“Well, you know how it is in the theater,” Terence said breezily. “That sort of thing goes on all the time.”
“Tell me, Terence,” Daniel said. “Were you planning—I mean, did you hope that your sister and I … Do you remember when you put us in that rosy light and told me to look into her eyes?”
“Yes. That was a magic moment, wasn’t it? You never know what will happen when the light is right.”
They came to a nondescript side door and entered the theater.
The audience was noisy, but they seemed to be enjoying themselves, even though nothing was happening. Terence and Daniel took their seats in the box.
“That’s how we want ’em,” Terence whispered. “Restive, but festive.” He peered into the wings.
“There is Tom. I think he’s going to send a nymph out. I told him he might.”
Daniel saw a girl in pink gauze and heavy makeup, and one of those awful wigs, waiting in the wings for her cue. And was that Jo? He caught a glimpse of a honey-haired woman in white dashing by in the darkness of the wings, but he could not be sure.
The nymph raised her tambourine and ran upon the stage, to wild applause. She pranced and pirouetted, then looked coyly over her shoulder, emitting squeaks of fear.
The cello players bowed a throbbing, ominous note in unison.
A satyr bounded upon the boards, roaring and thumping his chest. He pursued the nymph for several minutes, pretending to lose her while she was in plain sight, and looking out into the audience as if she had danced right over the heads of the louts in the pit.
The louts cheered and helped him out by pointing.
“She’s over there, ye great booby!”
“In back of ye!”
The satyr turned around, threw his hands up in the air with joy, and gave his nymph a look of goggle-eyed lust. He caught her this time and threw her over his shoulder, exiting stage right with a jaunty wave. There was loud clapping and a few shouts of “Get on wif it!” and “Start the show!”
The great curtain shook a bit, in preparation for its rise, and the audience settled down. But only for a few seconds. There was thunderous applause as the curtain went up slowly, majestically, to reveal the Chamber of Wonders. Towering columns, decorated with palm-frond capitals and hieroglyphics that were too small to make out, dwarfed everything else on stage.
A stagehand, unseen by all save Terence and Daniel, pushed a final column into position.
“They weigh very little,” Terence whispered. “Quite hollow, of course, made of battens and canvas. McNeel is most ingenious.”
Daniel nodded. He had not seen the rehearsals for this act.
A row of sarcophagi, also decorated with hieroglyphics, moved forward as if pushed by some unseen giant hand. The orchestra struck up a wailing Arabian melody of dubious provenance, and the sarcophagus doors opened.
The bandaged mummies inside kept their eyes closed … and then stared solemnly at the delighted crowd. The screams were deafening.
“That Egyptian eye makeup is quite striking, don’t you think?” Terence whispered.
“Yes,” Daniel said, “but do be quiet.”
“Why? No one else is.”
“You have a point.”
“Let the auld bugger rest …” the mummies sang. “Let the auld bugger rest …”
“Good Lord.” Daniel rolled his eyes. “That is not one of Hugh’s best tunes.”
“The audience loves it,” Terence said.
They were clapping, not in time, but enthusiastically, and singing along as best they could.
The mummies finished the song and stepped out upon the stage as the sarcophagi moved away, again as if by a giant unseen hand. They picked up their trailing bandages and began to dance, not very well, launching into another song.
“Wrap me in your arms and row me down the Nile …”
Daniel winced. “This one is worse.”
Terence ignored him and leaned over the edge of the box, seeming thrilled by the commotion below and the spectacle onstage.
“Let it be over,” Daniel said under his breath. “Please let it be over soon.”
He sat up straighter and leaned to one side to look into the wings. That was Jo, by Ginny’s side, pulling pins from the pincushion on Ginny’s wrist and sewing up a nymph who had come undone. Ginny took the shears that hung around her neck and snipped here and there. The nymph ran off.
Jo looked up and caught Daniel’s eye. Even from here, he could see how happy she was.
He did not mind, so long as she remained backstage. There were limits. He had reached his. The mummies were groaning out the chorus, over and over.
