“I believe Mr. Davis will be ready to take Mr. Creighton’s place,” said Dahlia.
“Of course.” Mr. Niles nodded. “I’ll send word to him first thing in the morning and let him know he’ll be playing Antony opening night. At least we have another week of dress rehearsals before the play opens.” He adjusted his glasses and pulled his watch from his trouser pocket. “It’s late. You both should go home. I’ll see you again soon. Good night.” He turned and crossed the foyer to his office, closing the door behind him.
Dahlia grabbed Solomon’s hand and laced her fingers through his, her hand warm through the fabric of her gloves. “Thank you,” she said quietly, bowing her head.
“Don’t thank me, Dahlia. I should have—”
“No,” she said, hugging his arm more tightly. “You gave me the courage I needed to stand up to him. I couldn’t have done it without you.” She glanced up at him with a smile and squeezed his hand, a flush in her cheeks. “Thank you for giving me that chance.”
He swallowed against the ache in his throat and returned the squeeze, his heart lifting at the sight of her smile. “You’re welcome, Dahlia.”
It was a chill February night. The icy wind bit at their cheeks as they walked down Brancaster and across the square to Medlock. When they reached the street to the Tuesenberry, Solomon peered down the narrow street, a cold breeze sweeping over the cobblestones, tugging at the hems of their coats. Dahlia shivered and leaned into him, clutching the fabric of his jacket.
“Would you like to come see Emily before you go home for the night?” he asked.
She peered up at him. “It’s not too late?”
“She’d be happy to see you.”
Dahlia nodded. “Then I’d like that very much.”
Solomon led her down Medlock, and they turned onto the unnamed side street that led to the Wade flat. When they entered the building, the stairwell wrapped them in warmth, and Dahlia quickly shed her gloves and scarf. A clock ticked on the wall, the minute hand slipping slowly past eleven.
“You can come up for a few minutes,” he whispered. He led her up the creaky stairs and to the third floor. Muffled voices and the faint sounds of crying escaped the rickety door to their flat. He frowned. “Oh no,” he said quietly, his heart sinking. “Something’s wrong.”
Rushing ahead, he pushed inside the apartment. Most of the children were awake, standing around the kitchen table and whispering to one another. Constance stood next to Petra, deep in conversation, and Matron sat at the table with her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with sobs.
Solomon’s heart hammered against his ribs. He strode across the living room, dragging his boots through the blankets and pillows that made up his siblings’ beds. “Emily?” His voice escaped in a hoarse whisper.
The huddling children parted to let him pass, and Matron looked up at his approach. There was a piece of paper in front of her, the ink blotched with tears, and it trembled in her hands.
“What’s happened?” asked Solomon, swallowing against the lump in his throat. His chest ached. “Is it Emily?”
The door to the flat creaked behind him, and he glanced back as Dahlia stepped in. She clutched her collar with white knuckles, her dark eyes shining in the lantern light.
Matron pushed the letter across the table and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Here,” she said thickly. “Read it.”
Petra sniffled and then cleared her throat, wiping the corners of her eyes. Solomon frowned, and his heart sank in his chest as he picked up the page and read.
Dearest Petra,
I am sorry that it took so long to respond and that this letter is so short. Communications have become difficult between the Company and the Guild, and I hope that my letter does not come too late for dear Emily. It troubles me greatly that she is ill, and I am sorry that I am not there to help. I do not know how much the medicine for her illness costs or how long she will need to undergo treatment, but I have sent Kristiane with what I think is sufficient for any hospital care she may need. I hope that it will be enough. If you need more, send word, and she will give you whatever else Emily requires for proper treatment. I hope the money is not too late in coming.
Give Emily and the rest of your family my regards.
Emmerich
Solomon felt a wash of relief, and his heartbeat quieted. Seeing Matron crying, he had feared the worst. He lowered the letter and glanced up at Matron. “How much?”
Fresh tears spilled over her splotchy cheeks, and she laughed, her thin body shaking uncontrollably. Petra pushed away from the kitchen counter and stepped forward, a broad smile on her face.
“How much?” he asked again.
His sister pulled a thick wad of banknotes from her pocket and slapped the money on the table. The thin paper fanned out across the cracked wood. She grinned. “Three fifty.” Her voice shook with laughter. “Can you believe it?”
Behind him, Dahlia gasped.
He stared at the money. “Three hundred and fifty pounds?”
Petra reached forward and grabbed his hand, fresh tears in her eyes. She squeezed his fingers. “She’s going to be all right, Solomon. Emily’s going to be all right.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Solomon knocked on the hospital room door.
“Come in,” said a small voice.
He pushed inside and crossed the cramped room. There were four beds at each corner, and Emily’s bed was nearest the window, overlooking the nighttime glow of the first quadrant.
She grinned when she saw him and sat up, propping a pillow behind her. “Sol! You should be at the theater.”
“I know,” he said, dragging a chair to her bedside. “I wanted to see you before I went.”
“But you’ll be late.”
“I still have time.” He sat down. “How are you feeling today?”
“Much better.” She smiled brightly, the color back in her cheeks. “Matron was here earlier. She said that I should be able to leave in a few days with the new medicine.”
