“Whatever it is, I can’t do it alone,” she said. “Alex is far too clever. I must have help. Will you help me?”
Her right hand slipped into his, gripping it gently. Her left reached beneath the table, brushed aside the white damask, and took hold of him. His eyes went wide with shock. How could any woman be so brazen and so beautiful? He felt his mouth slowly open.
“Alex trusts you more than anyone on earth,” she said, her eyes liquid. “But you are also my friend. Ever since I’ve been with Alex you’ve done everything for me. Driven me everywhere, run my errands, made sure I was safe and warm. I’ve never really rewarded you for that. Maybe I’m too hard a slut to be grateful.”
Her gaze held him like a mouse before a cobra. His throat closed and his scalp felt pierced by needles. Under the table her grip tightened and he could feel her begin a gentle slide.
“You know I can never give up Alex. I love him. I need his money and his name. But oh, my lovely Irish, there is no reason I can’t love you, too—if that is what I need to do. Will you help me do what I need to do?”
His eyes closed and his neck bowed. She released her hand from his and brought it to his chin. Gently, she lifted his head and her eyes pierced him.
“Will you help me do what I need to do?”
Seamus sighed. He closed his eyes and nodded. Lady-Jane shook him by the chin and made him meet her eyes again.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes.”
The princess released him and returned her hand to the table. Embarrassed, he tried to look away but she gripped his chin hard between finger and thumb and pulled his face back toward her.
“Will you help me do what I need to do?”
“Yes.”
“Again.”
“Yes. Yes.”
She motioned for the waiter and paid the bill. They rose and left the restaurant. When they arrived back at the apartments, they were empty, as she knew they would be. Alex and Adelaide were gone. Not even the servants were present.
His bed was narrow but it served. He didn’t need to tell her he had little experience of women. His clumsiness spoke to that. He even believed her when she told him that kissing was old-fashioned and unnecessary. She was gentle with him, tender. His needs became hers. In the days and weeks ahead, she would transform him from virgin to lover—and from lover to slave.
Her head upon his chest, Adelaide Scarcez inhaled Alexander Herrmann.
As he slept, she pulled the clean, warm sheets up high, enjoying the identity of each scent.
Soap—plain lye and tallow, nothing fancy.
Mustache wax—essence of bees, rose water, the bergamot of Earl Grey tea, thyme, lampblack.
Cologne—flowers, bay laurel, ginger, lemon and an alcohol like fine gin.
Beneath all this lay his own smell: something akin to a fresh piecrust—salt and yeast and then all of the odors of her body so recently melded with his. Her nose read him as male and female, man and animal, mortal and immortal.
Given his reputation, Adelaide should not have been surprised to find herself in his bed; Alex was well known to women throughout Britain and the continent. Some were noble like Lady Caroline, slumming in the show business or curious to see if his magic extended beyond the stage. Others were mere members of the chorus or audience or aspiring actresses encouraged by agents or ambitious mothers. As his primary companion, Princess Noor had put a stop to most of these liaisons and Alex seemed less chagrined than relieved. After all, for an artist, time spent with the ladies was time unspent on improving the act; and the princess seemed more than prepared to meet his romantic needs for both quality and quantity.
Adelaide had never intended to compete with this female throng, nor had she intended to supplant the tough little Indian who had already staked her claim. In the end, it seemed an accident, a coincidence—born not of her need for love, but his for grace and motion. As Alex would later say, he fell in love with her “feet first.”
It was late afternoon at the Egyptian, ten days before opening night. The assistants had all left. The crew had gone to dinner and the princess had gone back to their apartments to rest. Alexander visited the box office to ask about the previous night’s receipts and then walked back through the house to retrieve his coat from the dressing room.
He walked through the double doors of the auditorium. It was deserted and silent, except for a faint knocking sound from backstage, smooth and rhythmic. Sensing something amiss, he stepped behind a large marble pillar at the end of the parquet circle.
