But apparently our time alone together was about to be further delayed. As we made our way to the elevator, a figure standing across the lobby caught my eye: a young woman in a chintz print dress and beribboned straw hat. Her boots were gamely polished but clearly not new, and the whole ensemble was in the Dolly Varden style, which had largely passed out of fashion a year before. She was standing perfectly still, watching me and Roderick with fierce concentration.
There was something strange about her that I could not put my finger on, and I touched Roderick’s arm. “One of yours, do you think?” I said under my breath, nodding in her direction.
When he saw who I was indicating he shook his head. “She doesn’t exactly look French—or friendly.”
True, if she had been one of Roderick’s admirers, she certainly would have looked more—well—admiring. It was nearly impossible not to gaze at him adoringly, though I did manage it from time to time, just to keep him humble.
He bade farewell to the last of his admirers with the charm he could muster so easily when he chose. Our progress toward the elevator was bringing us closer to the mysterious young woman—for she did appear to be young. Her gaily flowered dress fell only to her ankles, suggesting that she was not yet of age. If her face had worn a different expression she would have been quite pretty, with her long-lashed blue eyes, pert nose, and determined chin.
“I think she must be here for you,” Roderick said now. “She looks as though she could be a relative.”
That was the odd quality I had felt: seeing my own features on a stranger. For though she was shorter and her figure less developed, there was a startling similarity between us. Beneath the beribboned straw hat her hair was fair and curly, another point in common.
I had not decided what to say when she took the decision out of my hands. “Sally?” she said, making it sound like an accusation. “Sally Ingersoll?”
No one had called me that in fifteen years, and I was too startled to reply.
Impatient, she tried again. “You are Sybil Ingram, aren’t you?”
“Do we know one another?” I asked.
Her smile was a tight, unlovely grimace. “You might say so, yes. I’m Polly.” When I didn’t respond, she snapped, “Polly Ingersoll. Your sister.”
It had been so long since I left home that the possibility of encountering any of my relatives felt as remote as that of meeting William Shakespeare. “Polly,” I repeated. “You would have been...”
“Two years old when you abandoned us. I’m nearly eighteen now. And I’ve come to take you home.”
“Home?” I exchanged glances with Roderick and saw that he was as bewildered as I was. “Why?”
The blue eyes that were both familiar and alien in this unknown girl’s face bored into mine. “Father is dying,” she said.
This news should not have made me feel as sick and breathless as if I had been kicked in the stomach, yet somehow it did. I could find no words for a response, let alone the breath for one. To my relief and gratitude, Roderick took charge.
“We can’t discuss this here in the lobby,” he said. “Miss—Ingersoll? Right. Accompany us to our suite, and you can explain the matter there.”
For the first time she showed uncertainty. “Go to a French hotel room? I’m not sure...”
“It’s perfectly respectable to accompany your sister and brother-in-law to their rooms for supper. Have you eaten?” he added, no doubt spurred by the eagerness that widened her eyes at the word “supper.”
She shook her head. “I had a bun before I caught the boat this morning. But nothing since. I’ve been looking everywhere for Sally—I mean Sybil.”
“Fine. You’re coming with us.” Roderick took hold of her elbow, then mine, and steered both of us to the elevator. Without his hand to guide me, I’m not certain I could have moved of my own volition.
Once in our rooms I regained some of my wits. As Roderick removed my cloak and I unbuttoned my gloves, our young visitor roamed around the suite, staring at the elegant decor and the dinner that was even now being laid for us in the sitting room. Roderick asked quietly, “Would you like to speak with her alone?”
I shook my head. I wanted him here—wanted to get his perspective on our surprise visitor and whatever she had to say.
He gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze before going to tell the wait staff to add another place setting. Once the three of us were seated and the staff had retreated, I took myself in hand.
“How did you find me?” I asked. It was not the most important question, but it was easier to start here than with the graver matter.
The girl’s eyes grew round as she surveyed the cream of asparagus soup, poulet dijonnaise, fresh baguettes, and platters of sautéed vegetables with sauce. Remembering the plain English fare she would have been accustomed to, I could well understand her astonishment. She picked up her goblet of wine and took a cautious sip, as though fearing that it might instantly inebriate her. When she realized it was not going to incapacitate her, she said, “There was an item in the newspaper about a play you were in, here in Paris. It was a few weeks old, but I thought you might still be here.”
“How did you get the passage money?” Perhaps a rude question, but I doubted my parents were free with pocket money.
“I’ve been saving up for months.” Her attention was still mostly on the extravagant dinner, and I could hear her stomach growl.
I had to force myself to ask, “Has Father been ill that long?”
She swallowed a mouthful of bread before saying in an offhand way, “He’s only gotten really sick in the last few months. But I knew before then that I’d need to find you.”
“Why? Has he asked for me?”
“No.”
“Does he know that you came to find me? Does anyone?”
