Angel in Scarlet

by Jennifer Wilde

  Gainsborough was riding the crest, turning down commissions by the dozen, and he merrily reported that Sir Joshua was gnashing his teeth. Mr. G. refused to divulge any information about me to Fleet Street, and Boswell kept his mouth shut, too, although he claimed he “knew the lady well” and intimated I had been his mistress! At first, I had been terrified that Marie might see the painting or one of the prints and recognize me and track me down, but after a few weeks, when nothing happened, I realized that my stepmother lived in an isolated world where art, fads or fashion had little or no impact. She would certainly never step foot inside the Royal Academy, nor was it likely she would ever see one of the reproductions. One of my stepsisters might, I realized, but I wasn’t going to worry about it. It was late February now. I had turned twenty-one two days ago. Though she might still cause trouble, Marie was no longer the threat she once had been.

  “Scarlet velvet!” Dottie said, shaking her head. “Mrs. Barry insists she have a scarlet velvet gown for the second act of The Jealous Wife and it’s simply not to be had! She’ll have to make do with purple.”

  “Has she dyed her hair yet?” I inquired.

  “She has—had, rather—dark raven hair. She attempted to lighten it and now it’s a curious shade of beige. She uses brown boot polish on it now. What madness have you wrought, my dear?”

  “I find it all terribly silly,” I told her. “It’s merely a painting, you know.”

  “It’s a phenomenon,” Dottie corrected me.

  “I still don’t understand it. Why would anyone want to look like me?”

  “Because you’re absolutely lovely. Attractive, unusual, striking—if you had asked me before, those are the words I would have used to describe you. It took a great artist to show us just how beautiful you are.”

  “I don’t feel particularly beautiful. I still think my mouth is too large and my cheekbones too high.”

  “I must say, Angela, you’ve certainly remained very levelheaded about all this excitement. Most young women I know would have a head this big—” Dottie spread her hands wide. “You, on the other hand, don’t even want people to know you’re the girl in the painting. Refuse to get caught up in the excitement. I find that very admirable.”

  “It’ll die down,” I said. “In a few weeks or so there’ll be another sensation to take its place and ‘Angel’ will be quite forgotten. I prefer to keep a sensible perspective.”

  Dottie sighed and started sewing another gold tulle ruffle on the skirt of the gold satin ball gown we were working on. The gown had to be delivered first thing in the morning, and I had stayed late to help Dottie finish it. The other girls had left over an hour ago, and we had already lighted the candles. It was almost seven. Megan would probably be in the drafty basement dressing room at the Aldwych, getting ready with the rest of the supers. She had finally obtained another job in the theater and was ecstatic about it, even though it was merely a walk-on in a Restoration comedy.

  “There!” Dottie said. “The last ruffle. Skirt’s finished. We just have to gather it and fasten it onto the bodice.”

  “The bodice is done, too,” I said, holding it up. “Those invisible hooks in back drove me mad. You look very tired, Dottie. Why don’t you go on up and let me finish the gown? It’ll only take an hour or so. I’ll lock up.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear. You work much too hard as it is. I declare, I don’t—”

  “—know how I ever got along without you,” I finished for her. “I am going to get a swelled head if you keep saying that, Dottie.”

  “It’s quite true. I bless the day Megan brought you to me. She’s a treasure, too. I never had a better girl in the stockroom. So lively and amusing as well. She’s such a dear to keep on helping me out for a few hours every afternoon even though she has found work at the Aldwych.”

  “I hope the play runs,” I said.

  “Oh, it’ll have a good long run—they adore bawdy Restoration comedy, and those costumes we made are—”

  Both of us were startled by the sudden pounding on the front door. Dottie cut herself short and slammed a hand over her heart, and I jumped. Someone was banging furiously and yelling something we couldn’t make out. We were both paralyzed for a moment, and then Dottie clutched a pair of scissors and moved cautiously toward the door, peering through the glass pane. I felt myself growing tense. There was little crime in this neighborhood, but one needed to be careful nevertheless. Dottie squinted, leaning her forehead against the pane, and then she gave an exasperated sigh and threw open the door. A young man in his early twenties stumbled into the room, looking quite distraught.

