A Haunting Reprise

by Amanda DeWees

  Roderick muttered, “And if he hasn’t, I may pay a call on him with a horsewhip.”

  “I shouldn’t think that violence would be necessary.”

  “And if it is?”

  The hopeful note in his voice made me laugh. “Naturally in that case I shall stand back and let you unleash the fury of Roaring Brooke upon him.” I stretched up and kissed him, and he took me in his arms and kissed me back with such fervor that I knew conversation was over for the time being. I buried my hands in his unruly black hair and almost forgot everything else in the world.

  Almost. I broke away to whisper, “Roderick? Is the door locked?”

  His low chuckle was warm against my cheek. “Believe me, sweetheart, I made quite certain of that.”

  My sigh of relief quickly became a sigh of pleasure, and all the concerns of the day were lost in his arms.

  Chapter Two

  As urgent as it was to see my father, in the end I decided we would wait a day before traveling to England. For all we knew this would be Polly’s only visit to Paris, and it might be a good education for the child.

  I couldn’t help but think her a child even though I knew that many girls married at her age. Polly had led a life that was not sheltered exactly, but blinkered. Her experience was narrow. Besides, I wanted a chance to assess her potential as an actress—if she had any.

  “What made you decide on the stage?” I asked as we looked at dresses at the Bon Marché, the fabled department store. I was determined she should have something more mature and better suited to a woman who wished to be taken seriously than the foolish dress she was wearing.

  “Well—you did. If you could do it, I thought, why can’t I?”

  “Meaning that if I can do it, it can’t be very challenging?”

  She had the grace to look a little abashed.

  “It’s just that our family is so ordinary,” she said. “No one ever said you were a prodigy, and it isn’t as though you had lessons in elocution or dancing or anything of that sort. You didn’t have any advantages to help you along—not that I know of.”

  I was glad to see a less pugnacious side of her. Whether because she had succeeded in making me agree to talk to Father or because she was awed by her surroundings, she was less abrasive company and all the better for it.

  Then she obliterated all my goodwill by adding, “Unless you were bedding someone with connections in the theater. Is that how you did it?”

  “Polly Ingersoll!” None too gently, I drew her away from the sales clerk who was watching over us and lowered my voice. “That is the last I want to hear from you of that sort of talk. If you have so little respect for me, I shan’t waste any more of my time trying to help you. Perhaps you’d better seek out someone else to pester for favors.”

  “Don’t be so horrid! How was I to know? Father always talks about what painted Jezebels actresses are. This is my first time talking to one.”

  That rather made me wonder about her sincerity in seeking to become one. “How much experience have you of the theatrical world?” I asked. “Enough to know that it’s what you really want?”

  She twitched her shoulders like a horse fretted by flies. “It isn’t as if I’ll be committing the rest of my life to it! I don’t know why you’re so dead set that I think of it as some sort of calling.”

  “So you don’t have any personal inclination toward the theater?” I asked, my heart sinking.

  She blinked at me in surprise. “How could I have? I’ve only ever seen two plays in my life. One was at a market fair and the other was one of yours.”

  “Why, I had no idea.” Despite myself, I was touched.

  She nodded as she examined a dress of pink taffeta trimmed with violet ribbon. “It was something with lots of poetry in it. It wasn’t very exciting, but it was a birthday treat from a friend, so at least I wasn’t out any pocket money.”

  So much for thinking she had been motivated by sisterly feeling. Plucking the taffeta dress from her grasp, I handed her a fawn-colored day dress in good-quality wool melton. It was handsomely cut, without extremes of style or trimming that would make it go out of fashion quickly, and it would lend her some dignity. “This one,” I said.

  “But it’s so plain!”

  I gave her a stern look. “It’s practical. Why would you need to wear taffeta to lay the table or go to market?”

  “What’s the point of becoming an actress if I have to dress the same as everyone else?” she protested. “You’re certainly dressed finely enough.”

  I hadn’t the patience to impress upon her the difference between us as far as our places on the road to success. “You shall probably find Father and Mother more sympathetic to your plea if you dress modestly,” I pointed out. “That may allay their concerns about your setting out to become a painted hussy.”

  Glaring, she snatched the dress from my hands. “You just don’t want me to be as pretty as you. You’re trying to make me plain because you’re afraid that I’ll start taking your roles!”

  “Curses, you’ve discovered my sinister plot,” I said witheringly. “Just try it on, please.”

