A Lady in Disguise

by Sandra Byrd

  I turned the photograph over, hoping for a name, date, or address. Alas, nothing had been scribbled on the back, and there was no studio name stamped upon it, which would direct someone to where the photo had been taken, either.

  Who was she? And why had Papa kept her photo tucked among his treasures? If you should discover anything upsetting, do you think you can withstand it? I’d assured Mrs. W just an hour earlier that I could. Now I was not certain, not if the truth was sordid.

  I set the beautiful young woman down on top of the small pile. She continued to stare. I turned the picture over, blinding her, muting her.

  All that remained was a bundle of letters, lightly bound with one of my mother’s hair ribbons. Papa had kept a locket with a curl of Mamma’s hair tied in that same ribbon, the one she always favored, a rare silver blue, like her eyes, and mine. Like a sapphire, Papa had said, shot through with silver.

  I’d buried that locket with him, clasped in his hands.

  I loosened the letters and looked at them, one by one. Most had been posted early in their marriage, postmarked when Mamma had accompanied a traveling troupe for a short period, or even from before their marriage. I did not read them. They were too old to bear on the matter at hand, and, in any case, I did not have the heart to hear their voices. One letter, the final letter, was addressed to both Papa and me, written in Mamma’s handwriting. Should I read it? It had been addressed to me, too, after all.

  I held the letter for a moment; the broken red wax had been snapped, of course, when the letter had been opened and read. Mother’s seal had closed the letter once; imprinted in that red was its mark. It was the same seal I now wore, our family signet ring. The ring had been passed, mother to daughter, for generations. Mother had never taken it off, as it had been the sole daily connection she’d had to her mother after having been nearly banished. I’d slipped the ring from her finger when she died and it had not left my hand since.

  I unfolded the paper and a wave of nostalgia and grief swelled through me as I recognized her comforting, familiar hand. The note was short and addressed to “Drew.” Only Mamma had called my father Drew rather than Andrew. My heart panged with longing for them both.

  Dearest Drew and my little Gilly Girl,

  I hope you are both well, and miss you desperately. I shall be home soon, and hope that you, Drew, will give our girl an extra kiss and squeeze each night till then.

  Mother is doing as well as can be expected. I am glad I have stayed these extra few days to help sort through Father’s belongings. We have had a chance to discuss Winton, too. She’ll keep on the caretaker, cook, and maid, of course. I’ll arrange for a nurse as well. There are resources enough to cover her expenses, but only for a few years.

  The house is too big for one person, in truth. It is not necessary or even godly for anyone to have a home this size and no good has come of it. Knowing that, it is my intention to immediately donate the house to the Cause if and when it becomes mine, if that is your will as well, darling. You know how given I am to the Cause and its ministries. Perhaps then, good can finally come of Winton.

  I shall be back to you both soon.

  I remain, as ever,

  Yours affectionately,

  Vicky

  I set the letter on the bed. The lamp flickered, winked, sputtered, and then went out.

  I could not gather my thoughts; they were scattered by the shock. My mother had intended Winton Park not for me, but for the Cause! She had been deeply given to its Christian mission to the poor and downtrodden, that I knew. The Cause had started as a ministry to those poor and downtrodden in East London, feeding them and providing them with clothing. Soon, there were speakers bringing the good news of the Gospel.

  Mamma had volunteered there for many years, welcomed by the underprivileged because as an actress she was also on the outskirts of society and thought by many to be of base morals because of it. Mamma, too, knew what it was like to be shunned.

  She’d spoken to the women aided by the Cause, loved and accepted them without reserve. She’d served meals and given rousing speeches. I had heard quite a few of those talks. As a girl, they had bored me. As a woman, now, I was inspired. Mamma had supported the Cause financially in small ways, which were, after all, all that were available to us for many years.

  Perhaps she’d known all along she planned to support them magnificently in the end, with the resources only the donation of Winton could bring.

  Immediately, she’d said.

  Why had she never told me? I had been young when she’d died. Perhaps Papa had disagreed. If that is your will as well, darling.