The curtain came down and the orchestra ceased playing. Terence leaned out of the box and attempted to communicate with the conductor by wild gestures. The conductor only shrugged.
Daniel heard a faint patter and looked down to see the rabble throwing orange peels and other fruit at the curtain. A nymph ran out to distract them and received a direct hit on the rump with a piece of peel.
“Good shot, Mick!” someone cried. “We loves you, miss!”
She took a bow and scampered into the wings again.
Daniel spotted something green at the top of the curtain. Green and yellow. A parrot. Molly’s parrot.
The bird used its beak and claws to climb down the curtain. The audience did not notice at first, but when the parrot was halfway down, they did. They applauded, thinking it another diversion.
“Oh, no,” Daniel whispered, “not Nippy.”
Tom ran out, dressed in a gentleman’s clothes. He bowed and stretched out a hand to the bird. “Presenting … Nippy! The winged wonder!”
Nippy turned his head, saw Tom’s hand, and lived up to his name. Tom yelled and sucked his finger.
The crowd roared with laughter.
“Good bit!” Terence said. “We must keep that in. Make a note, Daniel.”
Tom picked up a piece of tossed fruit and lured Nippy onto his shoulder. The parrot chuckled into his ear, obviously enjoying the attention. They strolled into the wings, as if the whole thing had been planned to perfection.
Lord York sank his head into his hands. “What next?”
“A brief interval,” Terence said. “Come, let us go backstage and see if we can find my sister.”
The audience resumed throwing orange peels at the curtain as the men went out the back door of the box. Their heels clattered upon the wrought iron staircase, unheard in the cacophony of scenery for the next act being dragged into place by shouting stagehands.
Terence saw Tom and shook his hand. “Good work, Tom!”
“Careful, sir. When Nippy bit my finger, I thought it was a goner. But it is still attached.”
“Very good. Nice to have all five.”
“Yes, sir. Have you seen Molly?”
“No.”
“I wants to get this damned parrot off me shoulder. He’ll take me ear off next.”
Terence smoothed the bird’s green plumage and scratched its head. “Nippy wouldn’t do that, would you, Nippy?”
The parrot gave an evil chuckle.
“Have you seen Jo, Tom?”
“She was just over there.” The stage manager pointed to a crowd of giggling nymphs that did not include Jo. “I don’t know where she is now.” He eased the parrot onto the side rigging and walked away. The backstage bell rang. “Places, everyone!” Tom called.
Terence, who had wandered off, dashed back to Daniel’s side.
“Back to the box. We can’t miss The Shepherdess!”
The great curtain shook a little and then went up again. A rustic set, bedecked with roses and peaches and other suggestive botanical touches, was greeted by the audience with scattered clapping and a few boos.
“Oh, dear,” Terence said, “they don’t seem to like this one as much. It is a little dreary. Perhaps a lamp or two is out. Make a note, Daniel.”
Daniel ignored this request and concentrated on the stage.
After a few notes from
a pan-pipe, Lizzie Loudermilk strolled on, her hands on her ample hips, trilling the first song for all she was worth. The house erupted with thunderous applause and shrieks of admiration.
“That’s better,” Terence said.
Daniel studied the set. There was a screen to one side of it, built to resemble a farmer’s cottage and to hide the little satyr who was singing the blacksmith’s part. One side of it, the side that faced away from the audience, was open, so that Fred could read the blacksmith’s lips.
Harry Longwood came on and clasped Lizzie around the waist. He too burst into song, a full-throated bass melody of love. The crowd screamed for more. Lizzie threw them a flirty smile and leaned back on Harry’s shoulder. They began their duet.
Terence breathed a sigh of relief. “Excellent. This is going splendidly.”
Daniel knew that Fred was behind the screen. What he didn’t know was that Jo was there, too, at Lizzie’s insistence.
The Shepherdess had been divided into two parts, owing to the very large number of songs in it. Less than an hour later, they were well into the second part.
Jo held the music for Fred, turning the pages so that he would not miss a note.