  “Andrew Dobson!” she exclaimed. “What’s the meaning of this! Banging on the door like that! You gave us quite a turn! And you in a thin coat in weather like this. Nothing on your head, either. You’ll catch your death.”

  “It’s an emergency!” he cried.

  “Get yourself over there by the stove this minute. You’re having a cup of hot tea, too. This is Andy Dobson, Angela. He’s stage manager at the Lambert, even though he is still wet behind the ears.”

  “I’ve no time to lose!” young Dobson said breathlessly. “It really is an emergency, Mrs. Gibbons! Mrs. Tallent has split a seam in the side of her gown and curtain’s going up in less than an hour and no one has any thread or—Lambert’s in a fury! He grabbed my throat and told me to get myself over here and get you back fast with needle and thread or he’d murder me!”

  “Typical behavior,” Dottie said calmly. “Lamb always has gone in for histrionics. I altered those costumes of hers once, Andy, and if Mrs. Tallent insists on stuffing herself like a pig—”

  “That’s what he said!” Dobson broke in. “He said she’d been stuffing herself like a pig, said she looked like one, said it was her own bloody fault the seam split open. Mrs. Tallent was in a fury, too, shrieking like a banshee. I thought they were going to kill each other!”

  “Be a blessing if they did,” Dottie observed. “I’m much too old and much too tired to go chasing about Covent Garden in weather like this. You can tell him I said so.”

  “You’ve got to come, Mrs. Gibbons! Lambert’ll have my hide if I come back without you!”

  Dottie poured herself another cup of tea. “It’s entirely out of the question,” she informed him.

  Poor Dobson was filled with panic. His blond-brown hair was windblown and several locks tumbled across his brow. His light blue eyes were wide with apprehension. His lower lip trembled. He was an attractive youth with an air of youthful innocence, and although I doubted Lambert would actually murder him, I was sure the lad would lose his job if he failed to bring Dottie back. She was too old and too weary to go rushing through the streets in this cold, but I wasn’t. I squared my shoulders.

  “I’ll go, Dottie,” I said. “I’ll come in an hour earlier in the morning, and I’ll finish the gown then.”

  “You don’t have to go, dear. Let Lamb stew in his own—”

  “Please come!” Dobson exclaimed. “It won’t matter who comes just as long as the gown’s sewn up.”

  “Which gown is it?” Dottie asked.

  “The purple and mauve she wears in the first act.”

  “Very well,” she sighed. “I’ll put a few things in a bag for you, Angela. You’ll need needles, scissors, purple thread, mauve, too, just to make certain, and I’ll toss in a few scraps of cloth in case you need to do some patching. I intend to give Jamie Lambert a piece of my mind next time I see him, you can be sure of it!”

  “You’ve saved my life,” Dobson told me.

  I smiled, liking the lad a great deal. A few minutes later we were hurrying through the labyrinth of cobbled streets toward the Lambert. Covent Garden was bustling with activity, despite the cold, despite the icy wind. I clutched my heavy cloak close about me as we rushed up Bedford Street and down King, passing the Market, turning up James Street, crossing Hart and making for Longacre as fast as we could. The streets were crowded with carriages bound for the
theaters, and there was a congestion of them in front of the Lambert. Torches illuminated the soot-stained marble portico, and a noisy throng moved up the wide steps to the entrance.

  “This way!” Dobson panted.

  He led me around the side of the building to the dark alleyway in back and then to the stage door. My first sight of the inside of a theater was a large, dimly lighted area with dusty flats leaning against the walls and coils of rope on the floor. Discarded scenery and props were littered about, and there was a rack of old costumes mothy with age. Dobson led me up a narrow hall to a larger area in front where people bustled about in what appeared to be total confusion. I caught a glimpse of the stage, a garden set in place, white trellises draped with artificial leaves and flowers, a painted backdrop depicting distant green hills with trees, a misty blue sky, footlights bathing it all in extremely bright light. There were catwalks in the darkness above, a veritable jungle of ropes looped about, and the front curtains were closed. Looked quite shabby from here, I thought.

