To set off my own fine new jewelry from Roderick I had chosen a gown of slipper satin in a creamy, pearly color warmed by the tiniest hint of blush. It was adorned with a gauzy tulle overskirt as insubstantial as a morning mist, and antique ivory netted lace softened the low neckline, which extended off my shoulders into tiny puffed sleeves. An angelic creation one might have thought it, were it not for that revealing neckline and the daring way the bodice hugged my body down past my waist, showing the shape of my abdomen.
I could see the exact moment when Roderick, though still across the room, noticed the dress. It rocked him back on his heels like a blow to the solar plexus... although, I hoped, in a more enjoyable way.
A different kind of disturbance in the crowd was making itself felt around a newcomer. Some of the ladies and gentlemen fell silent and made a point of putting distance between themselves and the new arrival, while others rushed in to fill the void and shake his hand or greet him with an almost fawning attention. It did not greatly surprise me to find that the new arrival was Monsieur Fournier.
Even in fine evening clothes he looked as undistinguished as a butcher, but he thrust his chest and belly out with the pride of an archduke. To my dismay, his eye lit upon me and he waded through his supplicants to my side.
“A fine performance, was it not, Mademoiselle Ingram?” he said to me in his braying voice. He was beaming with self-satisfaction as if this were due to him. “Very gratifying to see my little play turn out so well.”
“Your play?”
“I think I can call it that, since it was my money that bankrolled it. Ivey deserves some credit, of course, but I’m the party who made it all possible.”
“I suppose that’s one way to look at it.” Perhaps if I froze him out the man would leave me alone.
“The only way! But how lovely you are in that dress. Just like a bride.” Then he laughed loudly. “You do not look the slightest bit pleased to hear that, mademoiselle. Have I struck a nerve? Don’t tell me the dashing Monsieur Brooke is dragging his feet about wedding you.”
“I’m not sure where you got that idea,” I said, on the point of stalking off. But then I realized how much wiser it would be to arrange an assignation now rather than sending him a note tomorrow. Better to have as little as possible put on paper, just in case. I let myself look agitated and touched his sleeve. “There is something troubling me, Monsieur Fournier,” I whispered. “I believe you may be able to help me. Can I speak to you privately? Not tonight—it is too hectic—but perhaps tomorrow? It is terribly important.”
His expression was equal parts intrigued and self-satisfied. “Never let it be said that I turned down so charming a lady,” he proclaimed. “Name the place and time, and I am at your service, ma chérie.”
The endearment nauseated me. “Tomorrow, then? Half an hour before sunset, at the Bois de Vincennes?” This park was sufficiently remote that it should keep him well out of Julia’s way and mine for as long as it took him to realize that he had been stood up.
“Ah! Shall we rendezvous at the Temple of Love?” His lewd smile reflected his anticipation of all manner of indecent things in the park’s inconveniently named temple, and it took great fortitude for me not to shudder. It had been a long time since I had been forced to endure such lascivious looks without the power to put a stop to them, and being in that position again was a truly sickening experience. But it reminded me why I was there: to help Julia escape from just such a position of powerlessness.
“I look forward to it,” I lied.
“As do I, mademoiselle. As do I.” Then his manner became brisk and patronizing. “Now I’m afraid I mustn’t let you detain me any longer, as charming as you are, mademoiselle. I must speak to that dolt Ivey before he evades me again.”
I certainly had no intention of detaining him further, but before I could say so, Julia’s clear voice rang out: “Sybil, chérie! Is Monsieur Fournier distressing you?” Heads turned as she strode up to us and addressed him in a stage whisper. “Really, monsieur, it is too much! Must you torment her in this way?”
The room had quieted, and everyone seemed to be watching the three of us. Monsieur Fournier’s eyes dwelled coldly on Julia. “You’re an impertinent one to speak to me thus,” he said, likewise lowering his voice to a whisper. “There is a certain matter that you have yet to settle with me, and I think I have been more than patient.”
