Lisa Noeli

by What He Doesnt Know

  The dancer was more full of herself than ever, now that she had a solo, Josephine thought. And what a solo it would be.

  Molly walked away, swinging her hips. The parrot adjusted his position accordingly, stepping a little from side to side. The sight was comical and Jo suppressed a smile.

  Molly stopped at the rocks and looked them over. “These are very plain. They don’t look like rocks at all.”

  “I could send a lad down to the docks to buy coconuts and pineapples,” he suggested. “Brighten things up a bit, that would.”

  “Naow, that won’t do neither. A half-starved castaway can’t be sittin’ on a heap o’ fresh fruit. He’s a desolate, tragical figure.” She popped several nuts at once into her mouth and chewed them noisily. “My love is what saves him. Not pineapples.”

  McNeel walked over to a small, cluttered desk and picked up several pages of foolscap. “Did Newsome change the scene again? Tom just brought these back from the copyist.” He read the first page and flipped it over to the second. “Ah, ye’re right, Molly. It says here that the rocks are barren.” He read on with a frown.

  “Is something the matter?” Josephine inquired.

  “Hugh goes on. And on. The castaway is a symbol of everyman,” McNeel replied. “The rocks are a symbol of his soul, which is encrusted with sin, and the rocks should be encrusted with … oh, no. I’ll need a flock o’ seagulls to get that effect.”

  Jo read over his shoulder. “I have an idea, Mr. McNeel.”

  “Have at, my girl.” He threw the sheets of paper back down on the desk.

  Molly laughed and walked in a circle, with Nippy huddled against her hair. The parrot made soft chuckling noises in her ear until she fed him another nut.

  “Another thing, McNeel. Mr. Shy don’t think I can fly and sing at the same time, and he may be right for once.”

  “Aye.”

  “He said I should concentrate on not crashing into Andy, our castaway, and not anything else. Ye may have to make that wire a little shorter.”

  “We will have to work that out on stage, Molly.”

  She shrugged and moved away, toward the other side of the barnlike room, where Signor Arlecchino was hopping about on a scaffold, painting a green backdrop for The Shepherdess.

  But Molly stopped to talk to the sign painter first, admiring his work. The man’s face turned red from her attentions. “Bloody hell, ye’re ever so talented, Bert. But can ye make my name bigger?” she asked.

  Bert looked over at the prop master.

  “Molly,” said McNeel. His tone held a warning. “Ye are not the star of the show.”

  She pouted. “Andy’s name is bigger than mine. ’Tisn’t fair.”

  “Can it wait a few minutes?”

  “All right.”

  Molly leaned all over the dumbstruck sign painter while McNeel and Jo read through the script once more to make sure they had not missed anything important. They heard her whisper and giggle to Bert. But when did Molly not whisper and giggle?

  Eventually they came over to look at the signboard. It had changed somewhat.

  They saw Molly scurry out the back door with Nippy on her shoulder, awking wildly. Bert hung his head, looking apologetic. All three of them studied the new sign.

  “I am very sorry, sir.” Bert seemed a bit dazed. “I will paint it out and start over.”

  “See that ye do,” was all McNeel said.

  Jo tried not to look at poor Bert, who was no match for the likes of Molly. But she could not help laughing.

  “I admire her brass,” McNeel said. “Nothing scares that girl. She likes to take chances. It is part of the reason she is good on the wire.”

  “Is it very risky?” Jo asked. “We must take every precaution.” She wondered what those might be. Perhaps her brother had gone too far.

  “She learned how from a troupe of trapeze artists. And yes, we will see that she is safe. The wire is strong and she is light.”

  “I suppose that you know what you are doing.”

  “Haven’t had anyone hurt yet. Now, back to these rocks. Ye said ye had an idea.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Very good. Work on the rocks, then, and I’ll paint the waves.” He pointed to two very long pieces of wood, carefully carved to resemble breaking waves. Each end had a heavy iron handle, rather like a meat spit, Jo saw, with which they could be rotated from the wings.

