by Carla Kelly
Where have I heard that before, Kate thought, and smiled. She looked at the others, some in costume, some in parts of costumes, and remembered her first treading of the boards with the indomitable, unique, one and only Bladesworth Traveling Company. Was it only six weeks ago? Surely not. I must have known you darlings forever.
The play began, the runner and Gerald in front of the curtain, extolling the virtues of the Rowbottom daughters and bemoaning the fact that neither could marry until the oldest was wed. And then the marquess, squinting in spectacles and tripping over shoes too large, stumbled onstage as Antonionus Pinchbeck, and the act was off and running. There were several long pauses, where Malcolm would glare at the guilty party and do a ponderous hornpipe until the line was picked up, but no one resorted to the promptbook.
Malcolm played the vicar for the first time in rehearsal, holding out paper, pen, and ink for her to sign her name to the marriage lines. Kate looked at the blank sheet and poised the pen over it. “Sign your real name, Kate,” Malcolm whispered. “That way you won’t fumble over it.”
She did as he said and passed the page to the marquess, who dropped his spectacles several times and bumbled about before doing the same. The littlest Bladesworths broke character and giggled at his antics, and Malcolm glared at them. “Mind yourselves, missies,” he warned them over the dialogue that continued around him. “This is our bread and butter.”
The bells in the church steeple were chiming midnight when the fifth act closed. The runner, still weak from his encounter with Pinky D’Urst’s boot, had been dismissed earlier and helped back to the inn by Davy. The rest of the cast, exhausted, assembled on the stage, the little girls asleep as soon as they rested against their mother. They sat, waiting for Malcolm to pronounce judgment.
He looked around the stage at each person in turn, his gaze resting finally on Gerald.
“Gerald Broussard, I do believe we have a play. I cannot begin to express my gratitude.”
The others applauded. The little girls woke at the sound of clapping, looked about them in pleasure, and went back to sleep.
“It is only the first of many that I can write for you, Monsieur Bladesworth,” Gerald said. He stood up and cleared his throat, opening and closing his mouth several times until he could speak. “There is a way that you can repay me, sir,” he said.
“Speak up then,” Malcolm said.
Gerald held out his hand for Phoebe. She rose gracefully and stood by his side. “I wish to marry your daughter when we finish this first week’s run,” Gerald said. “We ask your approval.” His voice was firm; only his more pronounced accent betrayed his nervousness.
Kate held her breath, and Hal winced at the look on Malcolm’s face. He puffed out his cheeks until his face turned red, and then slowly let out the air. Gerald, his expression less sanguine, tightened his grip on Phoebe, who was quite pale by now.
“Papa … please don’t—” she began, but Malcolm cut her off with a chop of his hand.
“Gerald, this is out of the question! Phoebe is only sixteen, and you haven’t two farthings to rub together.” He gestured around the room. “None of us have! What can you be thinking of? My answer is no.”
Phoebe ran from the stage in tears. Gerald hesitated, wishing to follow, but held there by Malcolm’s indignation. He came closer. “Sir, am I not good enough for your daughter?”
Malcolm passed a hand in front of his eyes. “Gerald, I have such high hopes for Phoebe. With continued training and the right luck, she might be performing at Covent Garden someday.” He looked to Ivy, who had averted her gaze, and gestured broadly, performing for some unseen audience. “She might even attract the attention of a duke or a marquess.”
His face set, Gerald jumped off the stage and started up the center aisle. When he was halfway to the entrance, he turned back and shouted. “She is too good for an actor, is that it, Malcolm?”
He was gone then, the heavy lobby door slamming behind him. The others looked at each other. “Oh, Papa,” was all Maria could say. She hurried after her sister.
His eyes sad, Malcolm turned to the marquess. “All I want is for my children to live better than I have lived,” he pleaded. “Is that so wrong?”
“No,” Hal said. “It’s not wrong to wish the best for your children. But maybe they don’t want to take the easy way.” He strolled off the stage, his head down.