From the left hand wings, he saw a small, lithe figure emerge en pointe. She was in street dress save for her shoes, which she had cast off by the footlights. Barefoot, the woman whirled across the stage in a series of perfect pirouettes. She spun in and out of the shadows like a wraith, seeming to appear and disappear like one of his illusions. During a high leap, her tight chignon came undone, allowing the red hair to trace her motion. At center stage she stopped without so much as a wobble and flew into a textbook arabesque, her right leg firmly planted on the boards, her left extended behind her until she formed a perfect “T.” Slowly she lifted the leg higher until she was bent like a seesaw. Raising her arms in a supple arc, she snapped herself straight and descended into a grande plié.
Hidden behind the pillar, Alexander watched as she inhabited every part of the stage, her movements quick and precise: an ideal pas de poisson, a flawless Grand rond de jambe, and a tours en l’air the like of which he had seen executed only by a man. Then her motion became too swift for him to separate its parts and he simply absorbed her—a ferocious spirit combining both Muse and Fury.
From that afternoon, Alex kept a daily appointment with the pillar.
She didn’t always appear. There were days when he would wait as long as an hour before quitting his post. Sometimes she would only perform a dreamy series of steps lasting a few minutes, other times she would whirl and lash, stepping high, bending low, whipping her head in ways no proper dancer would condone.
The dances changed him toward her. As she became more alluring to him, more enchanted, he became more tender. He asked her to please call him by his given name. He tripped over words in her presence and became more tongue-tied the closer she was. When he sent the princess her weekly bouquet, he now included an arrangement for Adelaide as well; smaller but somehow more beautiful.
I will not encourage this, she thought. I will not place myself between Alexander and Princess Noor and Compars. On that path there is no light—and no love between a spy and an infidel will make it brighter. I am the agent of a foreign power.
And so she contented herself with the watching stranger.
From the beginning, she had sensed his presence in the theatre. Part of her wanted to run to the wings in embarrassment, but another part was overjoyed to be admired. At some moments, above her own breathing, she swore she could hear his, strung out in long sighs or coming short as before climax. She would deliberately tease him: moving slowly and sinuously or dying like the swan; then she would unleash the demon: a red and white whirlwind spending itself against a greater storm.
The night before his first performance, Alexander had not expected to see her. Adelaide had not appeared the afternoon before, and the stage was now crowded with the apparatus necessary to perform his act: tables and chairs, a mummy case, bottles and small props, and palms for decoration. Still, he felt compelled to revisit the pillar. For five, ten, fifteen minutes he waited, trying to control his breathing.
Then he heard a rustle at stage left—and she appeared from the dark.
Her face was painted like a hieroglyph: the lips a red-orange slash, the eyes lined with strokes of black that shaped them into almonds. The flaming hair was dressed in beads, and she wore a short vest of green silk and gold coins. She coiled and uncoiled like a fakir’s cobra and then vanished behind the mummy case. When she reemerged, he could see her bare belly, as white as Noor’s was brown, twisting even as she whirled behind a curtain. Jumping into the light,
she leaped to center stage, raised her foot above her head, and caught it in her fist—more brazen in this one action than women whose bodies he had known naked and deep.
She saw him come down the aisle but did not stop. It was through a haze of pleasure that she met him amid all that had brought him triumph. When he picked her up, she seemed light even to herself; and when he lay her down on the boards, she appeared to him delicate enough to break. She begged him to do as he wished and asked only that his eyes never leave hers; and they did not—until the moment they closed on their own.
Now as she watched him sleep, she counted again the reasons she should not be here: her betrayal, Princess Noor, the possible exposure of all they had worked for, Compars’s threats of disgrace and prison.
She listened to his breathing a while, then rose up on her elbow and looked into his face. The right side of the carefully waxed mustache was bent and pointed straight into the air.
Adelaide smiled and gently placed her head back on his chest. From now until they returned to the world, she would be content to breathe him in; and if an end should come to her joy, she would endure it as she had since a girl. Her life had always been different from happiness.