  “Very realistic, they are, when the stagehands get ’em going. Miss Loudermilk says that just looking at artificial waves makes her seasick.”

  “A good thing that she is not in the scene.” Jo stood at the worktable that held the paints and deliberated for a moment. She selected a large, tightly corked jar of white gouache and shook it, uncorked it, and then poured in a dollop of black and a bit of gray.

  She stuck in a narrow piece of scrap wood and twirled it about but did not mix the colors completely. McNeel watched her with interest.

  Jo peered into the jar and appeared to be satisfied. She walked over to the rocks and poured the streaky mixture over the smallest one. “There you have it. Guano.”

  McNeel applauded. “And gorgeous guano it is! Nice work, Miss Shy. Ye may do the same to the rest of the rocks. Then we will figure out a place for Andy to do—what does he do?” He consulted the foolscap sheets again and read aloud. “ ‘The castaway shakes his fist at the indifferent heavens.’ Damn Hugh Newsome and his flights of fancy! Does he want the sky cloudy or clear? And how am I supposed to convey indifference with paint and plaster? I wish he would give clear instructions.”

  Josephine took the script pages and studied them. “ ‘A violent storm arises in the west. The castaway cringes at the sound of thunder.’ ”

  “Oh, well, that is easy. The stagehands shake a monstrous sheet of tin until hell won’t have it, and we make the stage lamps flicker behind a scrim of dark blue silk.”

  “Most ingenious.”

  McNeel grinned. “And it is great fun.”

  Several hours later, the rocks were nearly dry, and Andy, the castaway, had come to see them.

  “I do like what you’ve done with the droppings. Delightfully dismal.” The actor then noted with an approving smile the ladder that McNeel had built into the back of the biggest rock. “Thanks for that, McNeel. They seem a bit flimsy and I should not want to accidentally stick a foot through one.”

  “No,” McNeel said, “ye simply scramble up the ladder and sing. Or shake yer fist. We have just finished the indifferent heavens. Over here.”

  He guided Andy to the huge canvas backdrop hanging from the rafters. A dramatic stormy sky was splashed across it, done in ominous colors with thin streaks of brilliant titanium white for the lightning.

  “Splendid! Molly’s costume will show up beautifully against that,” Andy said.

  Jo, who had been working on it with Ginny Goodchurch, waved the men over. “I am having trouble with the feathers, Mr. McNeel. The glue will not dry and they keep falling off.”

  “Can’t have that,” the prop master said. “You must sew them. Remember, Molly will be flying through the air, swinging to and fro. She can’t look as if she’s molting. Ruins the effect.”

  He touched the costume, which was pinned to a dressmaker’s form, and a handful of feathers fluttered to the floor. “Where is Ginny? She will know how to fix this.”

  “She has gone home for the day,” Jo replied.

  McNeel sighed. “I wish I could. But there is too much to do and too little time. How is Signor Arlecchino coming along with the rustic scenery for The Shepherdess?”

  He turned and looked down toward the end of the workshop, in shadow now that they were working by lamplight.

  “He’s gone too,” Jo said.

  McNeel checked the nearby shelves devoted to supplies. “Blast! Used up nearly all of the paint and the last of the canvas, he has. Come let’s see what he’s done.”

  The little group walked to the other side of the room.

  “That ain’t an
English landscape!” McNeel said, horrified. “It looks like a damned jungle. And is that a tiger?”

  “No one will care,” Andy said hastily.

  “I care,” said McNeel.

  “Are those white creatures supposed to be dogs or bears?” Josephine asked.

  “Bears, I think, very small ones,” Andy said, a hand to his chin. “It is difficult to tell. They are not fierce bears, if that matters.”

  McNeel groaned. “That is definitely a tiger. Just look at those glowing yellow eyes. What was Arlecchino thinking?” The prop master threw up his hands in frustration. “I explained it all twice and even gave him a picture book to work from. He seemed to understand.”

