Prima Donna

by Megan Chance

  The room was small and not elegant, like every hotel we’d stayed in during those early tours. His clothes were strewn over the back of a chair, and there was a folio on a desk, thick with sheaves of paper—music, I knew, because such a folio had always been present, everywhere we’d gone. A pair of mud-spattered boots by the door, and on the small table by the bed a lamp and a book and two framed photographs. The one of me in the blue silk dress and pearls, taken in San Francisco, and beside it the one of the two of us together.

  I heard myself make a noise, a little moan, and I turned again to the door. “This is a mistake.” I reached for the doorknob, suddenly desperate to get out.

  He set his hand against the door. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “I’m not staying.”

  “Where’s the brave girl I used to know? My Sabine was never afraid of anything.”

  “I’m not your Sabine. And stop calling me that. It’s no longer my name.”

  “It’s who you are. That won’t ever change.”

  “It already has.”

  “Not for me.”

  “You’re the past,” I said. “And that’s where I want you to stay.”

  He said, “You don’t get what you want this time. I’ve just spent four years in hell for you—”

  “Four years is hardly enough time to make up for everything.”

  “For everything?”

  “For Alain,” I spat. “And the rest too. Leonard, San Francisco. All of it.” I let my anger grow, a safer emotion than fear. I threw the words at him. “I did whatever you asked of me. Whatever you wanted.”

  He laughed disbelievingly. “Whatever I wanted? My God, what a story you’ve told yourself.”

  “I never would have been in that hotel room if not for you. You told me we needed Alain. You told me we couldn’t get to Paris without him. You told me to convince him.”

  “Convince him, yes. Not kill him.”

  “You wanted me to take him to bed.” I felt a surge of satisfaction when he flinched. “I did it all for you.”

  “Don’t fool yourself, Sabine. You had your own aspirations in mind every moment.”

  “I don’t want to be that person anymore. I don’t want to be who you made me.”

  He looked at me with an expression that was both familiar and not, and for one moment, he was not Gideon at all, but a stranger, and I faltered, uncertain, suddenly more afraid of what had changed about him than of what I knew. “Then don’t be,” he said.

  “How easily you say that now. What would happen, I wonder, the first time a theater manager refused to pay our percentage? Or when some son of the Four Hundred decided to take an interest in my career?”

  “What do you want me to say? That I’d keep you out of it, when you’ve such a talent for persuading men to your way of thinking?”

  “You trained me well,” I said bitterly.

  He shook his head. “That was nothing I taught you, Sabine. That’s simply who you are. It’s who you’ve always been. That hasn’t changed, has it? I’ve watched you in that boxhouse, you know. Promising everything with your eyes. Confusing those poor miners so they can hardly see straight—”

  “It’s not the same,” I protested, once again disconcerted that I’d never noticed him there.

  “It is, and you know it. You use it easily enough when you want something. It’s only when it doesn’t work out as you wish that it’s someone else’s fault.”

  “Ah, I see. I was to blame. It wasn’t you who told me to have a private dinner with Leonard Jerome. It wasn’t your plan to have me persuade him to give us money.”

  “A dinner. I didn’t tell you to go to bed with him.”

  “What else does a private dinner mean?”

  “He was enamored of you. He would have given you the money without your becoming his mistress if you’d pressed him.”

  “How disingenuous you are! You knew exactly what would happen when I went to that hotel.”

  “I knew what you would probably do,” he admitted. “You were like a bludgeon when a tap on the shoulder would do. After all, it takes effort to lead a man along and keep his attention without meaning to fuck him, and you were never one for effort.”

  “You said we needed the money.”

  “We did. But I didn’t ask you to whore for it. You had to see how jealous I was. You had to know how I hated sharing you. God knows I didn’t try to hide it. But none of that mattered to you, did it? You knew exactly how much power you had—all I did was give you permission to do the things you would have done anyway.”

