She scarcely heard his introductory phrases, nor the half-ironical applause that followed it; the thundering beat of her heart drowned out most other sound. But she did hear the orchestra. As always, music had the power to make her forget herself, and this was the first time she had sung to any accompaniment other than harp or pianoforte. Catching the leader's eye, she began to sing.
After a few bars Mr. Wilson, in the wings, relaxed and allowed a smile to curl his lips. It had worked! He was not listening to, or looking at, Marianne; he was watching the audience.
It was a somber-looking crowd. Almost the only shade of color visible was the dead black of masculine evening attire. A splash of violent magenta or brilliant red marked the places of the few women who were present. Waiters trotted back and forth serving the customers, who sat at small tables scattered about the floor; the eating and drinking continued unabated through the entire performance. But, Mr. Wilson observed gloatingly, most of the men had stopped drinking to stare.
They had never seen anything quite like Marianne on the stage of the Alhambra. Maggie had been right to rip off the offending roses; the severe black gown was now, in design, what any well-bred young lady might wear to an evening party. What made it shocking and subtly perverse was its color; for no young lady wore black unless she was in mourning, and no young lady in mourning carried on an active social life. The stark, unrelieved black framed Marianne's white shoulders, curved with reflected highlights over her breasts, and reduced her waist to nothing. Her manner was perfect. No winks, no smiles, no suggestion of double entendre in the simple, sentimental words of the ballad. She looked like a lady and acted like a lady, and there she stood, in a place where no lady would have dreamed of appearing.
Mr. Wilson rubbed his thin white hands together. She was a sensation, a novelty. Of course the novelty would wear off, it always did; but while it lasted the Alhambra would retain its hold on the most dissipated and sophisticated members of London's haut monde. And when they tired of Marianne he would find something else.
When Marianne crept into the house several hours later she was in such a happy daze she did not even feel tired. It had been just as she had seen it in her daydreams. Of course the Prince of Wales had not been there; but no doubt he would come, another night. She had sung a second time, and on that occasion she had been scarcely troubled by stage fright, so that she had been cool enough to survey the audience while she sang. What a rich, elegant crowd they were! The snowy linen and diamond studs of the gentlemen, the satin-lined evening capes and gold-headed canes… She had been a trifle surprised to note that people kept drinking and eating while she sang, but concluded that this must be the mode in London. Some of the men had been quite nice-looking. One especially, sitting at a table to the right of the stage, had looked just like the Byronic hero of her dreams – a thin, clean-shaven face with curving dark brows and high cheekbones. She had not been able to judge his height, since he had been sitting, but she was positive he must be tall. And he had never taken his eyes off her the entire time. She hoped to dream of the handsome Unknown; instead she dreamed of Mrs. Jay scolding her for some childish misdemeanor, and woke in a sweat of terror, because Mrs. Jay's distorted face had been so terrible.
Marianne's luck held – though in retrospect it would be hard to say whether that luck was good or bad. Her landlady's friend did not improve, so Mrs. Shortbody remained away from home. Had she been there, Marianne would never have been able to continue her career without explanations, since her schedule necessitated her leaving the house late in the evening, after the other residents had retired. She was able to do this because the overworked housemaid and cook went to bed early, and because her room was next to the back stairs. Marianne was able to creep down them unobserved, unlatch the kitchen door, and pass out. It was a miracle that none of the enterprising denizens of London's extensive underworld happened to try that unlocked back door. No doubt something of the sort would have happened sooner or later; but Marianne's career was over sooner rather than later.
It may seem incredible that Marianne should continue to be unaware of the real nature of the establishment in which she was performing. That she did may be attributed to two factors: first, the abysmal ignorance of a young lady of that period, and second, the assiduous efforts of Mr. Wilson to keep her ignorant. Even he underestimated her naivety; he felt sure that when she discovered that the "theater" was one of London's most infamous clubs, pandering to the jaded appetites of titled and wealthy roues, she would be too pleased by her success to object. However, he knew full well that her greatest charm – aside from her undeniable beauty – was in her innocence, and he did his best to maintain it as long as possible.