  As she tried on dresses I took the opportunity to assess her physical attributes. She was pretty, and her figure was acceptable, though a bit of padding to round out her hips and bosom would not come amiss. At least she carried herself well, standing straight and tall, although she would need to practice making her walk more graceful. Her voice might be the crux. It carried well enough across a small room, but whether she would be able to develop it into an instrument that could reach the rear stalls of a large theater—while simultaneously expressing shades of emotion—was something I could not determine through social interaction.

  Her personality, however, might be a stumbling block. Above all, actors needed to be able to work together in harmony; rare were the cases in which a leading lady had stature and power enough to force her will upon the rest of the company. Granted, the circumstances were very different, but so far Polly did not impress me as a particularly cooperative girl.

  Still, if my circumstances had been the same, I might have been just as restless and obstinate. She was following my example, after all.

  It occurred to me that it might be wise to purchase a modest dress for myself as well. Bursting into my parents’ home in one of my colorful Paris ensembles might look as though I were trying to flaunt my money and implicitly criticize their way of life. And I, too, might find a more willing ear in our father if my appearance looked more like his idea of a virtuous woman and less like a worldly actress. So Polly was not the only one to emerge from our shopping trip with a new—and dissatisfying—dress.

  That evening, deciding that I might as well take the opportunity to expand her theatrical education, I took her to the Comédie-Française to see Phèdre. Seeing the remarkable young actress Sarah Bernhardt might prove inspiring to her, and indeed I was happy for an excuse to attend the play again, so strongly had it impressed me the night before.

  During the interval I introduced Polly to some of my acquaintances, and one might have thought her an empress, the way she presented her hand to be kissed, stuck her nose in the air, and gazed down from half-closed eyes. I tried to convey silent apologies to those confronted with this haughty creature, and they had the courtesy to hide their amusement. She would definitely need to drop the airs and graces she put on.

  Nor did she seem to have enjoyed the play. She had been restless throughout, fidgeting and crumpling her program. “I don’t understand French,” she said when I brought this up.

  “But even without knowing what the actors were saying, weren’t you able to grasp their emotions? Didn’t you notice how expressive Mademoiselle Bernhardt’s delivery was?” The young woman with the lyrical voice was a revelation as the princess Aricie, and I hoped that one day she would be equal to the role of Phèdre herself.

  “I think you’re just trying to discourage me,” said Polly, bringing me back from my mental wanderings. “You force a b
oring dress on me, then take me to a dull play. I thought actresses led such thrilling lives, but you might as well be Mother, as little fun as you let me have.”

  “Fun will be your reward after the hard work,” I said. “Tonight was meant to make you understand that acting is more than just reciting words.”

  Polly shrugged. It was not an expressive shrug, which the French are so skilled at, but a sulky, graceless one. “Anyway, I thought we’d be seeing a melodrama or something more diverting,” she said. “Why is the theater named the Comédie-Française if it doesn’t present comedies?”

  It was all rather discouraging.

  Later, as Roderick and I prepared for bed, he asked, “What do you think of her?”

  I pushed out a sigh. “Headstrong, obstinate, contrary—”

  “As an actress, I meant. Does she have any potential at all, or can you tell yet?”

  “I’ve seen worse cases become decent actors,” I conceded. “The most important thing is that she must be prepared to work hard and take direction. I’m not certain how dedicated she really is to this dream of becoming an actress. And a great deal depends on how malleable she is.”

  “What did you call me?” demanded a voice through the keyhole.

  “Go back to bed, Polly,” I ordered. I hoped fervently that she had not been spying on us the night before. Perhaps I ought to put cotton wool in the keyhole.

  Next morning I put on my new dress, which was so simple in design that I needed no assistance from a maid, but my reflection in the mirror depressed me. Of dove gray challis with only a bit of blue soutache braid for trim, and the plainest underskirt imaginable, the dress made me feel diminished.

  But perhaps I was being oversensitive. “What do you think?” I asked Roderick.

  He glanced up from his newspaper. “You look as though you’re trying to disguise yourself as a governess.”

  His frank assessment made me wonder if I was taking the wrong tack. I had no desire to approach my parents like a meek penitent in sackcloth. That was not my style at all, and my spirit rebelled at the idea of trying to hide or apologize for my career.

  No, I would not be wearing that dress. I changed into one of my more dashing day dresses, a pink-and-black plaid sateen with a great many knife-pleated ruffles and a black velvet waistcoat. It was topped off by a pink Eugénie hat trimmed in white plumes and worn at a jaunty angle, and the final touch was a pair of darling high-heeled pink suede boots with silver embroidery.