“Thank’ee, miss,” he whispered when Lizzie launched into her solo. He mopped his brow. “ ’Tis hard work, singing for someone else.”
“You are doing wonderfully well,” Jo whispered back.
“Very tricky it is to look at him and look at the music.”
“Yes.”
He turned suddenly. “Harry’s going to lift her. Here comes the roar.”
Jo saw the mighty blacksmith lift up Lizzie and heard Fred let out a huge roar simultaneously.
“Perfect!” she whispered.
Fred drew in a deep breath and roared again, keeping his eye on Harry all the while. The song continued, with Lizzie slung over Harry’s shoulder, trilling like a young girl. She was in fine voice, much to Jo’s relief. Jo knew every word and note of The Shepherdess, and could sing it if she had to, but her glimpses of the crowd had terrified her.
The theater was packed. Every available seat on the pit benches was taken, and the boxes were filled. They loved their Lizzie.
Jo looked through the music to be ready for Harry’s next song. Then she heard an odd noise … not a song. Not dialogue. A sheepish sort of noise. But it stopped. She assumed one of the stagehands was having a bit of fun and thought nothing more of it.
She did not see Tom and some members of the crew push a huge box on wheels to the other side of the wings. Busy with the music, Jo did not see him dismiss the stagehands and prepare to lift the side of the box straight up.
Lizzie didn’t either.
The singer took center stage, held up her arms to her adoring public, and launched into her final solo.
Tom lifted the side. Several sheep ran onstage, baaaing frantically. The audience howled with delight. The biggest sheep bumped the back of Lizzie’s knees and she fell backwards over it, landing with a shriek unhurt on her bum. A lamb scampered over and licked her nose.
The crowd clapped and screamed for more.
Lizzie scrambled to her feet and pushed the lamb away. Its mother lowered her woolly head and butted Lizzie on the thigh.
She went down again, shrieking bloody murder.
Fred and Jo peeked out to see what was going on. She looked up and saw Daniel in the box, staring at her, horrified. His mouth was open. Terence was next to him, laughing hysterically.
Jo ducked back behind the screen.
“What’s going on?” Fred whispered.
“I don’t know,” she whispered back.
“Why are we whispering? No one can hear nothing but Lizzie’s screaming.”
Harry Longwood was doing his best to rid the stage of sheep, but the baffled animals eluded his grasp.
Jo looked around the edge of the screen again. She could just see Tom Higgins, laughing his head off, sitting on top of a huge box filled with straw. One little lamb had gone back in.
“Tom is playing a prank! On Lizzie!”
The singer had apparently just realized the same thing.
“I’ll rip your head off for this, Tom!” She tripped over another confused sheep to get to him. “Out of my way!”
There was more thunderous applause and laughter.
“Ow!” Lizzie’s mouth opened wide to shriek again … but no sound came out. She had lost her voice.
The audience waited. Jo peeked out. There was nothing for it. She began to sing Lizzie’s solo. The singer threw her a wild look but Lizzie was nothing if not a trouper. Her mouth formed every note but Jo sang every one. Harry got behind Lizzie and clasped her waist, offering what support he could.
The sheep bumbled around the stage, testing the scenery for edibility. Lizzie ignored them and went right on performing. Fred held the music for Jo, but she knew the role too well to need it.
The second lamb kicked up its heels and headed straight for the screen. It bumped into it once … twice … and the screen came down.
Jo went right on singing.
Chapter Eighteen
Terence wiped away his tears of laughter and turned to Daniel. “That was wonderful! Absolutely wonderful! Were the sheep your idea?”
“No,” Daniel said, “and seeing my blushing bride singing on stage was not my idea, either.”
“Oh, don’t be such a prig, Daniel,” Terence said cheerfully. “Bit late in the day for that, eh?” He composed himself. “I must find out where the sheep came from.”
“I suspect someone was playing a prank.”
“You may be right, but who?”
“Ginny mentioned that Tom and Lizzie had quarreled. They were both at Derrydale, though he did not stay. I did not think much of it at the time. He may have hidden my sheep in the theater wagon and brought them back.”
