Fate's Victim

by Roxane Beaufort

  Angela ran into the alley, but there was no sign of him. She did not hurry to cross the river again, meandering along the pavements, window-shopping. She caught a glimpse of herself in a glass-fronted emporium. It was amazing how prim she looked, not a hair out of place under that frivolous hat. No one would have guessed that the gusset of her drawers was wet with her own dew, that her buttocks stung, and the unmistakable odour of Aidan’s spunk clung to her face and throat. If anyone came near her she was sure they would recognise it on her.

  She passed unheeded among the shoppers, an ordinary lass who was bold enough to walk abroad without a companion. The morning was wearing on and she waited for the horse-drawn omnibus and returned to the Pelican and Garter.

  She was met at the stage door by Max. ‘Ah, there you are!’ he exclaimed. ‘We’ve been searching for you.’

  ‘I went to visit a friend,’ she said, alarmed by his urgency and deciding not to mention Aidan. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Be careful going out on your own, dear girl, but there’s no call for alarm. All is well. I bumped into D’Oyly Carte at the club over luncheon. Told him about you, and managed to get him to agree to giving you an audition. Tomorrow morning at ten o’clock sharp.’

  ‘Oh, my goodness,’ she whispered, gloved hand to her lips. ‘What shall I say to him? What shall I sing? Oh, I can’t possibly…’

  ‘Of course you can,’ Max said sternly, gripping her by the elbow and propelling her into the auditorium. ‘You’ll spend the rest of the day rehearsing. I’ve ordered the pianist not to leave his seat, on pain of death. Carlotta will help you. Isn’t that so, my love?’ and he stretched out a hand towards his wife.

  ‘I’ll do all I can,’ the dark beauty replied, her expression a mixture of envy and the sincere desire to help a colleague, especially if it meant withdrawing her from her husband’s presence.

  Angela understood this in a flash but was too excited to care. The Savoy Theatre was prestigious. Its shows drew huge crowds, its principles were popular and famous, and it was not beyond the realms of possibility that she might one day be up there with them. Then indeed she could cock a snook at Aidan Driscol.

  Chapter 12

  There was a row about it, of course, but eventually Max talked Carlotta into giving permission for him to accompany Angela to the Savoy Theatre in the Strand. The weather was capricious, a wind blowing and drizzle making the streets muddy. It was a nigh impossible task to keep one’s hem dry, as Angela soon found out.

  They travelled by hansom cab – no such thing as a humble bus for Max. He liked to arrive in style, particularly when seeing someone important. The vehicle drew up outside the frontage and Angela stepped from it, saying, ‘My, what a fine a edifice. It looks new.’

  ‘It is. Carte had it constructed to his own design a few years ago. Did you know that it was the first public building to be entirely lit by electricity?’

  She shook her head, very impressed, but was also acutely nervous. It was all very well being auditioned by Max, but this had been tempered by the fact that she was desperate and he fancied her. D’Oyly Carte was an unknown quantity. She had heard that he was strict with his cast, or rather the scriptwriter, W. H. Gilbert was, and it was he who supervised the rehearsals of new operettas and put everyone through their paces, stars and chorus members alike.

  ‘Carte won’t employ anyone with loose morals,’ Max continued as they arrived at the red painted stage door round the side. ‘His female members, and the males for that matter, have to have an aura of respectability. Oh, you get the toffs hanging around, the young men about town, same as everywhere else. The girls may condescend to have supper with them at Romano’s, or perform at private functions, but it’s essential that they behave like well-brought up ladies. An inch or two of ankle is all they are allowed to show on stage, and this is enough to drive the men wild.’

  ‘You know an awful lot about it,’ she remarked, glad she had dressed modestly.

  He gave her a lopsided grin. ‘The theatre is my life, or hadn’t you noticed?’

  ‘Where shall I live, if I get the job?’ she asked nervously, clinging to his arm and feeling a revival of sexual interest. It was lovely to have him to herself, without that pushy Carlotta’s gimlet-sharp eye boring holes in them.

  ‘“Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched”,’ he advised, patting her hand that nestled in the crook of his elbow. ‘Though I gather that Carte prefers his ladies to reside in sober, theatrical boarding houses. Shared with several others. When they become top of the bill they can usually afford to rent apartments, or even buy their own homes. Then they have more freedom of movement, but woe betide them if their names are associated with the slightest breath of scandal.’

