by P. N. Elrod
"Uh . . . but L—"
She clapped a hand over my mouth. It smelled of greasepaint and some sort of rare spice. "I said not one word!"
She grabbed my arm and dragged me away. I was yet too startled to think to resist.
Thus did I unexpectedly renew my acquaintance with Lady Bertrice, Art Holmwood's black sheep sister.
Chapter Eight
She was the elder child by exactly one year to the day. Until Art was sent off to public school they'd been raised close as twins, and he told me that therein lay the beginnings of her defiance to the Holmwood family and the rest of the world.
Upon learning that her brother would go off to school but she was not allowed to go as well, Bertrice had pitched a conniption fit that nearly brought the house down. No amount of orders, argument, scolding, cajoling, or spanking could persuade her from her rage. She bitterly railed against the unfairness of being separated from her beloved brother and playmate by the mere fact that she was not a boy. Art said she'd rushed up to his room, donned some of his clothes, and brutally attacked her hair with dressmaking shears, then presented herself, small traveling case in hand, ready to go to the train station with him. He'd been all for it, but their outraged parents had other ideas. She was locked in her room, and he was packed off to Eton, both children in tears.
From that point on it was Bertrice against all of society. She'd have done well in Texas, where women with high spirits and gumption were welcome. In England, and especially in the class to which she'd been born, those qualities were considered Deadly Sins number Eight and Nine.
I'd met her at Lord Godalming's funeral. They were his only surviving children and rode in the carriage behind the coffin. Jack and I had been there, too, at Art's request. Bertrice had been alone, with no friend for support. He'd quietly introduced us, and I'd bowed over the hand of a veiled lady in a dress somber enough to please even the still-mourning Queen, but apparently not the rest of the Holmwood kinfolk. As we stood around the grave I noticed the whole pack—especially the women—staring at Bertrice as though she carried the typhoid. Some of the men either looked poker-faced blank or nudged each other with sly smiles that I didn't like.
This sort of manner was long familiar to me, having experienced a certain amount of disparaging patronization from the English. It started the moment they found out I was American. Some of them liked me for it, the rest would have drowned in a rain storm from holding their noses so high. I was raised in a place where if you looked wrongwise at a fellow you could get that nose blown right off. None of these fancy britches would have lasted two minutes with my hired hands back home, so I always smiled and let it slide.
The exceptions to this snobbery were Art and his father, who were true gentlemen when it came to respecting a man for who he was, not who society thought he should be. It was too bad there weren't more like them in the world.
After the service, the crowd lined up to give words of condolence to Arthur, but said nothing to Bertrice, who stood right next to him. Though she was suffering just as much in her grief they simply moved on like she wasn't there, which I thought damned bad manners. It made no mind to me that this was the cream of British aristocracy, I was ready to dust my knuckles on the next one to cut her short, male or female.
To my surprise, Bertrice touched my arm and gave it a squeeze.
"Miss?" I said in response.
"Never mind them, Mr. Morris," she whispered through the folds of her thick veil. "They're not worth the trouble."
How she knew what I was winding myself up for still mystified, but it was just as well she'd headed me off. Fist fights at funerals aren't unheard of, but best that everyone be in agreement for their necessity or it can get almighty embarrassing.
Later, in that draughty old stone pile that their great-grandfather had built and named Ring, the gathering took tea or breakfast or whatever meal one has after an English funeral. Arthur again got all the attention and Bertrice nothing, though she remained fast by his side. He made a point to include her in all the conversational exchanges. No one took him up on any of it except me and Jack Seward, but just the three of us against all those black crows of nobility made it hard going.
Then an old grandaunt called for the ladies to come along with her to a distant parlor. She looked right at Bertrice and said, "Not you." Everyone within hearing stopped talking with a near-audible gasp.
I saw the younger woman, who had held herself straight and unmoved all this time, flinch in reaction. Art stared, his mouth gaping.