On the first night he managed to spirit her out of the place before any of the habitues could locate her. The task became harder on each succeeding night, but Wilson kept the would-be suitors at bay, insisting, in the face of ribald remarks, proffered bribes, and incredulous laughter, that the girl was precisely what she appeared to be, and that he could not permit an innocent young lady to be harassed. As he was well aware, the possibility that this might be true only made the suitors more eager.
Marianne had been appearing for slightly over a week when the inevitable happened.
She was a trifle preoccupied that evening, since she had learned that Mrs. Shortbody's friend was recovering nicely, and that the landlady hoped to return home within a day or two. When that happened, she would be forced to tell Mrs. Shortbody the truth. Though she did not feel she was doing anything wrong, she had a vague, uneasy feeling that Mrs. Shortbody might not share that opinion, and she was not looking forward to telling her.
However, when she arrived at the club her spirits soared, as they always did at the prospect of performing. The applause had gone to her head; she was fast becoming stage-struck. Mr. Wilson was waiting for her, as he always was, and on his arm she swept past the crowd waiting at the stage door.
Maggie returned Marianne's smiling greeting with her usual gruff nod. The woman's manner was never effusive; Marianne did not notice that she seemed disturbed about something, nor did she pay attention when Maggie drew Wilson aside and spoke urgently to him. The manager interrupted her after a few sentences with a wave of his hand and a curt dismissal.
Marianne had gotten over her stage fright by now; she moved onto the stage with cool assurance, her dimples very much in evidence. As the orchestra played her introduction she let her eyes wander over the audience, and her heart leaped as she recognized a face she had not seen since the first night – that of the dark, Byronic gentleman. She scarcely noticed the man who was with him. The latter was stout, gray-haired – too elderly and plain to be interesting.
As she sang she let her eyes wander over the audience in professional style; and the slightest of frowns puckered her forehead when she saw another familiar face. This man had been there every night, at the same table, one of those in the row nearest to the stage – from which she deduced, correctly, that he was a favored customer. He was dressed with a richness conspicuous even in that haunt of the wealthy; the studs on his shirtfront were rubies so large as to verge on vulgarity. The gaslights brought out the lines and wrinkles on his sallow face. He was bald, except for a fringe of dark hair. His eyes were dark too, though they were so sunk in pouches of flesh that their color was scarcely discernible.
Perhaps because she was nervous about the forthcoming interview with Mrs. Shortbody the unknown's unwinking regard affected her even more unpleasantly than usual, and when she had finished her song she left the stage at once instead of acknowledging the applause as she usually did. She was annoyed to find that Maggie was not waiting with her wrap. It was the first time she had had to go to her dressing room unaccompanied, though Wilson had not continued his escort service after the first night. He had made it eminently plain to the other performers that the slightest gesture against his star would be repaid with interest. So, although Marianne's progress was followed by stares and mutters, no one mole
sted her as she made her way back to her room.
Maggie was not there. Grumbling at the inconvenience, Marianne got out of her dress – no easy task, since it had several dozen fasteners down the back – and hung it up to prevent its creasing. She was about to slip into her cotton wrapper when the dressing-room door was opened.
Marianne did not even glance up. "So there you are! I wondered what had -"
She saw the man reflected in the mirror, and shock stopped her speaking. The rubies in his shirtfront reflected the light like drops of liquid blood.
Marianne whirled around, clutching the dressing gown to her breast. The intruder smiled, if it could be called that; a spasmodic movement of the lips that did not alter his cold, hard stare.
"Nicely done," he said in a drawl. "And quite unrehearsed! Is it possible, I wonder, that Wilson could have been telling the truth after all?"
Marianne recovered enough breath to speak. Though frightened and angry, she still did not comprehend the full extent of her danger.
"How dare you!" she exclaimed.
The man's unpleasant smile intensified. He extended a gloved hand and closed the door.
"Sir, if you do not leave immediately…" Marianne began.