Without a word Kate retreated from the stage with the youngest daughters, leaving Ivy and Malcolm together. She tucked the little girls into bed and sang to them until they slept tumbled together, their arms about each other. Such peaceful sleep, she thought, as she kissed them. I cannot recall when I last slept so peacefully.
She lay awake well into the morning, pretending sleep when the older Bladesworth daughters crept to bed, Phoebe to sob into her pillow, and Maria to sigh and toss herself about. Kate listened to them both, wondering to herself, why do we get into such a pelter over men? You would think that between the three of us, there might be one functioning brain.
Breakfast was a dreadful ordeal, full of sniffles, food pushed away, and proud silence when Malcolm tried to pass on some conversational tidbit. He gave up finally and ate all the oatmeal that his elder daughters scorned, muttering something about “how sharper than a serpent’s tooth was a thankless child.” No one applauded his quotation; quite the contrary. With a sob Phoebe leaped up, knocking over her chair, and fled the room, one hand clutched to her heaving bosom, and the other pointed ethereally upward.
Pausing from his contemplation of the oatmeal before him, Hal watched in real admiration. “My God,” he breathed, “what a trial it must be for you at times, Malcolm! Think on it, Katie my love, such histrionics! Our children will not be so dramatic, my dear. I hope you do not mind.”
Kate glared at Hal. “If you do not quit talking about our children …’’ she began.
He smiled beatifically and addressed the oatmeal again. “But I love to talk about our children. It is a subject that interests me greatly.”
Kate rose with some dignity, grateful that Will was not there yet. “I am having a hard time resisting the urge to throw this bowl at you,” she snapped.
Hal twinkled his eyes at her. “Our second quarrel. I forgive you, my love.”
Speechless with indignation, Kate fled the room. “Men are so aggravating!” she said to Ivy as she hurried past her in the hallway and ran out the door.
It was still early, and the river was foggy. Her heart filled with mutiny and a marked distaste for anything in breeches, she leaned on the stone rail and watched the women washing clothes below her. The rhythm of hands on washboards, mingled with the slap of the clothes in the river was soothing to her jangled nerves.
One of the washerwomen, her skirt turned up and tucked into her waistband and sturdy knees showing, waved to her.
“Hello, love,” she called. “Are yer ready to open in two days?”
Kate forced herself to smile and wave. “That we are,” she called down.
“Ooh, love, we’ll be in line for tickets!” the woman shouted back. The other washerwomen nodded.
“Oh, my word,” Kate said quietly as the women turned back to their timeless work. “Half of us are not speaking to the other half, the lobby carpet has not been delivered yet, and I am sure I saw bats in the theatre this morning.”
“And you are now talking to yourself in the hopes of sensible conversation?”
Hal stood beside her. She had not seen him approach. He leaned his elbows on the stone railing, looking down into the water. “I am sorry, Kate, truly I am. Forgive me for being a tease.” He nudged her shoulder. “That’s one of those faults you will have to overlook.”
“There you go again!” she exclaimed. “No wonder I am driven to distraction!”
Before she could move away from him, Hal reached his arm around her and pulled her close. He touched his cheek to hers briefly and then released her. “I fully intend to marry you, Kate,” he said as he strolled back to
ward the theatre.
“Even if I will not?” she called after him, wishing he would keep his arm around her, even as she kicked herself for being so traitorous to her sex.
“Oh, you will,” he said and then was gone.
They began their last run-through before the final dress rehearsal in the afternoon so they would not require any candles. Hal arrived late and breathless with a quiet little man named Meacheam, who would play the vicar. Meacheam appeared to be somewhat hard of hearing, but he performed his small role with a little coaching from Malcolm. Kate signed the marriage lines without a bobble this time, turning her fuddled gaze upon the nearsighted Squire Pinchbeck and lisping, “ ‘I trust I spelled it right this time. I can never be too sure with names, especially my own.’ ”
The littlest Bladesworths burst into delighted laughter, and for once, Malcolm did not glare at them for stepping out of character. He threw back his head and laughed, too, and soon everyone was laughing, even Gerald.