  ‘I find that reassuring,’ she murmured, praying that she might get taken into the Savoy fold and be protected from predators like Aidan.

  Max pushed open the door, and the first person to greet them was a man who stepped from his cubby-hole with all the precision of a guardsman. ‘Can I have your name, sir, miss?’ he asked, carrying a clipboard, pencil poised.

  Max handed over the note he had obtained from Carte. It was in the nature of an entrance ticket. Then he took a business card from an inside pocket. It had gold deckled edging. ‘I’m Maximillian Devere, the actor-manager,’ he announced grandly. ‘And this is Miss Rose Trelawney. We have an appointment with Mr D’Oyly Carte.’

  Angela threw the man a bright smile; warm enough to be friendly but without the slightest hint of coquetry. She was sure she looked stylish but not over-bold, a soft grey chinchilla cape round her shoulders, her hat a froth of pink tulle and roses.

  ‘Thank you, sir, my name is Enoch. I’m the stage door keeper. Anything you require please let me know. I’m on duty most of the time, but if not then my assistant, Wilfred, takes charge. Now then, I’ll escort you to where Mr Carte will be waiting. Follow me.’

  Stairs led upwards, but Enoch took them straight along a corridor, branched off into another, and crossed an area at the back of the stalls that had small round tables and bent-wood chairs, and bottles and glasses reflected in wall mirrors behind a highly polished mahogany counter.

  ‘The green room is over there,’ Enoch informed them, with a jerk of his thumb to the right. ‘That’s where the actors relax or entertain guest, and this here’s the crush bar so as the punters can get a drink between acts. “Crush” is the right bloody word for it, if you’ll excuse my language, Miss Trelawney. But there ain’t no one in here at this time of day.’

  The interior looked unfriendly and almost dingy. They walked into the main body of the theatre where cleaners were sweeping the aisles and dusting the red moquette seats. From backstage came hammering and the humping and sliding of scenery, male shouts and the occasional swearword. Angela was in a ferment of excitement now, though her stomach felt as if it was home to a hundred butterflies. She sniffed the air. It was reminiscent of the auditorium at the Pelican, a conglomeration of damp, the stale smell that a crowd leaves in its wake, used cigars, perfume and perspiration. It was in partial darkness, too.

  ‘Ah, there he is!’ exclaimed Max, spotting Carte centre front of the orchestral stalls.

  ‘I’ll take you over to him, sir,’ said Enoch firmly, ever mindful of his orders.

  Max stood back so that Angela might precede him and they walked down the side aisle and stopped at the row where Carte held court and observed what was happening on stage. With him were several assistants, including a woman in her thirties. She resembled a secretary, neatly dressed with a simple, upswept hairstyle and a businesslike notepad on her lap.

  Carte was forty-odd, with a pleasant face, shrewd eyes, dark hair and sideburns. He was hatless, and had a black overcoat with a velvet collar and lapels slung around his shoulders in an ostensive, devil-may-care way, very much the impresario. Angela tried a trick she had perfected when faced with scary people – she imagined them naked. Now she visualised Carte completely nude. His coat made his
frame look wide, but maybe in reality he would be hollow-chested, with a rounded belly. As for his genitals? She mentally pinned a dick on him no bigger than a cashew nut, and a pair of infinitesimal balls. Big coat, big theatre, small cock!

  Unaware of her mischievous thoughts he shot her a glance and nodded to Max, saying, ‘Is this the young lady? What is her name?’

  His female companion supplied the answer, checking on her pad. ‘It’s Rose Trelawney, Richard,’ she said, and Angela noticed the flash of a wedding ring on her left hand.

  Not another married man? she thought, panicking. I hope she’s not as jealous as Carlotta.

  Max bowed from the waist, giving the woman a dazzling smile. ‘Good morning, Helen. Congratulations to you both. I’ve only recently heard that you’d become Mrs D’Oyly Carte.’

  ‘Thank you, Max,’ Carte replied, calm and composed. ‘She’s been my assistant for years, and it seemed sensible to tie the knot.’