“That’s great, Em.” He smiled, seeing her well lifting a huge burden from his shoulders. “Don’t forget: when you come home, I’m going to take you to see the play—as soon as Matron thinks you’re well enough, of course.”
She clasped her hands in her lap. “I’m so excited,” she said with a beaming grin. “Miss Appleton came to see me the other day, and she told me all about the stage and the costumes and the music and, oh, Sol—” She stuck out her bottom lip in a pout. “I want so badly to go with you tonight.”
He leaned forward and wiggled her foot. “I know, little bug.” She giggled, and he released her toes, leaning back in his chair. “But it will only be another week or two, and you’ll get to see it all, even better than Miss Appleton described.”
“Cross your heart?”
Solomon leaned forward, crossing his fingers over his chest. “And hope to die.”
“Good.” She bit back a smile as she leaned back on her pillow. “You’ll come back and tell me about the play afterward, won’t you?”
“Of course.” He stood from his chair and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Get some rest.”
She nodded and lay back down on the bed. Solomon pulled her blanket over her shoulders and brushed her hair from her eyes, kissing her lightly on the forehead as she snuggled her face into the pillow, a grin on her face.
The illuminated marquee above the theater entrance dazzled Solomon’s eyes as the round electric bulbs flashed bright, circling the play title and the names of the two lead actors:
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE’S
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA
JAMES ELIOT DAVIS
MARION KOZLOWSKI
A quartet of violinists stood on a platform in front of the ticket box, drawing a melody from their strings to entertain the crowd as they wa
ited to enter the theater. Finely dressed ladies and gentlemen crowded the full width of the street, filing into the theater foyer after buying their tickets or claiming reservations. The women wore bright dresses of satin and silk, cinched tight at their waists and gathered behind in voluminous bustles, tight-fitting boleros protecting their arms and necklines from the cold winter air; they clutched purses and mother-of-pearl opera glasses in their hands. Younger girls tailed their mothers and fathers in looser-fitting dresses with high necklines and long gloves beneath thick velvet coats. The men wore simple suits in colors of gray, blue, brown, and black, their top hats shining in the light of the gas streetlamps.
Solomon glanced down at his tattered jacket, stained with soot and grease. He looked little better than the hawkers—street urchins with nothing more than the clothes on their backs. He reminded himself it did not matter. He had his ticket and he was going to see the play. Pushing through the crowd, he overheard the excited conversations and gossip—questions about how they thought the mechanical stage might transform, whether the play would be as good as the show last year in London, if so-and-so and her husband would be there, and wondering whether the new actor, whatshisname, would be as charming as Damien. Solomon suppressed a growl of disgust and shouldered his way to the entrance.
The theater had fixed the door Damien had broken, and four attendants flanked the entrance, asking for tickets before letting the theatergoers enter the foyer. Solomon squeezed between two mustached men and faced one of the attendants.
“Ticket please,” said the attendant dully, not even glancing at him as he held out his hand.
Solomon fished the crumpled ticket out of his pocket.
The attendant took the slip of paper from his hand and then finally looked at him, arching a thin eyebrow as he examined Solomon’s clothes. He sniffed and pressed his lips into a tight frown. “I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot allow you into the theater dressed as you are.” His voice dragged on each vowel with a nasal whine.
“But I have a ticket.”
The attendant raised both eyebrows and sighed. “That may be, but you are not wearing the appropriate dress for the theater. I suggest you return home and change.”
Solomon frowned. “The play starts in twenty minutes.”
“Then you best hurry.”
The man behind Solomon grunted, and another woman complained about the wait. The attendant raised his chin. “You’re holding up the line, sir. I will have to ask you to step aside until the others have entered.”
“No. You have my ticket. Now let me pass.” He stepped forward, shoving past the attendant. Immediately, two hands gripped him under the arms and pulled him back into the street.
The attendant narrowed his eyes and drew his thin black eyebrows together. “Try that again and I will call the constable.”
Solomon yanked free of the man holding him and straightened his coat. “Fine. But I want my ticket back.”
The attendant rolled his eyes and held out the crumpled ticket. Solomon snatched it from his white-gloved hand and shoved his way through the murmuring theatergoers. The back of his neck burned as he broke free of the throng and headed toward the narrow alley next to the theater. There was a back door at the other end, near Adwick, where he knew they carried equipment, costumes, and other things inside. Maybe he could get in that way.
Avoiding a scrawny-faced hawker who tried to push a playbill into his hands in exchange for a shilling, he climbed the iron gate that blocked the alley. Three quick handgrips and he was over the gate and dashing down the narrow passage, the din of the theater crowd fading behind him. He skidded to a stop at the end of the alley and grabbed the handle to the side door. Locked. He kicked the metal door and ran his fingers through his hair, knocking his hat to the ground. His heart pounded in his chest as he paced in front of the door, glancing up and down the narrow alley. At the far end, the gate remained shut, and to his left, the narrow street was empty, lit only by the flickering gas lamps and street level windows.
