“Don’t forget we’re having early supper tonight,” her aunt called after her. “If you’re planning to change, you’d better do it soon.”
That might be taken as a hint. Sarah quickly stripped the flowers of excess foliage, cut the stems at a slant, and plunged them into water. Then she went upstairs and put on a loose cotton gauze shift with some silver, agate, and turquoise jewelry Max had bought her off the sidewalk in Santa Fe. The costume was quite elegant enough for Emma Kelling’s table, or anybody else’s she was likely to get invited to, yet it would be practical for backstage. She was looking forward to doing the makeups again tonight.
By the time she’d fixed her hair and got back downstairs, Cousin Frederick and all three Tippletons had arrived. Jack was working his charm on Emma in an offhand way, and devoting more serious attention to his drink. Frederick was concentrating wholeheartedly on Martha. For a noncharmer, he appeared to be managing well enough. Martha looked more alive than Sarah had ever seen her before. The color in her face hadn’t been artificially induced, she was smiling at something Frederick was telling her. Those enormous dark eyes were, if not actually dancing, at least giving the impression that they wouldn’t mind trying.
Jenicot was sitting by herself on one of Emma’s brocaded satin love seats, staring at her mother as if Martha were some odd specimen that had got out of its bottle. Sarah went over and sat down beside her.
“All set for tonight, Jenicot?”
“I guess so. If I don’t forget my lines.”
“Why should you? You were fine at rehearsal last night. Oh, by the way, Mrs. Heatherstone got her candy.”
“Candy?” Jenicot’s eyes went as big as her mother’s. “What candy?”
“That box of liqueur cherries Mrs. Pence’s mother asked you and Parker to bring over. Mrs. Heatherstone hadn’t thanked Mrs. Sabine because somehow or other it got to be Sebastian Frostedd who handed them to her, and she thought they were from him.”
“Oh, that. I’d forgotten. It was so totally unimportant. Shouldn’t we be eating, so we can get to the theater on time?”
“Don’t fret, I’m sure Aunt Emma has us timed to the second.”
That was not what Sarah wanted to say. Little witch! The candy had not been totally unimportant to the person who sent it, or to the one Mrs. Sabine had wanted to have it. Jenicot Tippleton needed her ears pinned back.
Sarah did not intend to do the pinning, though, not tonight. She wasn’t about to turn anybody’s first-night jitters into a full-scale fit. She made another noncommittal remark or two, to which Jenicot responded in surly monosyllables. Then Cousin Frederick said something, and Martha Tippleton laughed out loud. It was a sound Sarah hadn’t thought she could make.
“Your mother’s in great spirits tonight,” she said to Jenicot. “I’ve never seen her looking so well.”
“She’s the most beautiful woman who ever lived.” The ferocity in Jenicot’s voice was startling. So the girl did have some feelings, after all. “Don’t you think so? Honestly, Sarah?”
That was a plea Sarah could never have refused even if she’d wanted to. “I think she’s absolutely ravishing,” she replied with perfect truth. “I was saying so to one of my cousins at lunchtime, as a matter of fact.”
“Which one?”
“Mabel.”
“Oh, her.” Jenicot went back to scowling at the hearthrug. After a while, she got around to speaking again. “The thing of it is, Mama’s—well, she wasn’t exactly a kid when I was born. My brother Marsden’s almost forty, you know.”
“Actually I didn’t. It hardly seems possible your mother could have a son that age.”
This was what Jenicot wanted to hear, but it wasn’t enough. “Your Cousin Mabel thinks Mama’s a mess. She told Mama so.”
Sarah laughed. “Heavens, you don’t care about that, do you? Mabel thinks everybody’s a mess. Have a cheese straw.”
“I know, but—” Jenicot nibbled the end off her cheese straw. “What if—you know—other people—”
Whatever Jenicot was about to confide, Sarah never got to hear. The doorbell’s wild jangling startled them all into silence, then Gillian Bruges flung herself into the room.
“Mrs. Kelling! Mrs. Kelling!”