  Arrogant pig! Angela thought. His assistant, indeed! She probably ran the whole shebang! Why was it that men adopted this superior attitude towards women? If she wasn’t so keen on forwarding her career she might well join those courageous ladies fighting to get the vote, to repeal the divorce laws and raise the age of consent to sixteen.

  ‘Indeed, yes,’ Max was saying, ‘very sensible, Carte.’

  And he was another one, Angela’s thoughts raced. They had no idea how to make women feel worthy. Didn’t they know that at one time they were goddesses – earth mothers – with temples and shrines dedicated to them? Where did it all go wrong?

  ‘Shall we start?’ Carte cut in. ‘There’s a lot to get through this morning. Now, Miss Trelawney, will you please give the pianist your music and take up your position on the stage. What are you going to sing?’

  ‘Where’er you walk,’ she said clearly. This song had been lucky for her before and she hoped it would be again.

  Enoch took her to the wings and she was awestruck. The stage was much bigger than that at the Pelican, a fully-fledged arena with scenery and backdrops, footlights and arc lights and all the paraphernalia needed to complete the illusion and take the audience into a magical world. She felt dwarfed, standing under the spotlight’s direct beam. This rendered the auditorium black. It always did, and it was a blessing. She could forget that she was being watched and give of her best.

  The acoustics were splendid. She had never heard her voice sound so rich and full. She gained confidence and before she knew it the ordeal was over and the critical watchers were clapping.

  ‘Well done,’ said Carte from the darkness. ‘What’s your opinion, Gilbert?’

  Angela edged forward and shaded her eyes. Now she could see that another man had come in and was standing near the aisle. A lean, sober-looking man with greying hair. Could it be the renowned Mr Gilbert who wrote the words for those amusing shows for which he and Arthur Sullivan were famous? Her father had taken her to see one of them during a visit to London, and she had never in her wildest dreams thought that one day she would be auditioning.

  ‘Very nice,’ he said flatly, displaying neither enthusiasm nor disapproval. He then addressed her. ‘Can you dance, miss… eh, what’s your name?’

  ‘Rose Trelawney,’ she answered clearly. It was now or never. ‘Yes, I can dance.’

  ‘Let’s see you, then,’ Gilbert replied.

  The pianist struck up and she knew the tune. It was from one of his comic operas, a topsy-turvy farce about fairies and peers. She took off her hat and fur cape and went into a routine taught her by the ex-ballerina who coached Max’s dancers. Like much of Sullivan’s music it was gay and light-hearted, and her skirt floated around her, never showing more than her insteps and dainty shoes. She was transformed into a sylph with lovely arms and a supple waist.

  ‘A bit too graceful,’ Gilbert remarked dourly. ‘The fairies in Iolanthe are much more clumpy, that’s what makes ’em amusing, but she’ll learn. Now, can we get on with the rehearsal please, Carte? Can’t keep the cast hanging about,’ and he indicated the people who had begun to stroll in, those fortunates who were already part of the Savoy Theatre.

  ‘Come down, Miss Trelawney,’ called Helen. ‘We’ll go to the office.’

  The upshot was that Angela signed a contract for a trial period. She was stunned by the salary offered – two pounds a week! Why, even ladies’ maids and butlers were paid less than that per year!

  Max was a great help, insisting on studying the contract before she committed herself, then declaring it to be fair. Helen did most of the donkeywork while Carte offered Max a cigar and said little to Angela, except for one comment.

  ‘You speak well, Miss Trelawney. Do you come from the upper class? Please, tell me, for I don’t like my players to be secretive. All above board, that’s what we require at the Savoy.’

  ‘I was born into a good family, sir, but unfortunately my father passed away and left me nothing. The estate had to be sold. I came to London looking for work and Mr Devere very kindly helped me. I was taught to sing, dance and play the pianoforte during my schooldays. Trelawney is my stage name. I prefer to keep my anonymity.’

  ‘Very well, I shall respect this. You seem a sensible young lady, and talented, too. Mr Gilbert was impressed by you.’

  ‘Was he, sir?’ Angela expressed surprise.

  ‘Oh yes, I could tell. He’s a man of few words, apart from the written ones, and a stickler for perfection. Although you’ll be under the guidance of our director, Mr Gilbert insists on being involved in a new show, though he hides away on the first night. Sullivan, on the other hand, conducts at every performance, even though he may leave rehearsals to his second-in-command. He’s got quite finicky about his music since the queen knighted him. He has always had aspirations to write grand opera.’