  His words were like little stones. I refused to feel them. “Oh yes. And you were so faithful yourself.”

  “More so than you.”

  “What about Leila? Or Pauline Lucca? Do you mean to tell me I had no reason to be jealous of them?”

  “You had no reason.”

  “You’re a liar. Don’t tell me you weren’t fucking them.”

  “It wasn’t what you think. It was never what you thought.”

  “What was it then? Chaste little affairs? Flirting and nothing more? Do you really expect me to believe that?”

  “Whatever I did, I did for us.”

  “For us?” I laughed shortly. “How good of you to make such a sacrifice. Forgive me if I don’t thank you for it. I should have listened to Barret. He was right about you.”

  “Barret was a fool.”

  “He tried to protect me, and you wanted him gone. If not for you, he wouldn’t have died.”

  “You wanted him gone as much as I did,” he countered angrily. “He was useless as a manager. We couldn’t afford for him to run things. But he could have worked for us in other ways instead. I never wanted him to die. Who tried to stop him from killing himself more than I? You? You ignored what you didn’t want to see. Who was it who fished him from the brothels? Who went out in the middle of the night to bring him back from whatever hellhole he wandered into? I kept him alive for years longer than he should have been. You were willing to give him up to get what you wanted. At least admit that.”

  “You smoked opium with him.”

  “Of course I did. How was I to know he would take to it the way he did? It was a lark at first. After that … I went with him to keep him safe.”

  “And I suppose you had nothing to do with Willa either? You betrayed her and seduced me. What choice did I have? I was only sixteen—”

  “How self-righteous you sound. ‘I was only sixteen,’ “he mocked. “Ah yes, what a little innocent you were. Following me around with those big blue eyes, pushing those breasts against me as if you didn’t know exactly what you were doing. Poor Rinzetti never had a chance, did he?”

  “It—it wasn’t like that.”

  “It was exactly like that. Lie to yourself all you want about what happened between us, Sabine, but you can’t lie to me. I was there. Yes, I wanted you. But you wanted me too.”

  “I was too young to know what I wanted.”

  He laughed. “Everything, as I recall. You wanted me to get it for you, and I did. You were more than willing to do what was required.”

  He was too close. His words were too loud. “I was a child,” I protested weakly.

  “You were too young for me,” he conceded, and the admission seemed to calm him. “I tried to stay away from you. But you were no innocent.” He sighed. “You and me, Bina, … we know what we want from the world. I won’t apologize for it. If you feel guilty … well, you’ll have to find a way to live with that. You can run away from me all you want, but you can’t run away from what you are.”

  “I left you because I was afraid of you. I was afraid of what I would do for you, of what I had done. I’m afraid of you still.”

  “You don’t understand, do you?” He stepped back to put space between us, shoving his hand through his hair. “I love you, Bina, but—”

  “You love what I can do for you.”

  His head jerked up. I saw the flare of anger in his eyes, and then with almost r
igid calm, he said, “I won’t pretend that I don’t want something from you, or that I don’t think you owe it to me. I do. I want my life back. I want our life back. I’ve spent the last four years thinking of how it could be. I thought … it could be different this time.” There was something in his eyes—sadness, I thought, and it surprised me and snagged uncomfortably at my heart. “I love you, Sabine, whether you believe it or not. But my days of absolving you are over. I won’t be the one to take all the blame. Accept your part. We’ll be equals in this, or we won’t … go on.”

  My discomfort bloomed and spread. I could not call back my anger. I felt the inexplicable urge to cry. “Why am I here? Why did you ask me to come?”

  “Those are two different questions,” he said.

  I said nothing.

  “I don’t believe you don’t want it.” His words were a whisper, as seductive as he must have known they would be. “You loved it. I know you miss it. This time it could be even better.”

  I looked away as if it could somehow diminish the fierceness of my yearning. I did not want him to see it. “Better? They would never leave me alone. There are reporters still looking for me. Dear God, it was bad enough before the scandal.”