  Jo found the book on the floor in front of the backdrop. “He got the pictures mixed up. Look, there is the tiger. And the polar bears are on the next page, though he made them smaller. He must have been wondering what you were thinking. But it seems that he did the best he could.”

  “For what it’s worth.” McNeel scowled.

  “Are there bears or tigers or dogs in The Shepherdess?” Andy asked.

  “Not a one,” McNeel said. “We will have to start over. But the shopkeepers will not provide more supplies until the bills are paid.”

  “I will see what I can do,” Josephine said quietly.

  Chapter Six

  Breakfast was served; breakfast was eaten. As was their custom before noon, Terence and Josephine hardly spoke to each other. Guilford Street was quiet enough at this hour, and the house seemed to echo with silence.

  He was presently preoccupied with the Times. The only sound in the room was the slow turning of its pages.

  She looked about the peaceful room, noting the way the sun fell upon the light blue wallpaper and how its light crept across the table. She had quite finished her repast and there was nothing else to do. In fifteen minutes, a ray of sunlight had reached the muffins. In another ten, it reached the unfinished tea in her cup.

  Terence turned the pages with excruciating calm. Shattering his composure and upsetting his digestion was the last thing she wanted to do at the moment. He would be deeply unhappy to hear that the exuberant Signor Arlecchino had used up what little canvas and paint were left, especially since Terence was worried about money as it was. Yet she had to inform him.

  “My dear Terence,” she began.

  He looked over the top of the paper at her. “You have never addressed me as ‘dear’ this early in the morning. Whatever is the matter?”

  “Nothing is the matter.” She sighed. “I was merely feeling affectionate, brother dear.”

  Terence put down the paper and gave her a narrow look. “I can count, Jo. That was two dears in quick succession, separated by one heartfelt sigh. You are attempting to butter me up. But I shall not be buttered. What is troubling you?”

  Jo folded her hands in her lap. “Mr. McNeel says that we are running short of supplies to build the sets and make backdrops.”

  Terence opened the Times again. “I know that.”

  “We cannot present a five-hour programme without sets, Terence.”

  “Tell McNeel to paint the flat sets on both sides, so the stagehands can turn them around as necessary. The actors will double up on roles, and if we use only half the dancers, they can step twice as fast to make up for it.”

  Jo wanted to smile but decided to look serious instead. “That will not work.”

  He shot her an irritated look and threw the newspaper to the floor. “Jo, there is nothing I can do. You know that I cannot pay our creditors. I feel dreadfully guilty that you took on the thankless task of writing to them as it is.”

  “But I do not owe them the money, so it was easy enough.”

  “I daresay it was. And all I had to do was sign the damned letters with a flourish,” he said bitterly.

  “I came to London to help you, Terence,” Josephine said. “And I don’t mind writing the letters. I’m rather good at it, I find.”

  “It is a form of fiction, I suppose.”

  “You might say that,” Jo replied.

  “Dear sir,” Terence went on in a mocking tone. “Your invoice was received with joy and examined with great interest. Rest assured that I keep it under my pillow, along with a thousand others. Please accept our promise of prompt payment, which, you will note, is not included with this letter. We will send a free ticket as soon as we can pay the engraver and have tickets printed. There will be dancing nymphs in diaphanous costumes and a singing castaway, and we do hope you will enjoy the show. I remain, very truly yours, et cetera.”

  Josephine got up quickly, brushing a few muffin crumbs from her robe de chambre. “That reminds me—I quite forgot to write to the engraver. Perhaps I will stop by his workshop today.”

  “I wish you would not, Jo. Mama and Papa would be furious if they ever found out how much time you spend at the theater and all the work you are doing there. I appreciate your efforts from the bottom of my heart, but they will not.”

  She did not argue or agree, but picked up the newspaper he had thrown down, looking through it to the theater reviews and glancing at them quickly. “I am sure our show will surpass whatever the Drury Lane players are offering.”

  “My spies tell me that they are struggling with Cupid and the Countess.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “What? Why? And who are your spies? I knew nothing of this.”