32
JOHN NEVIL MASKELYNE HAD NEVER KNOWN SUCH PUBLICITY. In the short time he had been producing his new product, it had become both a practical sensation and the object of controversy.
The Times had opined in an editorial:
The well-known magician, Mr. John N. Maskelyne, has produced what can actually be called a miracle. Far better than a mere rabbit from a hat, Mr. Maskelyne has given Londoners a sanitary and convenient source of relief for only a penny. Unlike some, we see no reason why this enterprising young man should not profit from such an excellent idea—especially when those not in possession of the wherewithal to utilize his invention will likely take their ease where they always have: in our parks and on our streets.
The Telegraph, however, had a different opinion:
Mr. Maskelyne’s contraption is designed to extract payment from the most basic of human functions. What next, we wonder? A tariff on the breathing of air? A tax on the drinking of water? The penny toilet is only the latest manifestation of a British business culture in thrall to profit and choked with greed. Have we really become so avaricious that we would now deny a working-man his moment of evacuation until he has first searched his pockets for the penny once reserved to buy his children’s bread?
As with most public disputes, the attention the various opinions gave to the contrivance only brought it more success. With each pub and restaurant sharing in the largesse, Maskelyne had needed to add a second shift and double his number of workers to meet demand. One hotel had ordered ten of the machines, asking if the wooden door of the kiosk could be painted in a pleasing Mediterranean tableau “for the aesthetic appreciation of the ladies.”
So great was the shop’s din that Adelaide Scarcez found it necessary to place her hands over her ears. Everywhere she looked, there was activity: men pouring steel into molds; boys seated at workbenches filing excess metal from plates and bolts; machinists cutting and calibrating tiny gears. In the center of it all stood a small, thin man in shirtsleeves, calling to this man and that. He seemed to Adelaide less a manager than a sort of policeman charged with the direction of traffic. Unable to attract his attention through the noise, Adelaide waved continuously until he caught sight of her.
Nodding vigorously, the slight man motioned her to join him in a large room off the main shop. It was far quieter and virtually deserted, but much work took place here as well. Scattered about the worktables and pinned to the walls were drawings large and small, mostly depicting large stage illusions. Some were new variations on old tricks, others she had never seen before. All around the floor sat large constructions covered by blankets and tarpaulins.
“Good afternoon,” the slight man said with a courtly bow. “I am John Nevil Maskelyne. I believe I have the pleasure of addressing Miss Scarcez.”
“I am Adelaide Scarcez.”
“A pleasure, Miss Scarcez. I hope you won’t mind meeting in the intimacy of my private laboratory, but I hardly think the business you have here today is worth the destruction of your hearing.”
“Thank you, Mr. Maskelyne. Your thoughtfulness is much appreciated. How do you and your men stand it?”
“We manage. Cotton balls. Gin. But I suspect that you will want me to take you to Professor Herrmann now, Miss Scarcez.”
“Yes, Mr. Maskelyne. For better or worse, it is he with whom I have my appointment.”
Maskelyne looked like a man about to introduce a bird to a cat. “I shall take you to him, then. But please know that if Professor Herrmann should attempt anything inappropriate toward you, you need only to cry out and help will come immediately. I am sorry if any friendship you feel for him causes you to be offended by this offer, but it is made solely for your protection.”
Adelaide smiled. “Be of good cheer, Mr. Maskelyne. Your willingness to offer me your protection only shows that you are well familiar with the character of our mutual friend. But rest assured, Herr Docktor’s interest in me is purely professional—as I fear it is in you as well.”
“Such mischievous tongues,” a deep voice said, “and from such charming young people.”
Compars Herrmann emerged from a side door. He was as erect as ever, as arrogant in stride and manner. But in the month since Adelaide had seen him, he seemed to have changed in a way that moved her from disdain to horror. There was now a droop to his eyes; they seemed more wrinkled beneath, the red of the lower rim exposed below the eyeball. The lips had taken on a kind of voluptuousness, a thickness and redness like those of a stage vampire. Yet his entire being seemed to radiate with a new happiness. Before, when she had met with him, he had seemed evil only by necessity. Now she feared he had made wickedness a choice, a joy in which to revel.