"Very well, very well; you needn't play the innocent with me; I am the Honorable Percival Bagstock, and I can well afford your price. We may as well come to a private arrangement, eh? Saves paying Wilson his cut."
Marianne let out a wavering shriek.
Terror constricted her breath, so the scream was not very loud; but it had a remarkable effect on Bagstock. His face darkened with fury. Gripping his gold-headed cane, he lunged at her, moved as much by anger as by lust, for he honestly believed that Marianne's outrage was pretense, designed to raise the price of what he desired. His violent, vicious rages were well known in his own circle; even his peers tried not to irritate Bagstock. And what had he to fear from a cheap performer?
Marianne's strength was no match for his. He had her pinioned in his arms before she could scream again.
"Very well," he snarled. "If this is how you prefer it -"
Marianne felt her senses leaving her. The dark, ugly face bending over her grew blurred. Then the hard arms relaxed and Bagstock's expression changed from anger to blank astonishment. He collapsed in an ungainly heap; and there stood Maggie, the gold-headed cane still raised in the gesture with which she had struck him down.
Marianne's knees gave way. Maggie did not allow her to fall; dropping her weapon, she seized the girl's bare arms in a grip that left bruises, and shook her violently.
"Quick! Make a run for it, now, 'afore he comes to. Where's your gown? Here… No time to fasten it, throw your cloak over… Come, quick."
Automatically Marianne obeyed the commanding voice, the hasty, fumbling hands that helped her dress. Maggie pushed her out of the room and guided her down the stairs. When they reached the stage door, the doorkeeper looked up.
" 'Ere! Where do'ye think you're going?"
"A breath of air," Maggie answered, and propelled Marianne through the door before the man could reply.
The night air was not salubrious. It was thick with fog – not the black, choking pea-souper common in the later winter months, when millions of coal fires added their poisonous fumes to the dampness, but heavy enough to blur the outlines of objects and shroud the streetlights in a white veil. Supporting Marianne's swaying form, Maggie headed toward the light at the end of the alleyway. "You got money?" she demanded.
"I… My bag. I left it -"
" 'Ere it is." Maggie looped the ribbons over her limp arm. " 'Old on to it, for Gawd's sake. Curse 'im, I shoulda known.
… Seen 'im watching you, shoulda known it was a false message… Look 'ere, take 'old o' yourself, don't faint nor nothing. You know what you gotta do?"
Marianne groaned.
"Gawd 'elp you," Maggie muttered. "If you an't even more 'elpless than I thought…"
They reached the main thoroughfare. To Marianne's dazed eyes it seemed like a scene from a nightmare, a dark landscape through which shrouded forms moved like ghosts. Maggie, peering through the fog with keen, accustomed eyes, put her fingers to her mouth and let out a shrill whistle. Marianne jumped. Maggie shook her again.
"Listen," she said breathlessly. "Go straight 'ome and stay there till you can get out o' London. Wilson won't look for you, 'e's not that kind, but if Bagshot finds out where you live… 'E didn't see me, but 'e'll know who done it. 'E allus knows. They say 'e's in league wif the Devil. Old 'Arry'll take me in. I 'ope… 'Ere's the cab. D'you 'ear me? D'you understand what I'm saying?"
Marianne nodded dumbly. With a quick, violent gesture Maggie pulled the hood of the girl's cloak up to cover her head; but before the folds settled into place her hard, rough hands briefly stroked the golden curls. Then she turned to look at the driver of the hansom cab that had pulled up beside them. It was just as well Marianne did not see the look on the man's face as he studied her, or hear the brief exchange between Maggie and the driver. He thought, of course, that she was a streetwalker heading for home after a meeting with a generous patron. Still in a stupor she supplied the information that was demanded and sat like a wooden statue during the long, jolting ride. How she got into the house she could never remember; but seemingly she had wits enough to lock up, and undress. Not until she was in bed did the full reaction strike; she lay shivering, her teeth chattering, for what seemed like hours, until sleep, or unconsciousness, overcame her.