  “I wasn’t aware you disliked the attention. I would have said it was the lack that offended you.”

  “They would never let it be. You know what it would be like. All those questions—”

  “You needn’t answer them. Let it remain a mystery. They’d only be dissatisfied with whatever you told them, in any case. It would never measure up to what their imaginations provide.”

  I swallowed hard.

  He said softly, “Believe me, Bina, I know. My own imagination has tormented me.”

  “I’ve put it all behind me. I’m not going back.”

  He was quiet for a moment. I knew he was waiting for me to tell him, but I could not. I could not bear to think of it, even now.

  Finally he sighed and crossed the room to his dresser. He pulled open the top drawer and took something out, a book, along with something small, wrapped in a handkerchief.

  He turned to face me. “These belong to you.”

  I was afraid again, swept by a panic I didn’t understand. “I don’t want them.”

  He came over to me, holding the book out. “They gave everything that was in the room to your family when they took me away. Your jewels—what was left of them, anyway—and your clothes. This. Willa brought it to me.”

  “I don’t want it,” I said.

  He pressed it into my hands. “Perhaps it would do you good to read it again.”

  It was my journal. I thought of myself bent over these pages, night after night scrawling on them by the flickering light of a candle first, and then later by a rather ornate oil lamp, the constant scratch of the pen nib on the rough paper. I pushed it back at him. “The stupid ramblings of a very stupid girl.”

  He made no comment to that, but his full lips curved in a slight smile. He didn’t take it. Instead he held out the other thing, the size of his palm, wrapped in a handkerchief. “This is yours too.”

  This I wanted even less. I had no idea what it was, but it felt dangerous. I shook my head.

  He took my other hand and forced the thing into my fingers. It was heavy, round, and flat, and I felt a dread so large and overwhelming it seemed impossible that it might be caused by something so small. I let it lie there in my flattened palm, making no claim.

  “Look at it,” he whispered.

  When I made no move to do so, he pulled back the folds of the handkerchief to reveal a filigreed circlet of gold, close-webbed with sapphires and a large pearl for a moon and nine diamonds—one for each year we’d been together. The last time I’d seen this had been in a pawnshop in Cheyenne, in the owner’s dirty hand. I had never thought to look upon it again.

  “How did you get this?” My voice sounded flat and far away.

  “Pinkertons. When the agent told me he’d found it, I had him buy it back for me.”

  I stared down at the brooch. I could not look at him.

  “You saved it for last,” he said quietly. “It must have meant something to you.”

  I curled my fingers tight around it until I felt the press of the diamonds against my skin. Then I forced myself to release it. I held it out to him. “You should keep it. I think it matters more to you.”

  He laughed a little. I heard his disappointment. But he didn’t take the brooch. He pushed my hand away. “Come back to your life, Sabine,” he murmured. “Please.”

  CHAPTER 19

  I tucked the brooch and the journal away beneath rolled stockings in the far corner of the dresser drawer. I thought of what he’d said, “It would do you good to read it again,” and my reluctance to do so rose solidly before me. What did the scribblings of the girl I’d been matter? I had already lived through it, and I remembered it too well. Why remind myself of the regrets I had, when all I wanted to do was leave them behind?

  It was already time to return to the Palace. I knocked on Charlotte’s door and got no answer; she must have already gone. The thought made me hurry. When I got to the box-house, there were men gathered around the poker tables, but it would be a slow night, I knew from experience. Mondays always were. I didn’t see Johnny, and that was a relief.

  I found Charlotte just outside the dressing room, adjusting the ruffle at her bodice. I pulled her aside and said in a low voice, “Have you seen Johnny today?”

  “Not yet. I only just got here.”

  “If he asks, tell him I was with you this morning.”

  “All right.”

  I squeezed her arm. “Thank you,” I said, starting to move away.

  “Why are we lying to him?”

