from being an inconvenience to you—don’t bother to deny it, Julia, we all took your meaning—she is the one who has made it possible for me to be here at all.”
“A double blessing, then,” Mr. Ivey proclaimed, bowing to me. “Would the two of you care for a tour of what will soon become your second home?”
“That would be lovely,” I said, and Roderick professed himself eager to test the acoustics, so the four of us ventured backstage.
Even after having spent half my life in the theater, I still found it thrilling to step into this world on the other side of the proscenium. All was busy with activity, with roughly dressed stagehands pushing and pulling at balky wheeled flats, others working at pulleys to raise the backdrop, while machines rumbled beneath their feet to lower other bits of scenery through grooves in the stage, and everyone was shouting at each other, it seemed. Mr. Ivey showed us the mechanism by which the avalanche effect was created and how carefully the papier-mâché boulders had been fitted into the giant frame, to be loosed at carefully timed intervals when a stagehand on a ladder sprang a series of catches and levers. A small, balding man was sweeping up the false snow that had been shaken over the actors in the final scene.
“I shall show Sybil our dressing room,” Julia announced.
“And I shall speak to the conductor.” Roderick sidestepped the activity and leaped lightly down from the narrow apron into the orchestra pit.
Mr. Ivey was prevented from accompanying any of us when an actor seized upon him with questions about the new play. Julia ushered me down a narrow corridor and into a little room lighted brightly by gas brackets and smelling of cold cream, powder, and her spicy carnation perfume. A young woman in a plain blue dress was tidying there, and at the sound of our entrance she turned quickly and curtseyed.
“How very formal,” I almost said, but Julia fixed the girl with a look and said curtly, “Sortes. Get out.”
“Oui, mademoiselle.” With a look of fear, the girl seized her broom and fled.
“I don’t like servants spying on me,” Julia said, languidly stretching out on a divan and waving me to the only other seat—the dressing-table stool. The dressing room was not dissimilar to the one that had been my refuge during my last few years in England, only Julia’s taste ran to jewel tones of ruby and amethyst for the décor, and paintings instead of engravings. One of them was a nude reclining in much the same posture in which she now lounged on the divan, which made me wonder if it was a portrait of her, and the artist another of her lovers.
Then I scolded myself for such a suspicion. It was perfectly innocent for a woman to have her portrait painted; it did not necessarily mean that she and the artist were on more intimate terms. But placing it in her dressing room certainly sent one’s mind along a certain path, and I wondered if that was the point. Perhaps she had chased the maid away because she sometimes held assignations here and didn’t want the girl to get into the habit of lingering.
While my mind was following this interesting if no doubt reprehensible train of thought, she continued. “Well, as you can see, it isn’t much, but at least it’s warm. The steam heating makes it almost endurable, which is more than can be said for the rest of Paris in winter.”
Was this her motive for drawing me apart from the others—to discourage me from staying in Paris? She no longer seemed interested in charming me, but on the other hand she was not being hostile. Whatever her scheme, I had my own reasons for wanting a chance to speak to her in private.
“Last night, at the Jardin Mabille,” I began, “what you said
to Roderick disturbed me.”
“When I spoke of his killing Fournier?” she asked idly, examining her fingernails. “I suppose it was shocking to say it aloud, but living he is no use to anyone.”
That was not at all what I had wanted to talk about, but I could not help but be sidelined from my purpose by such a statement and the lack of emotion that accompanied it. “It astonishes me that you can speak so calmly about taking a man’s life,” I exclaimed. “You can’t truly mean you wish for Roderick to kill him.”
She gave an offhand shrug. “He has killed for me before. But then, that did not work quite as I had envisioned.”
Curiosity forced me to delve further, though I wasn’t certain I wanted to hear her answer. “How did you plan for things to happen, then? Did you intend to marry Roderick?”