Finally Malcolm wiped his eyes and blew a kiss to Kate. “I defy even Dorothy Jordan to deliver that line any better,” he declared. Meacheam, the vicar, his black eyes darting about, tugged at Squire Pinchbeck’s sleeve to remind him to sign his name, and the play continued.
“Magnificent!” Malcolm chortled when the curtain closed. “Come, my dears, and gather around.”
Phoebe, her face still a tragic mask, arranged herself with great dignity into a chair, while Maria and Will stood by, close to each other but not touching. Malcolm eyed them fondly.
“My dears, we have such a wonderful play. Let us all study our lines tonight and get plenty of rest. Tomorrow is the final dress rehearsal.” He beckoned his little daughters to come to him. “And then, my beauties, we will walk through town to announce our play, and you two can carry the drum.”
“Drum?” asked Kate. “I do not understand.”
Ivy tucked her arm through Kate’s. “An old theatre tradition, my dear. We will show you tomorrow.”
“So we shall,” declared Malcolm at his expansive best. “And now I suggest we adjourn to the green room for something to eat. Mr. Meacheam, you may join us, too. Mr. Meacheam?”
The little vicar had vanished. Hal pulled out his watch and snapped it open. “He hates to miss Evensong at his church,” the marquess explained. “Come, dear wife, and let us see if there is something besides oatmeal …”
He stopped. A man stood at the back of the theatre, outlined in the late afternoon sun of the open door. As they watched, he strode toward the front of the stage, waving a piece of paper in his hand. “I say, who owns this theatre?” he called out.
Kate stepped forward, shading her eyes with her hand in the hopes of seeing the man better. “I do, sir. What do you want with me?”
“Merely this.” The man reached up to the stage and slapped the piece of paper in her hand. “You must have a license to open this theatre.”
Kate stared at the writ in her hand. “What?” she exclaimed. Her eyes went down the closely scripted lines, then she paused and sucked in her breath. The others gathered around her. With a shaking hand she pointed to the document and looked down at the man who stood so complacently before them.
“Three hundred pounds?” she asked, her voice quavering. “I must pay the city of Leeds three hundred pounds before I can even open this door?”
Malcolm grabbed the paper from her nerveless fingers. He read it quickly, Hal and Gerald looking over his shoulder. “What do you mean by this?” he asked, the shock evident in his voice, even as he tried to hide it.
“I mean that you cannot open this theatre!” said the man, emphasizing each word with a jab of his finger. “Three years ago when the Banner Street Theatre closed, those rascally, thieving actors left town without paying their tradesmen’s bills. After the drubbing our merchants took, we in Leeds decided that we needed writ of guarantee.” He pointed to the document with a flourish. “There it is.”
Kate stared at him, her eyes wide. “Sir, at this juncture I have scarcely three pounds remaining!”
“Then you will not open, will you?” said the man. As they stood in silence, he marched up the aisle and closed the door behind him, leaving the Bladesworth Company to stare at each other in disbelief.
Chapter 16
Kate stared down at the writ in her hands, her face bleak. Hal put his arm around her waist, and she did not push him away. “Hal, what am I to do? We have three pounds! He might as well have asked for the Crown Jewels.”
By his expression daring Malcolm to say anything, Gerald took Phoebe by the hand, helped her off the front of the stage, and sat with her in the audience chairs. One by one, the others joined them and sat staring at the stage, with its elegant set furnished as a country home drawing room of the last century. The chipped paint on the chairs did not show from the audience, and the well-turned corduroy curtains that had seen a thousand other uses glowed like velvet at the imaginary windows. Even the bookcase, filled with fake books with tattered covers that the runner insisted would fool nobody, looked elegant and solid from their audience vantage point. It was all so beautiful, and to no purpose. They could not open Gerald’s wonderful play.
With a gulp Kate turned her face into Hal’s shoulder and sobbed. “I wanted this play to happen,” she whispered finally from the protection of his encircling arm. “I … I didn’t really care at first, but I wanted it to happen!”