  Perhaps he had intended me to make that decision with my future husband, as he and Mamma had always decided things together and the property remained in trust for me until I was married or aged five and twenty. Or upon Papa’s death. I wiped a tear.

  Maybe my father, so decisive much of the time, had faltered with this most significant request.

  Had he faltered elsewhere?

  I gathered the small bundle of ephemera: the letters, the calling card, the photo, and then slipped them into my linen pocket. I would keep them with me. Nothing within them could be of help to Roberts—could they be?—even if I were of a mind to help him. Currently, I was not. I turned my hand back to the letter.

  Mamma, I shall, of course, do what you wanted with Winton.

  I loved Winton, with its many rooms and pretty portraits of my forebears, and a wide lawn edged with a copse of trees. I’d always planned to restore it, to modernize it to my tastes while retaining the touch of those who had gone before. I thought, perhaps, I might live there, at least some of the time. I’d envisioned my children frolicking there in a way I’d not been welcomed to. I wanted to make it the happy home my mother had remembered from early in her life.

  That was before she’d crossed her father, of course. I glanced down at the papers left by my father.

  Who had he truly been, and what had he been involved with, and why had he died? Why had Mamma intended to leave her home, our family home, my home now, to the Cause? She had died, of course, before Grandmamma had, and the house had been placed in trust for me. Papa was the trustee.

  Papa. Mamma. I was suddenly uncertain that I had truly known either of them. I grew anxious that if I pursued this further I would learn more than I’d expected and that things would never be the same. The realization nipped at my heels all the way to my bedchamber like the sly foxes in London’s alleys.

  I would not mention to anyone anything about what I’d found.

  Late that night, I pulled out the bottom drawer of a bureau in my room, a drawer I had not looked in for perhaps five or six years, and pulled out the notebooks I’d stashed there. Most of them were clippings of her performances, reviews and acclaims and even the rare poor evaluation. She’d had Mrs. W clip and save those, too, to learn from. I ran my fingers lightly over the newspaper accounts, and stared at the pencil-drawn illustrations of her in costume.

  Mamma. Mamma.

  I set them aside and opened up the notebook in which the clippings from her charitable works had been gathered. Although she’d donated her time and fame regularly, she favored the Cause.

  First was a clipping from the London Evening Standard.

  Sir—will you allow us space to inform your many readers that we have just come into the possession of the People’s Market and soup kitchen, attached? For a donation of 10s 6d we can supply 100 persons each with a basin of soup and bread. Tickets will be given away at the homes of the poor people by the missionaries and Bible women of the different religious denominations of the neighbourhood. Contributions will be gratefully received by the treasurer, NJ Powell, Esq., 101 Whitechapel High Street E.

  I smiled as I recalled watching her serve up those basins of soup and bread.

  I turned the pages and another clipping caught my eye.

  We desire to correct the false assumption stated by one of your readers, and state, what has so frequently bee
n stated before, that we have, for the past 15 years, acted as auditors of the books and accounts of this organization, and not only so, but that the books at headquarters are under our direct and continuous control. We go in at all periods of the year, ask for anything we think it may be right to have produced, examine the contents of the cash boxes, and see vouchers for all receipts and payments. The system for auditing these accounts is complete; at the end of each year a full and complete certified statement is printed and circulated among the subscribers and friends, and can be obtained by anyone on application at 101 Queen Victoria Street. Josiah Beddow and Son, Chartered Accountants.

  Mamma had always been so proud that the Cause was open and forthcoming with its financial dealings. It was why, she’d said, she felt comfortable lending her name to their outreach.

  I flipped the pages once more, ready to close the book, when an article with the word theatre in it caught my eye. It was dated just before her death.

  On Monday last, about 400 supporters and friends of the Cause visited a site on King Street, to consider the establishment of the Theatrical Mission. Actors, actresses, and producers from London’s many theatres will be instrumental in publicizing this ministry. A direct outreach of the missionary work undertaken by the Cause, the Theatrical Mission will seek to provide a temporary respite and suitable training for those leaving professions in theatre and who must pursue gainful employment elsewhere and otherwise. Upon establishment of the Theatrical Mission, subscriptions will be gratefully received by Charles Owen, Esq., Millwall and Blackheath, Secretary to the Committee.