"Oh, I say, Aunt Honoria—" he began, unhappily.
That was all she wanted for an opening. "Arthur, your sainted father may have allowed her to indulge in her disgraceful conduct, but I've never tolerated it and never will. This creature is an unnatural example of her sex. If you've any respect for the peace of your dead parents, you will have her locked away where decent people need not soil their sight on her."
Now everyone really did gasp. In the back, some narrow-faced crones murmured smug agreement. Art was too shocked and too well mannered to give short response to this outburst. I understood that Bertrice had a number of Bohemian friends the family did not approve of, but what she'd done to raise such acrimony I could not imagine.
Aunt Honoria turned away from us with stiff-backed dignity, heading for the door.
But Bertrice had a parting shot and made it in a very clear voice that penetrated the whole of the room.
"Dear me, Dr. Seward, I believe poor Honoria is ripe for your lunatic asylum. It's a shame what extreme ravages age inflicts on the brain. What a pity it is to witness such terrible senility. I know I should not be pleased to have anyone behold me in such a feebleminded state. Death would be a merciful release from the constant self-humiliation."
Both Art and Jack drained white. Honoria kept going as though she'd not heard, but of course she had. There was a collective silence in the room, and it seemed as though no one wanted to be the first to break it. Bertrice put herself forward, addressing them.
"I hope you've enjoyed yourselves. My thanks to you, my good family and friends, for the condolences you've all wished upon me. Dear Father would have been so pleased with your compassion."
That turned a number of shocked stares into shamefaced abashment. No one would meet her eye.
Bertrice smiled graciously at us. She'd taken off her veiled bonnet, showing a remarkable braid of thick, dark hair shot through with glints of mahogany. She looked very tired. "Arthur, I'm sorry to have made a scene at this of all times."
"You weren't the one to start it."
"Nor is it finished. I'm sure that wretched gorgon is planning out another attack even now."
"Well, piffle to her. I've a mind to demand she apologize to you."
"You're very sweet, but there's no point to the exercise unless she honestly regrets her behavior. Besides, she'd only become angry with you."
"She's angry with everyone."
She nodded, commiserating. "Dr. Seward, I apologize to you as well for dragging your name into things."
Jack stood a bit straighter. "Lady Bertrice, I am ever at your service in whatever way you deem fit."
"Thank you, sir. Would that there were more like you three in the world."
I'd not had any real participation in the business, but felt a warm glow to have been included in her praise.
"If you gentlemen will excuse me, I'm a bit fatigued. Best that I leave now so the relatives may exercise the opportunity to freely talk behind my back."
"May I escort you upstairs, Lady Bertrice?" I asked. Art shot me a grateful look, but I'd have made the offer anyway.
"I should be most obliged, Mr. Morris." She took my arm, and I led her out.
We climbed the main stairs slowly. Some of the gathering had lingered to watch her progress and whisper. She kept her head high, not appearing to be overly troubled by them or showing the least evidence that she was in any way retreating.
"Quite a harrowing gauntlet," I said, as we reached the landi
ng.
"They're insects," she intoned. "Can't see beyond their tiny little antennae to the larger world."
"A rare turn of phrase."
"Thank you. I'm glad Arthur has such friends around him, but then one may choose friends; with family one is not always so fortunate."
"Yes, miss, I mean, Lady Bertrice. May I offer you my condolences?"
"Indeed you may, sir. And I thank you for your great kindness."
I bowed over her hand. She gave my fingers a little squeeze, then wafted away, heavy black skirts and petticoats rustling.
Now she stood before me in the remnants of her Hamlet costume, an open black doublet and tights that bagged some at the knees as though too large for her. I made myself not look at her rather shapely legs. On stage it's one thing to stare, but backstage it was quite another. She still had that presence going for her. It sparked off her small form like a constant tingle of electricity. At the funeral I'd been subtly aware of its potential lurking under the surface. She'd let some of it blaze out when she broadsided her aunt. This was my first chance to actually have its focus aimed at me. I wasn't sure if I liked it or not, but it was impossible to ignore.