She shook her head and speared a bite of chicken on the point of her knife. She ate with both knife and fork, something I had learned to stop doing many years ago. It was peculiar watching her, like seeing a past version of myself—or the self I might have been had I never left home to join the theater.
“I left a note saying I was going to stay with a friend for a few days,” she said. “That was all.”
“Won’t Mother be frantic?” It was strange to say Mother after all these years. It hardly seemed the right thing to call her, but I could think of nothing better.
“I doubt it. She doesn’t have much room to think about anything except Father. And she has Ada to look after the little ones. The maid of all work,” she explained.
Roderick took everything in, saying nothing, just eating his supper. His very presence was comforting, though, and I knew that in my rattled state I might not recall everything fully and might later need to call upon his recollection of this conversation.
“So why come all this way to find me?” I asked.
“It’s consumption,” she said, though I hadn’t yet asked. “He only has a month or so, maybe less.”
“Dear heaven.” My mind went back to the last communication I had had from my father, more than thirteen years ago. For the first two years after I had left home, I had written frequently and sent money as often as I was able. But then he had sent a cold, curt letter informing me that any future correspondence from me would be burnt and that my sisters and brothers would be informed that I was dead. Accompanying this heartless message were all of the banknotes and letters I had sent. I had been rendered a ghost, a non-daughter.
I could understand my parents’ anger to some extent. After all, from their perspective I had walked out one day and never returned, sending only a note by messenger to explain that I had decided to join a theatrical troupe. I had given them no warning because I hadn’t expected to act as I had. But as soon as I had seen the troupe performing I had recognized something that spoke to a fundamental part of me, something that, now that I was aware of it, I could not ignore. I became an actress, and I did not regret it.
Nevertheless, I did sometimes regret the way I h
ad gone about it. But I probably wouldn’t have changed anything, even if I had the chance. I had had a strong instinct at the time that returning home, even just to retrieve my belongings, would result in my never leaving, and I would be trapped. Even now I felt that my instinct had probably been right. I was unpaid labor at home, and had not an iota of freedom.
Roderick met my eye and, sensing the turmoil in my mind, reached out and took my hand in his. As always, his touch gave me comfort as well as the welcome reminder that I no longer had to fight my battles alone.
“So will you come home, then?” my sister challenged.
I hesitated. “Father told me thirteen years ago that I was dead to him, and I’ve heard nothing since then to suggest that he doesn’t still feel the same. But I suppose that for his sake I ought to at least try—”
Strangely, Polly was shaking her head. “Not for his sake. That’s not why I came all this way.”
It surprised and touched me that she might have made this journey to give me the chance to make peace with Father. “That is very thoughtful of you,” I said, “but I’m not certain I need to—”
“Nor for your sake either, Miss Stuck-on-Herself.” Roderick gave her a hard look, and she said more meekly, “I need you to get his blessing on me being an actress.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “You’re an actress?”
Her smile was hard and brittle. “I will be,” she said, “with your help.”
“I don’t know why you think Father would listen to me. He as much as said that I’m dead to him, after all. I doubt he’d greet me with open arms.”
“But you’re respectable now. You’re married and wealthy and famous. Well, a little famous. You can make him see how wrong he is.”
“Now, just a moment—”
“After all, you owe it to me.”
The sheer arrogance of this claim made me choke on my wine, and for a minute I could not speak for coughing. While I was rendered speechless, Roderick spoke for the first time. “I think you had best explain, Miss Ingersoll.”
She set down her knife and fork with a clatter. “She left us!” she exploded. “I was only two years old, and Sally—Sybil—just walked out one day. Mother was taking in sewing then to make ends meet, and Sybil and Mollie were supposed to look after us little ones, me and Nick and Dick and Lallie. Mollie had to do everything after she left.”
“It was hardly Sybil’s responsibility to raise you,” Roderick said in a patient tone, as if speaking to a child. Possibly she seemed so to him, for she was certainly behaving like one. “She was your sister, not your mother. She was perfectly free to live her own life.”
Polly glared at Roderick. “She had a duty to the family. Now she can finally do something to make up for leaving us behind. She has the connections to get me work as an actress.” When neither of us responded, she said defiantly, “I’m not asking all that much. Once I know the right people I won’t need help. It’s just a start that I need.”
Roderick gave a short laugh. “You can’t truly be so deluded as to think there’s nothing more to it than that. It took talent and years of hard work for Sybil to get where she is.”
An inelegant snort. “Swanning about in fancy costumes and painting her face? Yes, that’s the kind of hard work I want.”
“You have no idea what you’re asking to take on.” He shook his head at her in exasperation. “For someone who comes asking an enormous favor, you go about it in an idiotic way.”
With a jerk of her chin, she shot back, “Sybil hasn’t thrown me out yet, so I must not be doing so badly.”
She was so caught up in arguing that I don’t think she noticed how her hands were trembling. She was putting on a show of bravado—and not a bad show at that—but underneath the bluster she was, I now realized, just as desperate as I had been when I had left home. She would fight with every means at her disposal, would resort to the most underhanded arguments in her arsenal, because the stakes were high: her entire future.