  “I shall answer the second question first. Apparently their leading lady and man began to actually believe the ridiculous dialogue they were spouting, and the countess ran off with Cupid just last week. They are auditioning replacements today.”

  “Or so say your spies. They must be members of the Drury Lane company or the crew, or someone would notice them straightaway. Am I correct?”

  “Yes,” Terence said, rather unwillingly.

  “I cannot believe that you employ such persons.”

  “As Shakespeare said, all’s fair in love and war,” he said. “The Drury Lane Players are our rivals.”

  She gave him a searching look. “You would not go so far as to sabotage their production in any way, would you, Terence?”

  “Certainly not,” he replied. “I would never do that. I have standards, you know—lower than they used to be but standards all the same.”

  His tone was quite sincere and she was inclined to believe him. She had never known her brother to lie, though he was apt to exaggerate.

  “I hope not, Terence. And our difficulties are only temporary. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

  “Did Shakespeare say that?”

  “I don’t know,” Jo replied. “The immortal Bard of Avon seems to have said just about everything worth saying. And he wrote some bang-up good plays while he was at it.”

  “Please do not inform Hugh Newsome of that fact.”

  She turned to go, having thought things through in the little while they had been talking. She had to do something about the shortfall in supplies, and it was not absolutely necessary that Terence know every detail of her plan.

  “I have not seen him for several days. Has Mr. Newsome been at the theater?”

  Terence scowled. “I think he roosts upside down in the rafters at night and keeps the bats company. All writers are a little strange. But his name on the bill counts for something.”

  “Has he not won praise from the critics?”

  Terence thought for a moment. “Yes, one or two seemed favorably disposed to his previous work. But the riffraff in the pit once flung vegetables at him when he ventured out to take a bow. Ask him to tell you the story. I believe he intends to make a play out of his humiliation and call it Trial by Turnip or some such nonsense.”

  “Oh, dear,” Jo sighed, “why did you hire him?”

  “He was the best we could get on short notice. That is why we are depending on Lizzie to pack the house.”

  “She will, Terence,” Jo assured him. “I know she will. Her voice is magnificent and she works hard. I listen to her sing nearly every day, you k
now. She never misses a note, let alone a rehearsal.”

  “If only we could feature her as a solo performer and dispense with everyone else! She would not mind having the stage to herself for five hours, I assure you.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” Josephine said with a smile, “but we must stick to our plan nonetheless. I will do everything I can to make sure that everything is in perfect order.”

  “There is no such thing as perfection in the theater, Jo. One does one’s best, of course, but there is no telling if the audience will like the show. They might walk out. They might throw things. They might demand their money back. Or they might not come at all.”

  “You are a dreadful pessimist, Terence.”

  “I have somewhat more experience in these matters than you, my dear sister,” he said wearily.

  “Well, I cannot wait for the moment when the great curtain rises!” she exclaimed. “Just think, opening night is only a few weeks away.”

  “I know,” Terence said gloomily.

  Upstairs in her own room, Josephine looked through her dresses to find one that would not require her maid’s assistance to don.

  Her new muslin would do. She pulled it from the clothespress and held it up against herself. The day promised to be warm and the lightness of the dress was entirely suitable.

  Airy as it was, it was armor of a sort. Jo was sallying forth to do battle with their various creditors. Of course she would not raise her voice and certainly would not argue. But a pleading look from a young gentlewoman, soft-spoken and well groomed, ought to be enough to melt the heart of the sternest shopkeeper—or so she hoped.

  She took a clean chemise and a pair of drawers from a compartment in the clothespress and slipped into both, grateful that she had no need of stays.

  The muslin dress, which was decorated with exquisite white embroidery, had been made with an underdress of plainer stuff, in the interest of modesty. She donned both and looked at herself in the cheval glass, pleased with the effect.

  Her hair tumbled over her shoulders, uncombed but lustrous in the morning sun. Of course she would not wear it down, but for the moment Josephine let it be.