We were no longer in the building as she'd drawn me up several flights of stairs and through a door. I found myself suddenly outside in the February cold, standing on the theater's roof. The wind was still sharp, but Bertrice seemed not to notice.
"All right," she said. "We may speak freely here."
"Why the secrecy? If you don't mind my asking."
"Because the Ring Players only know me as Bertrice Wood, and I want to keep it that way. My title would be a terrible drawback in the company."
"Why so?"
She laughed a little. "You Americans. I adore your innocence. Let it suffice that you must never address me as Lady Bertrice, or make any mention of my connection to the Godalming title. Not here, anyway."
"Very well." I supposed she also didn't want her relatives to know she was running around in leg tights in a music hall, even if it was to do with Shakespeare. Aunt Honoria would have had cats. Full grown ones.
"What are you doing here, Mr. Morris?"
"I just came to see the show. All I wanted was to find out more about the Hamlet performances. I had no idea you were involved."
"How amusing. At least now it is. When I got your card I thought it was some disgusting joke. Aren't you supposed to be dead?"
"Uh—hm—ah . . ."
Hands on hips, she gave me a piercing head-to-toe scrutiny as though uncertain of my condition. "Arthur came dragging back from the Continent months ago with an incurable case of the mopes. He said you'd been killed and refused to give particulars. Even that nice Dr. Seward refused to speak of it. I was ready to strangle both of them. Would you please enlighten me?"
"Uhm—ah. It's a long story."
"I'm sure it must be. Did you three have a falling out?"
"No, nothing of the sort."
"You are allowed to be more forthcoming with details, Mr. Morris." She looked ready to strangle me, now.
"In good time, I promise. Tell me how Art's doing."
"The last I was at Ring he was in a terrifically low state."
"When was that?" While in Paris I'd verified that he and Jack had made it safely home, but I was eager for fresher news, even if it promised to grieve me.
"A few weeks ago. Why the devil does he think you're dead?"
"I had an accident that separated me from them, and they assumed the worst. It's a very long story. Might I ask how you came to be here?"
"Have you objections to female players?" Her eyes flared dangerously.
"Not at all, but I was curious—"
"As to how a member of the aristocracy could demean herself by taking to the stage?"
"Lord, no, Lady Bertrice!"
She eased off, settling back a little. "Forgive me, Mr. Morris. I forget how you are. I've grown so used to defending myself against all in my path that I don't recognize a friend when I see him."
It was rare-pleasing to my heart that she thought to consider me a friend. "You've no need to worry about my good opinion, Miss. I thought you looked to be having a grand time of things while you were doing all that acting."
"And you really didn't recognize me? I hardly knew you with that beard and the French suit."
"Well, I thought you seemed familiar, but for the life of me I couldn't place you. You can take that as a tribute to your acting talent."
She looked mighty happy. "Thank you, sir. Your open-mindedness is most refreshing. At our matinees most people catcall or throw rotten food."
"It's their loss, then. I am unable to come to your show at that time of day. Will there be any evening performances?"
"Not unless the receipts improve. The manager here makes more money from the regular fare he stages—dancing dogs and sing-alongs. He's certain he'll be ruined if he allows us to play in the evening. And I'm sure he's right. The music hall crowd will sit still for one portion of an act, but not the whole play."
"Perhaps another theater?"
"If I could find one that would have us. The instant they find out it's an all-female company they discover they're booked for the next five years."
"They just want getting used to the idea. Where did the idea come from, anyway?"
"Mr. Morris, I should be delighted to tell you all about it, but at the moment I'm having second thoughts about my choice of setting for a private conversation. I've gotten bloody cold."
We retreated inside. Through chattering teeth she reminded me once more to exclude her title from my speech, entreating me to call her by her first name. That well-pleased me, and I insisted she return the honor.