She burst into laughter. It was the most animation she had displayed that evening. “Nom de dieu, of course not! Marriage ceased to be convenient for me many years ago. I had no desire to run from one trap into another. Still, I did not know that he would take it as hard as he did... that it would be the end of our delightful friendship.”
Friendship, she called it. I steeled myself for more of her mirth and said firmly, “That is what I wanted to talk about. I hope—that is, I would prefer it if you stopped trying to seduce Roderick.”
She regarded me with perplexity. “Perhaps these things are different in England,” she said, “but I don’t see how that is your business. It concerns only Roderick and me.”
The blatant absurdity of that made me blink. “Roderick and I are to be married, so what affects him naturally affects me. And he did tell you that he isn’t interested in resuming your liaison.”
She waved that away with a graceful flourish. “Like men, I never take the first no seriously,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Pretending he is uninterested is part of the gentlemanly role he is playing.”
“I assure you, Roderick is not a person to say one thing and mean another.”
“It seems clear to me that the only reason he did refuse me is because you were present.” Her brow was knitted in gentle puzzlement. “Why do you object? You aren’t his bedfellow, so barring him from feminine company until you’re married is rather selfish. Why are you playing the—what do you call it—the dog in the manger?”
I opened my mouth and then shut it again. Trying to find a line of reasoning that Julia would understand or respect was proving a greater challenge than I had expected. To me it was blazingly obvious—yet that seemed to make it more difficult to articulate instead of less.
She took advantage of my state of confusion to offer more Continental wisdom. “You cannot truly expect a man to stifle his natural urges while you make him wait,” she pointed out. “Men are not like us—they simply must have an outlet for their passions.”
“I haven’t observed him to be falling into a decline,” I said, all the more tartly because of the fear that she might be right. Certainly she had more experience than I did in these matters—but she also seemed to have some biases that I was certain, or nearly certain, Roderick did not share.
“And what about when you are married?” she continued as if she hadn’t heard me. “I hope you don’t expect him to go without a mistress. You may as well accustom yourself to the idea right now. It is simply against nature to demand that he curb his normal appetites.”
“It seems to me that the one who doesn’t want to curb her appetites is you,” I said. Whether all this advice was sincere or an attempt to manipulate me, I was past caring. “Why don’t you find another man and leave Roderick alone? I’m certain any number of unattached men would be more than happy to be your paramour.”
Her eyes glittered darkly, and she smiled a small, private smile. “Roderick is special,” she said softly.
“That is one point upon which we agree. But I’m afraid that from now on you’ll have to content yourself with memories of him.”
She shook her head at me reprovingly. “I think you had better not make pronouncements on his behalf. Roderick is hardly the sort of man to let a woman—any woman—do his talking for him.”
So she thought she could school me in what kind of man Roderick was? The audacity of that notion lent steel to my voice. “I am merely repeating his refusal since you refused to accept it the first time, and because he and I are as one person in this matter. And I bring additional persuasive power to the discussion.” Sitting up even straighter, I lifted my chin and fixed her with the determined expression that my old mentor had christened Britannia Triumphant. “If you want me to cooperate with your scheme to retrieve your letters, you’ll stop throwing yourself at Roderick. Is that clear?”
It was obvious that she was not accustomed to being given orders. Her eyes narrowed, and one delicate eyebrow arched. If she had been a cat, I would have expected her claws to unsheathe themselves. But then the sound of Roderick’s voice in conversation with Mr. Ivey sounded in the corridor, and she seemed to reconsider. Her lips curved, and she gave a little laugh.
“Bien joué, Sybil Ingram,” she said. “Well played. I have your measure now. Roderick is worth fighting for, and I am glad to find you are woman enough to do so.”
Relief coursed through me. I had no idea what I would have done if she had called my bluff, for I was certainly not prepared to withdraw from the plan, for Roderick’s sake.
“That is not the response I anticipated,” I admitted. “You are a surprising person, Julia.”
Before she could reply, the gentlemen knocked, and she gaily bid them, “Entrez!”