She was screaming and sobbing, stumbling over the carpet. Heatherstone was at her heels, making agitated noises. A youngish man in a red T-shirt and some kind of uniform cap was beside him, talking fast and loud, making oversized gestures. Sarah barely had time to gasp at what a wreck Gillian looked when the uninvited arrival was hurling herself into Mrs. Kelling’s arms, burying her face on Mrs. Kelling’s shoulder.
Emma was trying to support her, fend her off, and get her to make sense, and not having much luck all around. “Gillian, what’s the matter? What happened? Were you in an accident?”
“She got mugged.”
This was the strange man speaking. He’d remembered his cap, and snatched it off. “I picked her up at the corner of Main and Temple. I’m a cabbie, in case you’re wondering. I was on my way back to the garage and I see this woman standing out in the road waving me down. She looks like she’s been hit by a truck. So I stop and ask her what’s the matter? She tells me these two guys forced her off the road, dragged her out of her car, beat her up, and took off in the car. She was pretty hysterical, like she is now. I said I better take her to the police station but she kept yelling, ‘No! No! Mrs. Kelling.’ So naturally I figured she must mean you. I hope it’s okay.”
“Oh yes, quite all right.” There was a sigh in Emma’s voice. “Hush, Gillian, you’re safe now. Get her some brandy, Heatherstone. Oh, and pay this kind man his fare.”
“Hey, that’s okay. I don’t want any money. I wouldn’t feel right.”
The man was backing toward the door, clutching his cap in front of him with both hands. “Just so I know she’s okay. You better get some ice on that eye, miss.”
In a confusion of thank yous and how dreadfuls, he was gone before Heatherstone, who’d been trying to get Gillian to sip some brandy, could see him to the door. After a few swallows of the brandy, Gillian calmed down enough to show her face. It was a mess. She must have been knocked down and had her head rubbed in the dirt. An ugly scrape disfigured her left cheek. The eye was red and puffed, swelling for a shiner. She was filthy, trembling, still half distraught.
“He should have taken her to the police station,” Cousin Frederick was insisting.
“Or the hospital,” Martha said. “Shall I call an ambulance?”
That set Gillian off again. “No, please! Let me stay here. I’ll be all right. Truly, Mrs. Kelling.”
“But we must report the theft of your car.”
“The cabbie did. He stopped a cruiser. They know already. They asked me questions. I showed them my registration.”
“Where was it?” Sarah asked her.
Gillian only stared.
“If they robbed you and took your car,” Sarah repeated slowly, “how did you still have your registration? Where was it?”
“In my purse. They didn’t take that. See?”
She showed them a little oblong of purple leather, still dangling from her shoulder by the narrowest possible strap. There was nothing much inside but a lipstick, comb, door key, and a slim card case.
“Did they take your money?”
“I didn’t have much. Just a ten-dollar bill. Maybe that’s why they hit me so hard. I—” Before anybody could grab her, Gillian slid to the floor.
Jack Tippleton wasn’t being very gallant by his damsel in distress, Sarah noted. It was Heatherstone and Cousin Frederick who got Gillian up on the sofa and Jenicot who ran for ice to put on her face. The eye was almost shut now, turning purple.
“She’ll never be able to go on,” said Martha, taking the ice bag from her daughter and laying it against Gillian’s face.
“But I’ve got to!” Gillian pushed the ice away, sat up, and flopped back. “Only my head hurts so.”
“I hope she doesn’t
have a concussion,” Emma fretted. “Heatherstone, you’d better call an ambulance.”
“No, don’t,” Gillian pleaded. “I’ll be all right if you’ll just let me rest here.”
“But, Gillian, we can’t all go off and leave you alone.” Jack Tippleton had finally found his voice.
“I’ll stay with her,” Sarah volunteered.
“You can’t,” said Emma Kelling. “You’ll have to sing Constance.”
“Me? Aunt Emma, you can’t mean it.”
“Certainly I mean it. You managed nicely the other night with poor Charlie. Sarah, there is nobody else available, it’s two hours to curtain time, and I do not propose to argue the matter. Now come along to supper, everybody. Gillian, do you think you could eat something?”
“I’m afraid I’d be sick. I just want to be quiet.”
“Best thing for her,” said Frederick. “Come on, Emma, let’s put on the feed bag. Hurry up, Sarah. A full belly maketh a stiff upper lip.”