CHAPTER FOUR
As Marianne sat on the window seat looking out, she could not help but be struck by the difference between the view before her and her memory of her last night in London: the eerie, distorted sounds, the blurred forms moving through veils of fog, and the sickening terror that had turned her into a walking puppet.
The view from the window was lovely – green lawns like emerald velvet, flower beds glowing with chrysanthemums and late roses, and beyond, the gleaming water of the Thames. Here at Richmond the water was not so foul as it was in the city, where it served as a watery trashbin for every form of debris. Mr. Pettibone was a successful merchant who had married money, and he lived up to his income.
Unfortunately the handsome house and grounds were the only attractive part of the position Marianne had been forced to accept. Her lips tightened as she heard sounds from the adjoining room, where Master Cyril Pettibone and Miss Abigail Pettibone were supposedly at their lessons. It was clear that Master Cyril was up to his usual tricks. She ought to go back and stop him from doing whatever he was doing to Abigail; in fact, she had soon learned that it was unwise to leave Master Cyril unsupervised for any length of time. But after four days of Cyril she simply had to get away from him occasionally. Having set sums for the two children, she had escaped into the night nursery to enjoy the illusion of privacy for a few moments. She was seldom allowed that luxury. After a long day with the children she was expected to serve as companion and errand girl for her mistress, doing everything from winding wool to playing whist when Mrs. Pettibone had no better partner.
Now she understood why there had been no competition for what had seemed such an ideal position. The only women who would accept a situation so poorly paid and so fraught with unpleasantness were the elderly and desperate; and Mrs. Pettibone would not have employed such a person. She wanted someone young and healthy enough to do the hard work she expected – and put up with Cyril. Mrs. Shortbody, who had accompanied Marianne to Mrs. Hunt's employment agency in Marylebone, had not been enthusiastic about the position. She had heard of the Pettibones, and had tried to warn Marianne with expressive nods and winks and frowns. But Marianne had been almost hysterically determined. Richmond was sufficiently distant from London to be safe, and she could begin work at once.
Marianne grimaced at the sound of a slap and a yelp from Abigail. Cyril was bullying his sister again, no other victim being at hand. She was not moved to interfere. Abigail was not as actively vicious as her brother, but she was a whining, u
npleasant child. And Marianne had a great deal on her mind.
Being young and resilient, she had recovered from her experience, except for a certain degree of self-contempt for her own stupidity, and she was fully cognizant of how lucky she was to have come out of the experience as well as she had. The thing that worried her to the point of sleeplessness was the thought of Maggie. She had been too distracted that night to think coherently; not until the next day did she realize that Maggie had risked not only her job but her safety in coming to Marianne's defense. If Bagshot knew who had struck him down, neither moral scruples nor fear of retaliation would prevent him from crushing Maggie as he would have stepped on an insect. Marianne's only comfort was the hope that Bagshot had not seen his assailant, and that he would be too humiliated to admit what had happened. Maggie was not stupid; she had warned Marianne of her danger, surely she must realize that her own was even greater.
The hardest thing for Marianne to bear was her own impotence. The lowest of wage slaves herself, she had nothing to offer Maggie in the way of help or security. She could not even inquire about her without risking discovery for both of them.
Wrapped in these now familiar but nonetheless disquieting thoughts, Marianne had stopped listening to the increasing uproar from the next room. She was roused from her reverie by a loud strident voice – that of Mrs. Pettibone.
"Miss Ransom! What have you gotten to? How dare you leave the children alone? I employed you to teach them, not to – Oh, there you are. What, pray tell, are you doing here?"
Marianne turned from the window. Swollen with righteous indignation, and with well-fed flesh that even her tight corsets could not contain, Mrs. Pettibone stood in the doorway.
"I set them sums to do, Mrs. Pettibone," Marianne said. "I merely came in here to rest for a moment."
"I do not pay you to rest. Return to your duties at once." She stepped aside as Marianne came toward her, adding, "You of all people, Miss Ransom, cannot afford to be slack. You are far from succeeding in your task. You do not inspire from my darlings the respect and affection it is your duty to inspire. I wonder, Miss Ransom, if you are capable of inspiring it."
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