  “This must be the wings,” I said, dodging a chap in shirtsleeves who hurried toward the stage with two white lawn chairs. “I’ve often heard my friend Megan mention—”

  “The table! Where’s the bleedin’ table?” a hoarse voice shouted. “Gotta have the pitcher and glasses, too. Quickly!”

  “Twenty minutes! Twenty soddin’ minutes! Shrubs! Bring on the shrubs at once!”

  From the other side of the stage a man rushed on with a huge plaster statue of a Greek goddess, setting it in place, while another carried on four leafy shrubs and set them about. James Lambert came rushing into the wings with rich brown locks atumble, his green-brown eyes flashing dangerously. He wore brown breeches and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a natty green and yellow checked vest. Spotting Dobson, he stormed over and seized the youth by the shoulders and began to shake him vigorously.

  “Where is she! I told you not to come back without her! I swear, Dobson, if you’ve failed me, I’ll—”

  “Mrs. G-Gibbons couldn’t c-come,” Dobson stammered. “She s-sent an assistant in her p-place.”

  Lambert released him and brushed a heavy brown wave from his brow and gave me a savage look.

  “You!” he snapped. “Can you sew?”

  “Of course not,” I retorted. “Dottie merely hires me to insult the customers.”

  His eyes flashed with emerald fire. “Get her to the dressing room and get her to work!” he ordered Dobson. “It’s less than twenty minutes till curtain! Everything is chaos! Inefficiency on all sides! How do I endure it? Why do I endure it? I’m surrounded by blithering incompetents!”

  “I’ll expect five pounds for the job,” I said crisply.

  “Five pounds! That’s robbery!”

  “I’ve been sorely inconvenienced, have missed my evening meal, have rushed through bitterly cold streets to get here in time, and—”

  “You’ll get your five pounds!” he shouted.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Dobson led me behind the painted backdrop, through a cluttered area and into the wings on the other side of the stage. We moved down another narrow hall, finally stopping in front of a door with peeling white paint. He knocked timidly. A heavy object crashed against the door from inside. There was a piercing shriek. Dobson gave me a worried look and shook his head. The door was opened by a middle-aged woman with gray hair and anxious blue eyes. She was wearing a black dress and a white apron and mobcap and was obviously a maid. A tall and decidedly statuesque blonde in a white silk petticoat and belted pink lace robe stood in front of a littered dressing table, fuming. She grabbed a box of powder and hurled it violently. A puffy white cloud filled the air as it exploded against the wall.

  “How dare him!” she shrieked. “How dare him speak to me like that! I’ve made a bloody fortune for the son of a bitch and does he appreciate it, does he appreciate me? Not for a bloody minute! Treats me like I’m dirt under his sodding feet! Treats me like I’m some strumpet he picked up off the street! I’ll show him! Call me a sow, will he? Mr. James bloody Lambert is going to regret he was ever born!”

  She picked up a pot of face cream and hurled it, too. It crashed over the top of the doorframe. Dobson fled. The angry blonde noticed me standing there in the doorway.

  “Who the hell are you!” she shouted.

  “I’ve come to mend your gown,” I said. “I think perhaps you’d better put it on so we can see how much damage there is and how much stitching will be required.”

  “There’s no need to mend the bloody gown! I’m not wearing it! I’m not going on! I’ll never step foot on that stage again as long as he’s in charge. I have my pride! I have my principles! Mr. James Lambert can find himself another leading lady! He can go straight to hell! He can rot there!”

  Theatrical folk were certainly a volatile lot, I reflected. I wondered if any of them ever employed a normal voice or uttered a sentence not ending in an exclamation mark.

  The maid began to wring her hands, eyes more anxious than ever.

  “Now, Coral dear,” she said, “you know you can’t refuse to go on tonight. You wouldn’t be hurting him, you’d be disappointing all those lovely people who have come out on a bitterly cold night just to see you.”

  “He’d be nothing without me! His bleeding play wouldn’t last a week!”

  “That’s quite true, dear. Everyone knows it. Do calm yourself and put on the gown so this nice young woman can mend it for you. Let me get you a cup of hot tea.”

  “I don’t want any tea! I want something to eat! I’m starving!”