  I looked back at her. Now was my chance to tell her the truth. I’d meant to do so eventually, someday, but I realized I wasn’t ready to tell her or anyone else about Gideon or what he’d offered me. I felt too unsettled. So I made myself smile and said, “I’ll tell you later. I’d best get back to the floor.”

  I spent the next hour at Jim Ryan’s table, trying to make up for my neglect the night before. I forced myself to concentrate on the part I played as if it were a role and I were on a stage, as if the girls singing were the chorus, and the men sitting at the tables and playing cards were scenery. And I found myself watching for him, waiting for his arrival, thinking that at the end of the show I would find him backstage the way I always had, a smile on his face, criticism or praise ready on his lips. “You were perfect tonight, Sabine. No one plays Marguerite as you do….”

  Then I saw Johnny hovering near the bar, and I remembered last night with Kerwin, and the truth of who I was and what I was came back hard enough that I sank into the nearest chair with the force of my disappointment.

  He wandered over. “Feeling all right, honey?”

  I shook my head tightly. “Like hell.”

  “No wonder.” He pulled up a chair, straddling it.

  “What happened to Mr. Kerwin?”

  “At his hotel.”

  “He hasn’t gone back to Portland?”

  “Not yet.”

  “So I didn’t ruin everything?”

  “Not quite. Thanks to the fact that I got him drunk enough that he’s mostly forgot the evening.”

  I let out a sigh of relief. “Thank God.”

  “God had nothing to do with it.” Johnny’s gaze was thoughtful. “He’s staying another few days. You want to try again with him? I’d say tonight, but he seems worse off than you.”

  “You still trust me with him?”

  “I don’t know. Suppose you tell me what last night was about.”

  “I was just … stupid.”

  “Ah. Talk it all out at the docks this morning with your tall friend?”

  I frowned at him. “The docks?”

  “Ain’t that where you went so early?”

  It took me a moment to remember that I’d asked Charlotte to lie, to realize that he’d spoken to her. �
�The docks. Yes.”

  “So now you got it worked out? Whatever was eating you?”

  I nodded. “You won’t see me that drunk again.”

  He let out his breath and rose, twisting the chair back into place. “See that you keep that promise.” He paused; I felt his gaze hard on my face. “I didn’t know you had a fondness for watching ships.”

  My smile was wooden. “Didn’t you?”

  “Something new to know.” He bent to kiss me, and his lips were soft and warm, and I felt guilty. Yet not guilty enough to keep him there, and I was relieved when he stepped away.

  THAT NIGHT, WHEN the last customer left, and Johnny was in his office, I went up to the orchestra loge to bring down the beer glasses the musicians always left behind. There was an empty bottle of whiskey turned onto its side on top of the piano, sitting in a pool of spilled drink, and with a sigh, I picked it up and wiped at the whiskey with my sleeve.

  I sat on the piano bench, setting the bottle aside. I raised the lid and laid my fingers gently enough upon the keys that they didn’t depress, and I looked down at my hands and saw Gideon’s instead. His long fingers, knobby jointed, spreading and jumping over the keys without effort, as if they moved separate from his thought, so quick and sure they were.

  Slowly, I depressed a key, a low, resonant E that seemed to vibrate into the floor. When the sound faded, I heard some of the girls talking below, readying to leave.

  I pressed another key—a G this time, and then higher, to a B and then an A, and when I hit the A I let out the air from my lungs in a matching hum—so softly I barely heard myself. One, two, three. A, C, F. My voice was breathy and quiet, for myself only. “Vanderbilt’s tired of waiting for a box at the Academy. He’s building an opera house.” “They need singers.” “Notoriety fills houses.” Little temptations hiding in every note, in every catch of breath. “It could be different.”

  I felt the desire, coiled hard and tight, not the same as it had been before, when the church choir had been enough to quiet it. This desire could not be assuaged by choral music and hymns so easy to sing I could do so in my sleep. It quivered now, waiting, hungry with possibility, needing adoration and acclaim, anticipating joy.