She regarded him with equal coolness. “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “Tomorrow night after the performance I’ll come to your home to discuss it.”
The eagerness that lit up his face might have been endearing had it not been so sordid a matter under discussion. “Excellent!” he said, and rubbed his hands together. “I shall be counting the minutes until then.”
“Of course you will, you bloated cretin,” she said under her breath after he had bowed and left us. “How I should love to see his face when he is stood up by both of us in the same evening!”
I shivered as a rogue draft touched my bare shoulders. “I shall be so glad when this is all over with.”
She shook her head. “You have no spirit of adventure, chérie.”
I did not reply. I was watching Fournier as he approached Helaine, bowed, and addressed her. From where Julia and I stood I could not hear his voice, but I could tell he was introducing himself. Gracious lady that she was, I saw her nod and give him her hand, then return a few words of her own. After that, judging by his gesturing, he took over the conversation. Helaine’s eyes took on a faraway look.
But no, she was not just staring into space. She was looking at a gas bracket on the wall just past him, where a flame was rising out of the frosted glass shade. For a moment I thought something was wrong with the gas and causing the flame to burn far too high, but then I realized it was something much stranger.
The flame detached itself from the gas lamp and floated up to hover over it.
It was just a scrap, no bigger than a two-shilling piece, but it was living flame: even from here I could see its brilliant yellow flicker in the air.
Then it moved.
Sideways, slowly, it drifted through the air, as calmly as if someone had lighted an unseen match or spill and was conveying it to light something. And then it descended to alight on the shoulder of Fournier’s evening coat.
I looked at Helaine to see if she had observed this. Her face was pale and her eyes transfixed on the little flame as it burned away on Fournier’s shoulder. A little wisp of smoke curled upward.
No one else seemed to be aware of what was unfolding. “Do you see that?” I began to ask Julia, only to find that she had left my side.
Now Helaine was pointing at the flame, clearly warning Fournier. He gave a start and made an ineffectual dab at it, then another, evidently wary of burning his glove.
At last others had noticed what was happening. The murmur of conversation rose in volume. “Don’t fan it, man,” one gentleman exclaimed. “You’re making it worse!” Another man had the presence of mind to tear off his own evening coat and smother the flame. Moments later, only the smell of smoke and a singed hole in Fournier’s coat remained as evidence of the alarming incident.
Had Helaine seen exactly what I had—the way a little flame, against all natural laws, had conveyed itself through the air to Fournier? Or had I badly misconstrued what had happened? Unease gripped me at the thought of more supernatural presences in this theater. But Helaine had made her escape while Fournier was distracted, wise woman, and was nowhere to be seen, so I could not question her.
Roderick, too, had seized the opportunity to extricate himself from a conversation, and now he joined me. “Let’s find a place where we can be alone,” he said, taking my hand.
“Did you see what happened just before Fournier’s coat caught fire?”
“No, and I confess I don’t care. He is not a subject I wish to dwell upon tonight.” He drew me into a shadowy niche half hidden by potted palms, and his voice took on an intimate tone when he
said, “We have far more delightful topics to discuss.”
Granted, conversation did not seem to be his top priority. All I managed to say was “You were magnifi—” before he kissed me, and then kiss followed luscious kiss until I could not have given my own name with certainty.
At length he drew apart enough to say, “You look exquisite in that gown. Like Venus clad in nothing but seafoam.”
Relief made me smile. That was the sort of reaction I had hoped for from him, but Fournier’s comment that it looked like a bridal gown had thrown me into confusion. “I’m glad you like it,” I said, nestling into his arms. How glorious it felt to be hidden away from the rest of the world together.
“What are you thinking?” he murmured presently. A ringlet had escaped from my elaborate hairstyle, and he was winding it around one index finger.
“Things that a lady is not supposed to say.”
He grinned. “But you aren’t a lady, are you, Miss Ingram? You’re an actress. A brazen hussy who flaunts herself before men.”