“It’s all right,” I said, and both of them turned to look at me in surprise. “I’ll come home with you, Polly. Mind, I don’t promise anything as far as promoting you as an actress,” I added quickly, before the dawning excitement on her face could overflow into words. “I shall need time to decide whether to use my influence on your behalf... whatever influence I still possess after more than half a year away from England. All I promise is that I’ll discuss it with Father.”
My brief acquaintance with her had not led me to expect thanks, which was just as well, for none were forthcoming. Instead, she heaved a great sigh, as if I were trying her patience. “Well, I suppose it’s something,” she said.
“Polly,” I said, “if you’re going to be so ungracious, you give me every reason not to introduce you to my friends. Why should they exert themselves to give you help if it will only be met with ingratitude? Perhaps you should learn manners before trying to learn acting.”
A quick, impish smile transformed her face. “That’ll serve much the same purpose,” she said. “If I can learn to fake gratitude for the crumbs that are thrown my way, I ought to be a good enough actress to earn a living at it.”
At that moment I liked her. Perhaps this obstinate child had some good qualities buried inside—deep inside.
SINCE POLLY HAD NO place to stay that night, we had the chambermaid make up a settee in the sitting room for her to sleep on. When I asked her what she had planned to do if she had been unable to find me, she told me she would have slept on a bench at the train station. I blanched at the idea. For any number of reasons, that would have been unwise for a seventeen-year-old girl.
Roderick and I lay awake in bed talking for a long while. “You don’t have to come with me,” I said.
“If you’d rather I didn’t—”
“I never said that! I just don’t want to drag you away from your work here and into what is likely to be a most depressing visit.” Roderick had been contemplating a series of concert appearances with the orchestra of the Paris Opera, though nothing had been made definite yet.
He drew me close, and I laid my head on his chest. His next words rumbled against my ear. “It’s precisely because it’s likely to be depressing that I should stand by you. You may need an ally if the rest of your family takes the same line as your sister and blames you for making your own way in the world.”
I sighed. “I fear very much they will. The worst of it is that they are partly right.” He had made it sound so reasonable when he said that I had been free to live my own life, but in my own mind I was not nearly as certain. I had been needed, and I had walked away. And I had done it because I was completely sure that not to do so would have sentenced me to the same life as my mother’s, a life that would have both suffocated and starved me. Any chance of happiness would have been stamped out, I knew, if I had stayed just a short while more. I would have married some suitable man who made barely enough to keep the two of us, and soon I would have been raising my own children and scraping to feed them.
He pulled away so that he could look into my face. “Do you regret leaving?” he asked.
“Dear heaven, no. My soul would have shriveled up and died like a salted snail in that life. I’ve loved being an actress.” I reached up to lay my hand against his face, feeling the beginnings of stubble against my palm. “And I would never have met you if I had stayed with my family. I can’t even bear to think about that.”
“Nor can I,” he whispered, and gathered me close for a long, tender kiss.
At length he said, “We don’t have to go, you know. We can send the girl packing and tell her to go to the devil, and then we’ll be free to stay in bed all day long if we want.”
His husky voice promised any number of wicked delights, a promise that I knew from past experience he would lavishly fulfill. But no matter how tantalizing that prospect was, I couldn’t agree. At least, not quite yet. “I must at least go see my father, even if I’m uncertain of my reception at home... or indeed anywhere
in London.”
Hearing the worry in my voice, he stroked my hair soothingly. “Are you concerned about the story Atherton put about?”
“A bit,” I admitted. Out of loyalty to my longtime mentor and the manager of my theatrical troupe, Gerhardt Atherton, I had permitted him to attribute his own misdeeds to me. After all, as he reminded me, he had taken me under his wing and become my mentor, even a kind of father to me, when as an eager and naive fifteen-year-old I had decided I wanted to become an actress. At the time I had planned to leave the theater and start an entirely new life as the wife of an American hotel magnate, so I had never imagined having to confront old friends who had been told that I had been stealing from the troupe’s takings and gambling the money away.
The marriage, however, had proved very brief, and I was widowed before living even twenty-four hours as a wife. It was only when I had tried to take possession of a house of my late husband’s in the Hudson River Valley that I had met Roderick, my late husband’s stepson, and the two of us had fallen in love after an initially antagonistic period of tumult. In Paris I had begun to re-enter the theatrical world, but that was a far cry from returning to my old haunts.
“I suppose it is inevitable that I’ll see people I know,” I said. “Indeed, I’d love to visit my old friends—just as long as I can be certain that Atherton has retracted the story as he promised to.”
“Even without having met the great booby, I’m skeptical that he stood by his word,” Roderick said. “I don’t get the impression that he has the backbone to reform as thoroughly as his letter insisted.”
“Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt as long as we can,” I said. “It’s possible that marriage really has changed him. I can forgive a great deal if he has truly convinced everyone that I’m innocent.”
A Haunting Reprise Page 2