She and Art were very alike in many ways, but apparently worlds apart in others. Disguised under a blond Hamlet wig or not, he'd have never stepped onto a stage and spouted out Shakespeare even at the Lyceum, much less this humble music hall. He was a stouthearted fellow and brave as a bulldog, but he had his limits. His good sister, on the other hand, seemed to revel in it. Of all the players in that scene she did show the most forthright fire.
Back on the ground floor she found most of her company had already departed, either to their various homes or to seek out late dinners. When I determined she was herself feeling hollow around the ribs, I offered to escort her to any place she liked.
"Actually, I was planning to attend a gathering near Grosvenor Square," she said. "They always have a substantial collation on the board."
"A party? This late?"
"For many of them it's yet early. Most of the guests won't even think of going home until the milk wagons start clattering around. Have you any objection to Bohemian society?"
"I've some decent French, but bless me if I can wrap my head around German speech."
She blinked, then burst into a laugh at the joke, grasping that I was, in fact, aware of what she meant by "Bohemian." "You shall fit right in, then. Let me change and we'll go."
"Will any of Art's friends be there?" I was worried about encountering further unanswerable questions about my death.
"My God, I should hope not." She dove back into the dressing room.
Kicking my heels in the hall, I pondered what she meant by that. I could guess that her theatrical doings would scandalize her family if word got back to them by way of Art's other cronies. It might be different if Lady Bertrice was a staid and distant patron of the thespian arts, but her actual participation on a stage would put the relatives into six kinds of fits. I always thought it strange how attending a play was respectable, but being in one—especially for a female—was not. I couldn't get around it.
I also considered what, precisely, to do about Bertrice. She could not be allowed to speak to Art about my turning up miraculously alive, not until I was ready to deal with him, anyway. That meeting would require careful planning. I had no wish to terrify him, nor send him hurtling for the nearest weapon under the misapprehension that by dispatching me he would be saving my soul
. Given the shortage of good choices, I could consider that Dracula might well be right in his recommendation that I should cut ties to my former life.
But poor Art was apparently in a bad state. If I could just get him past the first shock and make him listen . . .
"All done, Mr. Quincey," said Bertrice, emerging. She was just fixing her bonnet in place with a hat pin. "We can get a hansom. There are usually a few dawdling about at the front of the theater."
I made no reply, being too stunned. She was all in black velvet, the top part something like a riding habit with touches of pale lace at the throat and wrists. It nipped in to a trim little waist and was wholly admirable to my eye, but the lower half of her costume would cause a traffic snarl even in a desert. I'd seen bloomers now and again and not really liked them, neither a dress nor trousers—comparable to being neither fish nor fowl. Lady Bertrice's were cut very stingy, fitting shockingly close to her form like a boy's knickerbockers, ending just below the knees with silver buckles on the banded cuffs. On her lower legs—and they were still most shapely—she wore black silk stockings and short boots with riding heels.
I've beheld much in the world in the way of women's costume, from the saris of India to the mud daubed on by South American Indians, but here and now in the heart of London, I found myself scandalized.
My feelings must have escaped onto my face. Those bright green eyes of hers blazed up again, and she lifted her chin. She looked ready to go fisticuffs with me and all my ranch hands.
"Is there a problem, Mr. Morris?" What an arch tone was in her voice. And she was back to using my last name.
"No, miss." I cleared my throat and straightened. "I'm just admiring the view."
For a second I thought she might dispute this, then she smiled and nodded. Apparently she'd cottoned on to the fact that I was trying my best. "It is a bit of a turn for a few, but the world shall have to get used to my ways. I'll not change."
"Nor should you," I said, for something to say.
A sharp look from her. Then another, approving, smile. "What a refreshing thing to hear. Thank you."
She had a long velvet cloak to match, which I helped her into. To my relief, it covered everything.