  King Street, again: the spine of the entertainment district.

  • • •

  The next day, I wrestled over breakfast about what I should do about Papa. Leave things be? But what if Roberts was actually working in accord with someone who could do me harm? I wanted to hear from Collingsworth that my father had been under suspicion, or if he had been and was cleared. I wanted to ask him about the runaway cart. I needed to know if it was, with certainty, an accident.

  I dressed and Mrs. W accompanied me to the Chelsea division headquarters. It was early in the day and somewhat quiet, but the buzzing of police work was well under way.

  “Good morning.” I presented my card. “Miss Gillian Young, Inspector Young’s daughter.”

  I expected a word of condolence, but instead, he offered a thin smile. “Yes, I know, Miss Young. How may I help?”

  His attitude put me off balance. I looked around the station, fronted by a cool blue gaslight that beckoned all who needed help to come and receive it. The reserved faces around me offered no such succor.

  “I’d like to speak with Inspector Collingsworth.”

  The buzzing activity quieted. “He’s not here at present.”

  “I’ll wait,” I replied.

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible. I’ll let him know you called.”

  “Not possible? Why not possible?”

  He stood up. His presence felt, somehow, intimidating. “Will you need an escort home?”

  Mrs. W drew her breath in sharply. Were they throwing us out?

  I stepped back, caught off guard. “No. No, we’ll see ourselves out.”

  He tipped his helmet, politely, but his face was unfriendly.

  Once on the street, I said, “He was told not to let me see the inspector.”

  Mrs. W nodded. “Distressingly, I must agree.”

  Collingsworth, who had unexplainably been to Winton Park of late, would never return my call. I knew it. Something was badly, perhaps dangerously, wrong.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I’d been right. Collingsworth never called on or sent for me.

  A week later I was bid come to the Theatre Royal Drury Lane, by Mr. Wilhelm, my employer of four years. I hoped for good news from this summons. Drury Lane was the most important theater in London. My mother had performed there, and it was dear to me. Most importantly I was, after all, on my own now and needed the continued work.

  The Drury was the oldest theater in London still in active use; the queen visited regularly. I stepped through the foyer and into the cavernous theater itself. I had never overcome my awe of the place: plain seat or stately box, it mattered not. Each of the thousands of visitors enjoyed the same spectacle.

  I stood in the empty foyer. A theater was an evening habitat; it was as eerie in the daytime, as dark and lonely and fearsome inside as a misty street was at night. I walked forward into the cavernous auditorium and sat in one of the tufted chairs. The quiet enveloped me. Then, I heard a noise.

  Footsteps. I turned around, but saw no one. Wilhelm? The footsteps died away.

  I stood and moved toward the stage to reassure and calm myself. Should I head toward the rooms behind stage? Perhaps Wilhelm was there. I did not relish walking back there alone at this time of day. The rooms may be empty. But if those had, indeed, been footsteps . . .

  I took a deep breath and forced my mind to recall the joy of seeing my latest creations on that stage. What a pleasure that had been!

  Oh. I heard more soft, measured footsteps. They seemed to be coming from the corridor behind the seating section to my right. Yes, someone was walking toward me, but unseen, in the corridor. I was certain of it.

  “Hello?” I called out. As I did, the footsteps stopped. Surely if it were Wilhelm he would present himself. The theater was nearly black; I could only see shadows and shapes. The rich curtains draped all round and the heavy swag made the theater almost funereal, one colossal coffin holding only—me.

  When I had been a girl, the stagehands would remind me and the other children about the skeleton of a man with a knife protruding from his chest. He’d been found when the theater had been remodeled some twenty years earlier. They’d tease me, “He comes from behind waiting to snatch up misbehaving little girls, you know.”