Chapter 17
THE MEAL MRS. HEATHERSTONE set out in the breakfast room was a simple one: mainly chowder, fruit, and cheese. Even that was too much for Sarah. She nibbled a pilot biscuit and took a spoonful or two of the chowder, but there was a lump in the middle of her chest the food couldn’t seem to get past. After a few tries, she gave up.
“Aunt Emma, may I be excused? If I’ve got to do Constance, I’d better take a look at my lines.”
“Of course, dear. Don’t be too long about it, though. We’ll have to leave in fifteen minutes if we’re to have time to change. And, oh dear, I’m afraid you’ll still have to help with the makeups.”
Frederick, who’d dispatched his chowder with the speed of an old bachelor used to catch-as-catch-can dining, shoved back his chair. “I’ll come with you, Sarah.”
“But don’t you want anything more to eat?” Emma asked him.
“No. Fruit makes me bilious and cheese is too binding. Come on, Sarah. Let’s run through that number where you tell me you love me madly.”
“All right, but we mustn’t disturb Gillian. Come into the dining room and shut the door.”
Once they were alone, though, Sarah didn’t begin to sing. Instead, she beckoned him over to where Lady Ernestina and her dove lay staring up at the underside of the table. “Let’s put her back the way she was,” she whispered.
“What for?” Frederick hissed back.
“I want to see whether we can manage it by ourselves.”
“Oh, I get you. Detecting. Good show.”
The two of them crawled under the table and went to work. It was surprisingly easy once they got the hang of taking one end at a time. All they had to do was raise the top of the stretcher and hook it over the handles at one end of the table, then boost the bottom and slide it into place over the other pair of handles, so in fact they never had to juggle the full weight of the painting. They had Ernestine back inside the apron in about two minutes, singing loudly all the while for the benefit of those in the breakfast room.
Then Frederick held the book for Sarah while she tried out her lines for the opener. Then they heard, “Come along, you two, we’ve no more time to waste.”
That was Emma, herding her flock together. “Now let’s see. I have the list of numbers for Gillian, and that cordless telephone Little Bed gave me for my birthday. Oh, and the aspirin and the ice bucket. For her face, you know. Poor girl, what a dreadful thing to happen just now. Sarah, you can’t possibly think this has anything to do with—you know what. Can you? I’m actually having a small qualm about whether I ought to cancel the performance,” she murmured, so softly that nobody but Sarah and Frederick could hear.
“You mustn’t do that,” Sarah told her. “We’ve already had our calamity for tonight, I think. I doubt very much that anything will go wrong at the theater.”
“I certainly hope you’re right.”
“She’d better be,” said Frederick. “I’ve personally hired two of Sergeant Formsby’s men to stand guard backstage all through the performance. If they slip up, they’ll have to whistle for their pay and I’ve told ’em so.”
“Fred, you did that for me? My dear, I’m touched.”
“Now, Emma, don’t start slobbering over me. I did it for myself as much as anybody. I’m in this circus, too, you know. Go check your patient, and let’s get started.”
They went into the drawing room, where Gillian Bruges was still lying inert under a mohair throw on one of the sofas. “Gillian, are you awake?”
“Unh? Oh.” The eye that was still operable opened. “Yes, Mrs. Kelling.”
“My dear, we have to leave now. I’m putting a telephone and the numbers for the police and the hospital right here on this table beside you. And here’s some aspirin and a carafe of water, and more ice for your face if you need it. You know where the bathroom is, don’t you?”
“Yes, I can manage. Thank you, Mrs. Kelling.”
“Now we’ll make sure all the doors and windows are locked and the burglar alarms switched on so you’ll be perfectly safe. I wish there were a neighbor I could get to come in and sit with you, but I’m afraid they’re all coming to the show.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m used to being alone in my apartment.”
“Then you just get some rest and we’ll see you later.”
“Good luck with the show. I’m sorry I let you down.”
Emma straightened the mohair throw as a last proprietary gesture and went out, counting noses.
“Let’s see. Three, five, six of us plus the two Heatherstones. Too many for the Buick. You people did walk over, didn’t you, Martha?”