“Now you sound like Mrs. Vise.”
“Ugh,” he said, pulling a face that made me laugh. “That was certainly not my intention.”
“I rather spoiled the atmosphere you were trying to create, didn’t I?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Well, I suppose the least I can do by way of making amends is to answer your question and tell you what I was thinking.” Slipping my arms around his neck, I drew him close to whisper in his ear.
When I finally released him, his expression was stunned. “Sweet heaven, woman,” he said, and even in the dim light I could have sworn his face was flushed. “How long have you been harboring such thoughts in that saucy head of yours?”
“Ever since I met you, of course,” I told him. “You began leading me onto the primrose path within five minutes of bursting into Brooke House, or don’t you recall?”
He chuckled in a way that would have made a proper, respectable maiden take to her heels. Fortunately no such creature was present. “I recall you were not easily led,” he said in his silkiest voice. “But as we both know, I do not give up easily.”
“You needn’t sound so pleased with yourself, my fine fellow. At the start you were far more interested in getting under my skin than under my skirts.”
“The two are hardly mutually exclusive.” He kissed me again, then squeezed me in a quick, ecstatic embrace. “Just think—after tomorrow night, our obligation will be done and we can depart. We will be our own masters once again, at no one’s beck and call, and can spend as much time as we desire together.” His face was boyish with a lighthearted happiness I had not seen since we had arrived in Paris. If there had been room in our little alcove I think he would have picked me up and whirled me about.
It was glorious to know that in just twenty-four hours we would be able to continue with our lives, free of Fournier and Julia both! Seeing him this happy made the prospect doubly exhilarating. “I’d rather like to see some of the countryside before autumn is over,” I ventured. “Do you think we could?”
“Of course! And the winter? Shall we spend it with the professor, in Florence? He spoke of going to Italy until the spring.”
But the happy affirmative on the tip of my tongue went unspoken, for at that instant the urgent, whispered tones of Kenton Ivey came to our ears.
“I beg you, Fournier, don’t involve me in your insanity. This could ruin the both of us!”
All the laughter left Roderick’s face, and we looked at each other in silent concern. Rapid footsteps stopped just outside the palms that screened our shadowy nook, and then Fournier’s voice spoke.
“Don’t be so dramatic, Ivey. You agreed to the terms. What makes you think you can back out now?”
“Damn you. You shall drive me to desperate measures!” The kind, gentlemanly actor I knew was almost unrecognizable from these ragged, hoarse words.
There was a braying laugh, then the sound of a scuffle. Roderick took a step toward the alcove entrance, ready to intervene, but then there came the sound of a slap, then silence.
When Fournier spoke again, his voice was harsh with what might have been fear. “No more shilly-shallying, Ivey. You’ll sign by tomorrow night, or you’ll wish you’d never been born.”
It was shock as much as intention, I believe, that kept Roderick and me silent until our ears told us both men had departed. When all was quiet again we crept out of our hiding place, all our happy thoughts evaporated.
“If it’s money, we can help Kenton, can’t we?” I asked once I was certain we would not be overheard.
But Roderick shook his head with a perplexed quirk of his dark eyebrows. “Something more is going on. I took him aside days ago to find out if I could help him extricate himself from this business with Fournier, but he said it was more complicated than a simple financial arrangement. He was very firm in refusing to tell me more—in a most polite way, of course.”
“I wonder if he was telling the truth,” I mused. “He might have made it up just to avoid the embarrassment of discussing financial matters.”
“I suppose so, but that wasn’t the impression he gave.”
We discussed the matter further, but to no avail. We simply had too little information. Finally he took my arm.
“Come, let’s collect your wrap and go home. We can discuss this further in comfort over a liqueur, or I can regale you with anecdotes from my performance tonight, or—”
“Or I can retire early, since tomorrow is my big debut.”
He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Not my preference, but I suppose I can survive parting from you for the night.”