  “I tell you what, dear, you put on the gown and I’ll go find that pleasant Mr. Dobson and have him send someone to Hatchard’s Coffee House and buy some of those nice chocolate cream puffs. You can have them here in your dressing room during intermission.”

  “Oh, all right,” Mrs. Tallent said petulantly, “but I’m not doing it for him. I’m doing it for my public!”

  She flung off her robe and pulled the purple and mauve gown from the rack. The maid shot me a relieved look and scurried away like someone just let out of an asylum. I took the sewing things out of the bag and removed my cloak as the actress struggled impatiently into the gown.

  Although Carol Tallent was overweight, she certainly didn’t resemble a sow, nor did she look like a baby whale. She was, instead, voluptuously hefty, like those women Rubens was always painting a hundred and fifty years ago. Her dark blonde hair was the color of honey, pulled back sleekly from her face with elaborate waves arranged in back. Her large brown eyes were sullen, her mouth petulant and provocative, a deep, rich pink. Though far from beautiful, she nevertheless had that potent sensual allure that drove men crazy. Made you think of cheap perfume and sweat and rumpled bedclothes, I thought.

  “Well!” she snapped. “Are you going to hook me up?”

  I stepped behind her and did up the tiny hooks in back. The purple velvet bodice had split along the seam on the right side, leaving a four inch gap, her white petticoat visible beneath.

  “Shouldn’t be at all difficult to mend,” I told her. “No need for you to take the gown back off. If you’ll raise your right arm I can sew it up easily. Just let me thread my needle.”

  “Hurry up! I’ve got to do my makeup after you’ve done. I don’t know why I endure this!”

  “You endure it for your public,” I said sweetly.

  “You’re right. I can’t let them down. One mustn’t forget the little people, no matter how celebrated one becomes. They’re the ones who buy the tickets. They’re the ones who make it all happen. The indignities one has to suffer for one’s art!”

  I wondered if James Lambert had written that particular dialogue, too. It was certainly worthy of him.

  “Just raise your arm up,” I said. “Try to stand still. Wouldn’t want to jab you. This is good, strong thread. It’ll hold nicely. Gown’ll be right as rain in a matter of minutes.”

  “If it had been done right in the fir
st place this wouldn’t have happened! I begged Lambert to use Mrs. Dane, she makes divine costumes, but no, he had to use that wretched Mrs. Gibbons who doesn’t know sod about color or—”

  Mrs. Tallent let out a bloodcurdling scream that must have startled humble folk on the outskirts of Plymouth.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I told you to be still. These little accidents will happen.”

  “You bloody idiot! You’ve wounded me!”

  “Just a teeny little jab with my needle. Let me see—is there any blood? Nary a drop. You’re not hurt at all. Just a minute or so more now. It’s coming along nicely indeed.”

  “Clumsy fool! It hurts!”

  “You’ll live, Mrs. Tallent. There. All done.”

  Mrs. Tallent jerked away from me and examined the gown in the mirror, then gave me a murderous look as I put the things back into the bag and picked up my cloak. I smiled a sweet smile. Mrs. Tallent called me a bumbling little bitch and said she intended to see I lost my job. “Enjoy your cream puffs, Fatty,” I said sweetly and left, closing the door behind me. I heard something splintering against it just as I got it shut.

  Charming creature, Mrs. Tallent. Now to find James Lambert and collect my five pounds. I moved back down the hall to find the wings on the right side of the stage crowded with men in handsome blue and white uniforms trimmed in golden braid. Sewed the braid on myself, I had, made most of the white breeches as well. The men were buckling on their sabers and milling about, paying no attention to me as I moved through their midst. I crossed behind the backdrop again and found utter confusion prevailing on the other side of the stage. A girl in blue with a white gauze apron was giggling merrily as she lolled in the arms of two stagehands. A third stagehand was holding up an empty gin bottle. Lambert was ranting, waving his arms in the air.

  “How did she get it! Who gave it to her! You all know I never permit any kind of liquor backstage! My God! There must be a full moon! Curtain’s going up in less than ten minutes and the little slut can’t even walk much less deliver her line!”