“Miss Scarcez, you are looking wonderfully well. Apparently the world of intrigue agrees with you.”
“Herr Docktor, I imagine you have summoned me not to offer compliments, but to report on the activities of your brother.”
Compars took several steps toward her. His eau de cologne smelled of sweetness and decay, like a rotting orange.
“You see, Maskelyne, how she treats her benefactor? Here I try to help her as I have helped you and what do I get from the two of you? Sour faces! I have never understood how the mere act of driving a hard bargain should cause such resentment. We are all adults here. Why can we not be friends?”
“I am thoroughly prepared to report to you everything you have requested,” Adelaide said. “I believe this is the nature of the bargain we have made, and I will uphold my end of it.”
Compars reached into his coat and retrieved a leather cigar case. He offered it to Maskelyne, who refused, and then plucked a long cheroot from its interior.
“Please forgive me, Maskelyne. I do not like to order a man about in his own house; but as the nature of the communication between Miss Scarcez and me is of a most private nature, I must request that you withdraw.”
Maskelyne looked at Adelaide. “I will do so only if Miss Scarcez gives me leave. Otherwise, I refuse to leave her alone with a bounder whom I would put nothing past. And know this, Professor: I will take my ruin gladly if it means preserving this woman’s honor.”
Compars’s face was at first impassive; then he broke in to peals of laughter.
“I applaud you for your gallantry, young Jack. It is a fine thing to see that chivalry still exists in this benighted age. But please be assured that no harm will come to Miss Scarcez. I am well cared for in the areas which seem to concern you, being a member of a few exclusive gentlemen’s clubs both here and on the Continent. Let me also add that there are several young ladies with whom I have made similar arrangements as with Miss Adelaide, only instead of quid and shillings, the nature of their payment serves to, shall we say, meet my romantic needs. Perhaps I might introduce you to several of them, as some
of their agreements stipulate the occasional entertainment of my friends.”
Adelaide shivered in disgust. “Please, Mr. Maskelyne. Have no concern for my safety. I have taken care of myself since age twelve. And if for any reason the Professor decides to break his pledge, I shall not hesitate to call upon you and your men.”
Maskelyne stared at Compars, who grinned back at him. He noticed that since their last meeting, a tooth had rotted out of the magician’s mouth.
“I shall be alert,” he said. He bowed to Adelaide and withdrew.
Compars looked after him. “Fine young fellow, that Jack. All that racket outside is his penny toilet in production. It’s already on its way to making him a wealthy man. Couldn’t have done it without me. But here, Miss Scarcez! Why not marry him? He is attractive and gallant and as inventive a young magician as you will ever see. I daresay on occasion his tricks have even made me envious. And because I have brought you two together I would be only too glad to personally arrange the wedding breakfast if you would permit me the honor.”
Adelaide suppressed her queasiness. “Thank you,” she said. “Shall I deliver my report now?”
“By all means.”
Adelaide reached into her leather portfolio and removed a matching notebook. For the next half-hour, she related information she had “learned” about Alexander. Most listeners would have found them small and trivial, but Compars was enraptured at every tiny change and detail: how his brother had not only added the Inexhaustible Bottle to the act, but changed the trick by the addition of the dove; how Alex had begun to ad-lib during the Floating Boy, making remarks individual to each audience volunteer. And then there was the incorporation of more modern music, even the commissioning of several new pieces from the young Mr. Edward Elgar, a church organist with little training but a fine harmonious ear. Attention to such trifles also allowed her to omit the most salient facts: that Princess Noor-Al-Haya was in reality a plains Indian; that his brother had once again resumed work on the substitution trunk; and that she and Alexander had made profoundly moving love only a few moments before she began preparing herself for this interview.
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