  ‘Don’t look so worried, my dear,’ put in Helen kindly. ‘You’ll soon get the hang of it all. Who’s who and what’s what. We shall expect you to be here at ten o’clock sharp on Monday morning. I can give you the names of several landladies who already look after some of our girls.’

  ‘Thank you so much for offering this opportunity to my protégée,’ Max said, rising to his feet.

  Carte smiled and also rose from the swivel chair behind his elaborately carved antique desk. ‘I’m surprised that you are willing to let her go,’ he observed, eyes twinkling as the two men shook hands.

  ‘Well, you see, Carlotta has returned from her tour with the Carl Rosa Opera Company, and we don’t really need two sopranos,’ Max said smoothly.

  Carte raised an eyebrow sceptically, observing, ‘Especially one as young and beautiful as Miss Trelawney, eh, Devere? I recall that Carlotta is somewhat, how shall I put it? Fiery?’

  ‘She is indeed,’ Max conceded, and then changed the subject. ‘I say, is it possible that I could take a look round your theatre before we go. I’m sure Rose will be very interested, too.’

  ‘But of course, my dear fellow, Enoch will show you the way,’ Carte said grandly, proud of his achievements.

  Enoch conducted them through the dressing rooms, practice rooms and costume department, but it was rather inconvenient as the cast was in rehearsal and did not welcome intruders. ‘I expect you’d like to see the under-stage area where many of the props are stored,’ he said, and was then interrupted by the appearance of Wilfred, a keen young man who suffered from acne.

  ‘You’re needed up front, Mr Enoch,’ he said, glancing nervously at Max and Angela.

  ‘Right-o, lad,’ Enoch rejoined. ‘I’ll be there in a jiffy.’ He turned to Max and added, ‘That’s the way down to the props department, if you wouldn’t mind going alone, sir. You can catch me at the stage door on your way out, unless Mr Carte has an errand he wants me to do.’

  ‘Shall we?’ asked Max, with a sideways look at Angela as Enoch hurried off.

  ‘I’d love to,’ she responded eagerly. It was all too exciting, taking her breath away. She was actually signed up as an actress with this prestigious company!
To add to this, she was about to spend a stolen hour in a secluded place with a man she found devilishly attractive. Just thinking about it made her whipped derrière smart.

  The theatre had been constructed on a much older site, the cellars of which had become the foundations and useful repository. Stone stairs led steeply down, made extra wide to accommodate bulky pieces needed on stage. Bare electric bulbs illuminated it. The ceiling was arched and low. Max had to bend to avoid knocking his head.

  Despite the activity taking place in the distance overhead, the music, the singing, the interruptions as choruses and action were repeated until perfect, down there it was tomblike. Angela could have been frightened had not Max been with her.

  He took her hand and led her through the series of rooms, one leading from the other. It seemed that the items for scenes of each play were stored together. In one alcove were Japanese artefacts, in another seafaring gear, then castle interiors, and a multitude of things that could transform the stage into whatever period, time or place was demanded. Colours blazed and gilt sparkled; it would look even more splendid under the stage lights.

  ‘Marvellous,’ Max commented, looking round. ‘Carte is in an enviable position.’

  ‘You’ll get there eventually,’ she comforted.

  ‘Shall I?’ His face was gloomy. ‘It takes money or a patron who believes in one.’

  ‘Your turn will come.’

  ‘Your faith in me is heartening,’ he said and pulled her close, his heat penetrating her clothes and his. ‘And this is overdue, don’t you think?’

  ‘Carlotta,’ she reminded, placing her fingertips across his lips.

  ‘She isn’t here,’ he said, and removed her hand, his mouth swooping down to kiss her with warmth and skill. Right from the start she had enjoyed the way he kissed, and she could feel herself melting, dissolving, wanting him to devour her. He pressed her against the wall, his muscular thighs grinding into hers and his hungry cock prodding her belly. She carried her hat and he combed his fingers through her hair, pulling out the pins and bringing it tumbling down. He held her away from him, studying her from beneath hooded lids, his mouth slack with passion.