There had to be a way in. He couldn’t miss the play. He had promised Dahlia and Emily he would be there, and he would not break that promise, not for anything. Someone had to be nearby, he thought. Knowing the switches for the backstage overhead lights were not far from the side door, he stepped forward and hammered his fist against the metal, jiggling the handle with his other hand.
“Hello?” he called. “Is someone there?”
No one answered.
The clock tower in the first quadrant rang the hour, which meant the play would soon start. He sighed, drumming his fingers against the wall. He could hear sound on the other side of the door, echoing through the rear chambers of the theater, so he knocked again and waited.
Still nothing.
Sighing, Solomon pressed his forehead against the cold metal of the door. He was going to miss the play. He thumped his head against the door, his teeth juddering with each gentle collision until his skull ached with the repeated impact. With a sharp breath, he drew away, plucked his hat from where he’d dropped it, and beat it against his thigh, dusting the dirt off the brim before placing back on his head. He would have to come back when it was over, catch Dahlia as she left and explain to her what had happened.
He slipped his hands into his pockets and left the alley on the back end to avoid the impatient theater crowd, latecomers who had not yet been admitted. The cold breeze chilled the sweat on his brow, and he paused a few steps from the alley, raising his eyes to the stars far above the city, unmasked by the normal haze of steam and smoke that drifted over the rooftops. Behind him, a door creaked on its hinge—someone putting the cat out, no doubt. He bowed his head and sighed, dropping his shoulders. The door slammed shut with a crash. Recognizing the sound as that of a metal door, not a door to one of the buildings on the street, he jerked around and headed back toward the theater, his boots scraping against the slick cobblestone as he rushed back to the alley.
The back door remained shut, but he was certain it was the one that had just opened. He grabbed the handle, found it still locked, and pounded a fist against the door, his heart hammering against his ribs with each strike of his hand against the metal.
“Come on,” he muttered. “Answer.”
A bolt shifted then and the door swung open.
“Oi, what are you on about out—”
Solomon pushed past the boy in the doorway and slipped into the rooms behind the stage. The boy hissed a warning, but he ignored it, weaving between crates, clothes racks, and around discarded props until he reached the dressing rooms. Nearly all the actors sat in front of the wall of vanities, some still adding the final touches to their makeup and costumes, others whispering encouragement to one another. He scanned their faces but did not see Dahlia among them.
The music of the mechanical orchestra echoed throughout the dressing room, and amidst the sweeping melody, he heard the actors’ booming voices speaking the first lines of the play. Solomon swallowed the fluttering tightness in his throat and strode across the dressing room, weaving through the actresses and actors waiting for their cues. He made it to the front of the room, just to the side of the stage, where he was hidden from the audience by the thick red curtain. A chill climbed up his spine and spread down his arms to his fingers. Hundreds of eyes were focused on the stage, mere feet from where he stood. His hands started to tremble and his breath caught in his throat. He gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. They weren’t looking at him. They didn’t even know he was there. He exhaled a shaky breath and clenched his fingers into fists until they stopped trembling. Another deep breath, and he opened his eyes.
Dahlia stood at center stage, her hands clasped together at her chest. She faced Brogan, the actor playing Alexas, desperation in her eyes.
“Lord Alexas, sweet Alexas, most anything Alexas, almost most absolute Alexas,” she cried breathlessly. “Where’s the soot
hsayer that you praised so to the queen? O, that I knew this husband, which, you say, must charge his horns with garlands!”
“Hello, Mr. Wade.”
Solomon twisted around, slipping his hat from his head.
Mr. Niles stood behind him, adjusting his glasses on his nose. He smiled. “Have trouble at the front?”
The back of his neck burned. “A bit, sir,” he admitted. “I had a ticket but the attendant wouldn’t let me in because of how I’m dressed.”
The theater director gazed at the actors onstage, and a smile spread across his wrinkled face. “Well bugger him. You managed to find the best seat in the house.”
The actors argued fortunes and wheedled more hints of the future from the poor soothsayer, until Cleopatra entered in a rush. Solomon risked a peek around the curtain, half hidden behind an enormous palace column. Every seat in the theater was full, everyone’s attention on Marion. Her haughty figure and sharp voice attracted the gaze of every person in the hall, their eyes and opera glasses focused only on her until she said her final lines and departed.
She exited the stage, drawing all the other actors in her wake. Mr. Niles pulled Solomon against the wall as they bustled past. Dahlia paused for a second, a curious frown on her face, before continuing to the dressing room. On the other side of the stage, Damien’s replacement for Mark Antony strode purposefully onto the stage, a messenger and attendants in tow. He looked the part of the Roman general—taller, darker skinned, broader-chested than Damien—and when he spoke, he delivered his lines better than his predecessor, leading Solomon to believe that, as Mr. Niles had said, the only reason Damien got the part in the first place was because of his father owned the theater.
A small hand gripped his arm above the elbow, and Dahlia squeezed between him and Mr. Niles, the heavy black wig no longer hiding her fair hair. She stood on tiptoes and whispered in his ear, “What are you doing here?”
He tilted his head down. “I couldn’t get through the front.” He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Snooty attendant.”
The Mechanical Theater Page 9