Terence snapped his fingers. “Of course! He did not bring back much furniture. What a glorious prank!”
The audience was still clapping.
“They loved it, that is clear. And they assume it’s all part of the show. The only question is, can we do it again?”
“If you pay me for the sheep.”
Terence slapped him on the back. “Of course, my friend. We are rolling in money now, thanks to Penelope. Though you could let me have them for free. What are a few sheep between friends?”
Daniel got to his feet. “I must find Jo.”
“Don’t scold her, Daniel.” Terence’s tone was suddenly serious. “She did the right thing.”
Lord York didn’t answer. He left through the back door of the box and clattered down the wrought iron staircase once more. He pushed through the knots of sweating, laughing performers but could not find Jo.
He did see Molly, being sewn into her white costume by Ginny. A few feathers fluttered to the floor but she looked enough like a bird to please the waiting crowd.
Daniel searched for another few minutes and found Tom, still laughing. Wonder of wonders, Lizzie was laughing with him—silently. They sat atop the box, which seemed to be inhabited once more by complaining sheep.
“That was a good one, Tom,” she said in a hoarse rasp. “But I will rip your head off, mark my words.”
“Ye had it coming, Lizzie girl.”
She could only croak. Whether she agreed or disagreed was not clear.
“Higgins!” Daniel said sternly.
The stage manager sat bolt upright and stopped laughing. “Yes, sir?”
“Were those my sheep?”
Tom hesitated and looked at Lizzie. “Yes, sir.”
“Poaching is a hanging offense. You know that.”
“I didn’t poach ’em, sir. I borrowed ’em.”
“I ought to sack you.”
Lizzie climbed down off the box and came over. “You can’t,” she rasped. “The show is a hit. And our Tom seems to have a way with sheep.”
“Please do not talk, Lizzie. The show will not be a hit if you cannot sing. Have you seen Jo?”
&
nbsp; “No, but don’t scold her. She saved my bacon, sir. Or should I say mutton?” Lizzie let out a wheezy laugh. “And she saved the show.”
“Perhaps she did.”
Daniel returned to the box. “Jo is nowhere to be found.”
“She will turn up,” Terence said.
“Not in the next act, I hope.”
“No, this is The Castaway. Lizzie doesn’t sing in it—Andy does. He is a baritone. Jo is a soprano.”
“I know that, Terence. All of London knows.”
Terence put a finger to his lips. The great curtain rose once more.
Jagged rocks bathed in blue light had been placed in the center of the stage. The wooden waves began to roll.
“Nice effect. Good guano,” Terence murmured.
Andy, the castaway, clambered over the top of the rock and sang of his loneliness. A few of the more sentimental members of the audience took out their handkerchiefs and sobbed noisily during the quietest parts.
“What ho!” Andy said when he had finished the first song. “Yon bird doth fly! Oh, yon bird!”
“I do hope it’s not Nippy,” Daniel said dryly.
There was a faint clink from the stage rigging and Molly sailed into view, flying out over the first rows to gasps and wild applause. She sailed back, circling over Andy’s head.
“Hope!” the lonely castaway cried. “Hope is the thing with feathers!”
Molly lost a few. They drifted down upon the rocks. She sailed out again, smiling and waving to the audience.
Terence frowned. “She mustn’t wave. Make a note, Daniel.”
They heard a louder clink and then a clank from the rigging that held the backdrops.
“Wait a minute. We don’t change drops for this scene,” Terence said.
Another backdrop came down with lightning speed. It was the battleship with blazing cannons. Molly was headed straight for it. She went right through, kicking her legs wildly. “Help!”
“That is one of the old ones we got from those damned Italians! The canvas must be half-rotten or she wouldn’t have gone through!”
“The audience seems to like it even better than the sheep,” Daniel said.
Molly swung back out. “Ow! Help!”
The crowd cheered and clapped. Molly smiled and waved as her swings on the wire shortened. Andy sat on his rock and waved too.
Lisa Noeli Page 17