  • • •

  “Mamma, is it true that there was a skeleton of a man murdered with a knife found at the Drury? And he wanders the halls looking for little girls who are misbehaving?”

  Mamma drew near to me, her face bright with stage makeup, and kissed my cheek with her highly glossed lips, leaving a sticky residue. “He doesn’t come for little girls, my dearest. Don’t listen to such tales.”

  I kissed her back and sat back in my little chair in her dressing room. So it was true, then. There had been a skeleton with a knife. No one could know that he didn’t come for little girls—not even Mamma. I slid my chair closer to hers and she reached down and stroked the top of my head while her wig was placed.

  • • •

  I’d lost myself in reverie till I felt a hand on my shoulder. I jumped and a little scream escaped my lips.

  “Miss Young?”

  I turned to face Wilhelm. I sighed in relief.

  “I’m sorry I was late,” he said. “I’ve just rushed in from the street. I needed to stop first, at the haberdashery.”

  So it hadn’t been him walking in the corridor.

  “No matter. I’ve spent the time thinking of the theater’s legends, and of my mother . . . and of the costumes I’ve had the pleasure of sewing for you, and even upon some poor advice I had once received.”

  He cocked an eyebrow.

  “I was told that if I were to sew for Drury Lane I could get away with a lower standard of workmanship. The stage was so large, the theater so substantial, that most viewers would not see lax workmanship from a distance.”

  “What was your response?” He stroked the left flank of his mustache, the furthest tendrils of which extended well beyond the fleshly limit of his cheek.

  I grinned. “I told them that each bead and stitch mattered to me, yes, for the eye of the audience, but even more, for the mind of the actress.”

  He grinned back. “Truly?”

  “Indeed! The costume is, of course, an object of delight for the viewers, but it is first the vehicle by which an actor is transformed into someone new: Juliet, a milkmaid, a pirate, a prince. I can transform anyone i
nto anything.”

  “Splendid, Miss Young. Yes. How would you transform a lowly maid, overlooked by her betters, into Cinderella?”

  My hand flew to my neck. I did not want to assume. I had never sewn for the principal leads before, only the pantomime children and lesser characters. “I’ve heard this year’s pantomime is to be Cinderella,” I began.

  “It is indeed. Last year’s pantomime, Sindbad, has not been received quite as Mr. Harris would have hoped.”

  I nodded. The reviews had run from scathing to tepid. Mr. Harris, the manager, had not been pleased. The principal designer had left for greener fields at Covent Garden.

  “He is determined that all, from Queen to commoner, shall be enchanted with Cinderella. Nothing is to go awry. Will you undertake the commission, Miss Young? The gowns for Cinderella and several of her attending pantomime girls? They must be stunning beyond anything anyone has ever seen, and that is a tall order indeed, knowing the kinds of marvels Mr. Harris has helmed.”

  My eyes filled with tears; my heart thrilled with excitement. All I had worked for and dreamt of from the moment I’d known, as a girl, that I wanted to sew. It was coming true, now. “It would be an honor, sir. It is like I am Cinderella myself!” If I were to succeed, it remained understood but unstated, I would be considered one of a handful of principal designers and seamstresses working under Wilhelm in the following years, too. I calculated dates in my head. I could finish Lady Tolfee’s gowns for the Season and then immediately begin on Cinderella.

  “I’m delighted.” Wilhelm stood. “I shall send along rough sketches, but I am leaving the creative vision to you. You let me know what you require—no expense is to be spared—and I shall see it delivered to your salon.” At that, his face darkened a little. “You do engage adequate seamstresses to see this through?”

  Not yet, I didn’t. But I shouldn’t let that stop me from reaching for the zenith of my calling, my passion. Because the theatrical performances sometimes required hundreds of costumes, individual seamstresses and those in their charge and employ worked from salons, mostly built into their homes, but sometimes in a shop, like my friend Sarah and her millinery shop. My salon was in my home, and I would see it expanded, and soon. I nodded. “I shall see it done perfectly, and the queen shall have no option but to knight Mr. Harris.”