“Yes, we thought it would make one fewer car in the parking lot. Jenny will be coming home with Parker, I expect. She can sit in her father’s lap on the way over.”
“Oh, let her ride with me,” said Sarah. “Max told me he’d try to make it back for the performance. If by any wild chance he does, we’ll need another car anyway.”
This was wishful thinking, but Sarah didn’t feel like being squashed in with Jack Tippleton. She needed time to brood.
She didn’t get it, of course. The too-often-silent Jenicot chattered nervously all the way to the auditorium, mostly along the lines of, “Aren’t you scared to death, having to jump in at the last minute without even a proper rehearsal?” which didn’t do much for Sarah’s faltering morale. Jenicot herself was plainly in a state of hear panic, though she tried to cover up with far too much semihysterical laughter. Much as she disrelished what lay ahead of her, Sarah was glad when the short ride was over.
At least her demure village maiden’s costume was no great chore to get into. Sarah put on the polka-dot dress, tied the apron over it, found to her relief that the corkscrew curls and the flirty cap were all of a piece and pulled them over her own hair. Then she painted her face with china-doll spots of rouge on the cheeks, and went to cope with Aunt Emma’s bustle.
She found she wasn’t needed. Martha Tippleton was already in Emma’s dressing room, and the two of them were having a lovely time. “Remember when I first came to Pleasaunce and you got me into your little theater group?” Martha was saying. “I played Lady Windermere and you were my wicked mother. We thought we were being so terribly racy. Turn around so I can get at those hooks. Did you know you’ve got writing on your bustle?”
“Oh yes, some nonsense the boys got into ages ago,” Emma lied with an ease that astonished her niece. “Where’s that mermaid’s tail thing that goes over it, Sarah?”
“Right here. Want me to put it on?”
“No, we’ll manage. Run along and get started on the makeups. You do know your lines?”
“I think so. If I dry up, you’ll have to bail me out, Mrs. Tippleton.”
“Please say Martha. I’m not really your mother, you know. I’m sure you’ll be fine, Sarah. It’s hardly the thing to say under the circumstances, but I never did feel altogether at ease with Gillian. She’s an odd sort of girl, don’t you think? Aside from her predilection fo
r my too-frequently loving husband, that is.”
Martha flushed. “That was in atrocious, taste. I don’t know what’s got into me tonight.”
“Something you could have used any time these past thirty years, in my candid opinion,” Emma rejoined. “I do wish we hadn’t had to leave Gillian alone in the house. Like her or not, she’s my responsibility.”
“You can phone her during the intermission.”
“But she might be asleep. I’d hate to wake her up just to relieve my own conscience.”
“You’ll think of something,” Martha said. “You always do. There, your fishtail’s on straight. Now struggle into this.”
Martha hopped up on a chair, dragging the billows of purple taffeta with her. Sarah saw there was nothing here for her to do, and went out to the makeup table, trying to remember her lines for the opening scene. She had rather a lot to do then, between her ballad of unrequited love and her dialogue with her stage mother. Fortunately, Martha would have far more lines than she, but Sarah didn’t want to have to get by on sobs and flutters alone.
After that, though, she didn’t make another appearance for a long time. A better-rehearsed Constance might have gone skipping about with the village maidens to fill in the interval between her songs, but she’d serve the cause better by lurking in the wings and keeping out from underfoot. She was supposed to pop out and hand Dr. Daly the teapot later on, but she didn’t have to say anything, merely drink her tea along with the rest and fall, like them, into an enchanted sleep until it was time to wake up and become unwillingly engaged to Cousin Frederick. That wouldn’t occur until after the trio and chorus at the opening of the second act.
Sarah wished she could have a session alone with the book; it was hard to concentrate on her part while she rouged cheeks and raised eyebrows. Jack Tippleton showed up at her table tonight, and allowed her to convert him into a proper old country squire without any protest. Sarah wondered if this was on account of the tongue-lashing he’d got from Emma at the dress rehearsal, or because Gillian Bruges wasn’t around to be impressed by his youthful virility or dismayed by the lack thereof. He’d given up trying to impress Sarah Bittersohn, obviously.
The Plain Old Man Page 16