I stretched up to brush my lips against his cheek. “Just think of all the nights ahead when we won’t be parted.”
He considered. “At that,” he said, “I suppose I had better sleep while I have the chance.”
Chapter Eleven
I arrived at the theater the next afternoon full of excitement and purpose. Julia’s maid got a surprise when she entered to find me, rather than her mistress, at the dressing table applying makeup.
“Mademoiselle Julia, est-elle malade?” she asked uncertainly.
“Yes, I’m afraid she’s ill,” I answered, since this was the agreed-upon fiction. “I’ll be taking her place tonight. Would you mind helping me with her wig and costume?”
“Not at all, mademoiselle,” she answered automatically, sizing me up and making note of where my dimensions differed from her mistress’s, or so I conjectured when she left briefly and returned with a pair of bust improvers to fill out the bodice of Julia’s first costume.
Hortense, for that was the girl’s name, was efficient and clever with her hands, helping me tuck my blonde locks under the dark wig and pinning the costume to better fit me. When I told her I was trying to look as much as possible like Julia, she threw herself thoroughly into the spirit of the thing, helping me assess whether I had reshaped my lips accurately with rouge to more closely resemble Julia’s, even producing a bottle of the spicy carnation perfume she wore. By the time Kenton called a cast meeting in the green room, I was as ready as it was possible to be.
The strange incident of the traveling flame had worried me at first. Perhaps it had been an omen. Had I awakened something in the theater with that brief séance? But I pushed the anxiety to the back of my mind. I could investigate later, if I needed to, but for tonight my priority was my performance.
“I’m afraid I have unhappy news,” the manager told the assembled group after everyone had filed into the green room. He was already in costume and makeup, and his grotesquely wicked painted face was out of kilter with his gentle voice. “It seems that Julia has taken ill unexpectedly—”
There were mutterings of both surprise and skepticism, but the manager continued.
“—but fortunately Miss Sybil Ingram has graciously consented to play her role tonight.”
Heads swiveled toward me, and Marianne’s eyes widened in outrage.
“Why does she get to go on instead of me? I am the understudy! If anyone is to get the credit for playing the role, I should.”
“I am not receiving any credit,” I hastened to say. “Please just act as if I am Julia. This isn’t a publicity stunt or a stratagem or whatever you fear it is, Marianne. I am simply here to do Julia a favor and to make sure the play proceeds tonight as if nothing has changed.”
“And you will be doing all of us a favor, Marianne,” said Kenton with unusual asperity, “if you will set your own ambition aside for once and cooperate. There’s no reason to feel threatened by Miss Ingram, and I’ll thank you to help her through tonight’s performance instead of making yourself an obstacle. Do I make myself clear?”
She blinked, opened her mouth, then closed it, then said meekly, “Yes, Mr. Ivey.”
“Good.” He directed a steely look at everyone within view and raised his voice so that there was no chance of going unheard. “Now I have a warning for all of you. It is vital for this substitution to be kept absolutely secret. Anyone who says a word about Sybil’s playing Julia’s role tonight will lose their position and never work with me again. That is all.”
Startled whisperings greeted this harsh dictum, but in the face of such uncharacteristic sternness no one dared to question him. With expressive glances to each other, the actors dispersed to make final preparations or take their places.
As I took my own place in the wings and listened to the audience file in I felt the thrill of preparing to go onstage—a familiar sensation, but no less exciting for it. Part of the thrill was the vulnerability, knowing I was not in complete control of how things would unfold, and tonight everything would be even more of a challenge since I was performing in a language not my own. Yet whenever an actress took the stage, every night and every moment were made new, as she worked together with her castmates to make these characters and their story come to life, while at any moment something could throw everything off, so that in full sight of hundreds or thousands of people she might have to improvise, to try to set things back on course. It was a little alarming, but that was part of the excitement.
The Last Serenade (Sybil Ingram Victorian Mysteries Book 2) Page 15