“Hush, dear wife,” he said mildly, the disappointment evident in his voice, but without her discouragement. “I am trusting you to think of something.” He kissed her on the cheek. “M’mmm, salty,” he said.
“But I can’t think of anything!” she whispered back. “We have pinched and contrived to get us this far. I do not know what to do!”
He drew her back within his embrace again, his lips close to her ear. “Don’t tell them that. You’re supposed to be the leader. Now, lead.”
“But. Hal!”
“No buts,” he whispered firmly. “You bought this theatre. Now, stand up there and tell them what you’re going to do!”
He took his arm off her shoulder and gave her a little push in the small of her back. She was on her feet in front of the cast, propelled there by Hal’s loving boost. Kate looked at the Bladesworths, more solemn than she had ever seen them, and the runner, whose concern was etched on his face in the way he gazed past her to the stage. He had built most of the set himself, she recalled with a pang as she stood shaking before them and attempted to draw her shattered wits about her. And there was Gerald, head down, inconsolable, author of this bewitching confection that no one would see, if she did not think of something.
Kate took a deep breath and cleared her throat. The others looked up, discouragement written on their expressive faces. She faltered, then glanced at Hal. His lips set firmly together, he nodded to her. She took another deep breath.
“We are going to open,” she managed, her voice scarcely audible.
The cast only looked at her.
“I didn’t hear you.”
It was Hal, his face implacable, his arms folded. She had never seen him so serious. Somehow it gave her the courage to reach down deeper inside herself.
“We are going to open,” she said, her voice firm. It carried to the back wall.
“How?”
Malcolm spoke the one word that they were all thinking, the word that she feared the most. His face was drawn and pale and his arms hung at his side. “I think we must see reality this time, Kate. We have been diddled by a damnable ordinance, and we cannot open.”
“I refuse to accept that,” she replied quietly. She hiked herself onto the stage and sat there in front of them. “Now, if one of us were hurt and unable to perform, that would be different. This is merely money, and I will find it somehow.”
No one said anything; no one moved. Kate looked at Ivy, who was leaning against her husband. “Ivy, go next door to the baker’s and buy a cake. We’re all tired of oatmeal, and it’s time we had a sweet.” She look
ed at Maria. “Friend, see if there is any Madeira left. If there is not, send Will for a bottle or two.” She got to her feet on the stage. “When you are through, I want everyone to get a good night’s sleep. We will begin our final rehearsal—in costume—at 10 of the clock tomorrow morning.”
Kate stood there. If Ivy does not move, I will die, she thought. Please, please, Ivy.
After a moment’s reflection Ivy Bladesworth stood up and squared her shoulders. She held out her hands for her youngest daughters. “Come, my dears,” she said, her voice calm. “Let us go next door and find the best cake. Maria, you heard Kate. She is in charge; do what she asked.”
Kate let her breath out slowly, turned on her heel, and left the stage. Her stomach was churning, and she didn’t know if she could make it to the stage door, but she did. On her hands and knees in the back alley she vomited until her stomach hurt. She heard the stage door open, and she sat back, exhausted.
Without a word Hal took out his handkerchief and wiped her mouth. He took her by the shoulders as she crouched there in the alley. “Bravo!” he whispered, his voice fierce. “By God, we could have used you at Salamanca, or Busaco! You’re a great gun, Kate, did you know?”
Still shaking, she let him pull her to her feet. “I am nothing of the sort, Hal, and you know that better than anyone. And now I think I’ll go find my favorite tree and think a bit.”
“Good. I know you’ll come up with something.”
The door banged open again, and the runner slammed it behind him. Before Hal could move, Will shoved him up against the wall.
“I can’t believe you!” he hissed. “You have the capacity to end this farce right now, and you will not!”
Hal only looked at him. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, his face perfectly blank.
Will pushed harder, as if to force Hal into the bricks themselves. “Why do you not just admit who you are? I know you are the marquess. You know you are the marquess. This borders on the insane! You could save this little lady from enormous worry, if only you would exert yourself.”