Roderick was full of excited energy. “Sybil, are you ready to leave? I’ve so many ideas about music for your songs, and I want to get back home and start to try them out.”
Of course I could not deny him, even had I been inclined for more conversation with Julia. The four of us made our goodnights.
As I clasped Julia’s hand in parting, she drew me near as if to kiss my cheek, but instead she put her lips close to my ear and whispered, “I am every bit as ruthless as you, chérie—so be warned.”
I drew back, startled, and she chuckled at my expression. She did not, however, retract her words, so it was with a distinctly uneasy feeling that I left the theater with Roderick.
Chapter Six
Early the next afternoon—practically the crack of dawn for theatrical folk—saw Roderick and me arriving at Mr. Ivey’s apartment in one of the fine new Haussmann buildings of creamy white stone. Its ground floor was a stable, and as we ascended the common stairway, the sounds of horses whinnying and grooms whistling followed us.
The next floor up, the entresol or mezzanine, was the owners’ quarters. The one above that, which by convention was the finest, was evidently the abode of a very wealthy couple; they were fortunate in having easiest access to the fine garden in the courtyard. Slightly less grand was the next level, which was Mr. Ivey’s. If we had continued to follow the staircase up, it would have led us to successively less fine apartments until the garret level, where servants or students lived.
I found it amusing that the Parisian style of housing was the very opposite of London’s. Parisians lived in layers, as in a cake, able to sprawl out to either side and claim an entire floor for themselves. Londoners, on the other hand, perhaps from some reluctance to share a staircase with their neighbors, lived in tall, narrow houses, so constricted on each side that one wag had claimed them to be the reason that hoop skirts had given way to bustles, saying that such narrow quarters had compressed the circular framework until all skirts’ fullness was at the back. The benefit of such narrow quarters was that antisocial Britons never had to worry about an awkward encounter in a stairwell. On the whole I preferred the French way, as one would not spend all day going up and down steps.
A manservant admitted us into the foyer, where our host greeted us. “Thank you both for coming early,” Mr. Ivey said, shaking Roderick’s hand energetically and mine with a bit more restraint. “Before we are joined by the others, I
thought it best to be certain of our course. Julia has told me of her plan—”
“She has?”
“I don’t wonder that you are surprised, Miss Ingram. The fewer people who know about this planned substitution, the better for her, I should think. But she felt it would be impossible to achieve without my assistance, and I heartily agree.”
I had to admit that it made sense. The man who was responsible for every detail of this production, from actors to script to scenery to orchestra, could hardly remain unaware of someone understudying his lead actress and then taking her place.
Mr. Ivey led us into his study, which was fitted out in handsome oak paneling and thick carpets. Velvet-upholstered chairs had been placed by a low table, where all the accoutrements of tea were assembled. I brightened at this civilized touch. Evidently Mr. Ivey still retained the influence of his native country in more than his language. The manservant returned with a pot of hot water and set about brewing the restoring beverage.
“I imagine it will be difficult to keep Julia’s scheme quiet for long,” Roderick said as we were seated.
“That is my fear as well.” Mr. Ivey’s chair was a bit too low for a man of his height, so that his long legs seemed to sprawl at angles, giving him a slightly comical appearance. “That’s why I felt we should decide on a fiction to explain Miss Ingram’s presence at rehearsals.”
Roderick’s grin was mischievous. “Why, my lovestruck lady will attend so that she can be near me, of course. I can hardly think of a more convincing cover story, can you, my sweet? I know you count every moment lost that isn’t spent in my presence.”
I had not yet had an opportunity to bring up with him last night’s conversation with Julia and the disquieting questions it had sowed in my mind. I knew I needed to discuss them with him to determine whether they had any basis in reality, but for now I had to tell myself to have faith that he and I were on solid footing. Thus, I returned his sally with energy.
The Last Serenade (Sybil Ingram Victorian Mysteries Book 2) Page 7