  “Is this better?” I asked Roderick as I finished adjusting the tilt of my hat and stepped back so that I could examine the effect in the mirror.

  He set aside his newspaper and approached as I watched him in the mirror. Slipping his arms around my waist, he kissed me on the cheek.

  “Now, that’s the Sybil I know,” he said in satisfaction. “Confident, vivid... even a bit saucy.”

  “It isn’t too much?” I asked, but only for form’s sake. As soon as I had put on the dress I had felt like myself again.

  “It’s exactly enough. You’re splendid.” The husky warmth of his voice meant even more than the words. He turned me around to face him and tipped up my chin to kiss me again, a proper kiss this time, and one that did a thorough a job of banishing all other thoughts from my mind—temporarily, at least.

  The journey to London was chaotic: by fiacre to the station, thence by steamer across the channel, then by train. Polly grew more animated the closer we came to our destination, while I grew more quiet, feeling misgivings at what was in store. Roderick slipped his arm about my waist as we prepared to disembark from the train.

  “Britannia Triumphant,” he whispered, making me smile. That was the nickname Atherton had given one of my most determined facial expressions.

  “Britannia will do her best,” I said.

  No one came to meet us, which was not a good sign. I had composed a carefully worded telegram announcing our planned arrival and had given it to Polly to pass along to the hotel porter, but either it hadn’t arrived in time or my family couldn’t be bothered to meet our train.

  Once we had hired a coach and our trunks had been loaded onto it, Polly directed the driver to an address in an unfamiliar street. The nearer we came to it, the drabber were the houses. London was not looking its best on this cloudy day, and as the streets grew narrower and more of the sky was blocked out, the prospect made my heart sink.

  I had forgotten so much—or, rather, had put so much out of my mind—after leaving home. I could feel depression trying to wrap its tentacles around me. How could I have lived fifteen years like this—and how could my family do it all their lives? My father’s pride must have been enormous to have shunned my money when it could have helped them alleviate some of the grimness of their lives.

  With these thoughts in my mind, it was actually a relief when the coach drew up in a street that was not as run-down as the one I had grown up in. My family had evidently become more prosperous since then. The street was lined with shops, many of which seemed to have residences on the upper floors. I saw a draper’s, a second-hand clothing store, a tobacconist’s, an apothecary, and a butcher’s shop.

  Roderick was looking all around him with curiosity. “I always forget how crowded together buildings are in English cities,” he said. “Land is so much more plentiful in America that everything spreads out more.”

  Polly jutted her chin at him. “If you like it so much better there, why don’t you go back?”

  “Why, then I would be denied the pleasure of your charming company.”

  But Polly’s hands were clasping each other nervously, and she was slow to descend from the coach. Clearly she was worried about what reception we might have. Certainly there were more pleasant ways to cope with nerves than her tendency to be argumentative, but now that I understood that part of her behavior I was more tolerant of it. And perhaps I could help her to change it before it scuttled her chances of making her way in the theater world.

  Then I caught myself. After all, I had not yet decided I was going to help her. But as Roderick handed me down from the coach and I took in the filthy gutter and drab soot-stained edifice before me, I didn’t see how I could refuse her.

  Our carriage had stopped in front of a shop whose windows bore the painted legend Notley Furnishings for the Home. It seemed to contain a range of secondhand furniture. The window display was crowded with an assortment of bric-a-brac from a spindly rocking chair to a faded tapestry-covered footstool to chipped china lamps with sooty glass chimneys.

  “Would you like me to accompany you?” Roderick asked as he handed me down. “If your parents give you any harsh treatment I’d like nothing more than to defend you.”

  “I’d prefer it if you didn’t join us just yet, Roderick. Give us a quarter of an hour, and if I haven’t returned, come after me. Just knowing you’re nearby makes me feel stronger.”

  He kissed me soundly, indifferent as always to whether the surroundings were suited to this sort of demonstration. “I shall be waiting. If you need me sooner, you can wave a handkerchief from the window.”

  Next to the shop door was a plain door with a polished brass number on it, evidently leading to the upper floors. Polly hesitated, so I opened the door.

  We encountered a fleshy woman of middle age with a hard face who was on her hands and knees scrubbing the vestibule. She rose to her feet as she took us in. “Yes?” she said curtly, wiping her wet hands on her apron.

  “We wish to see the Ingersolls,” I said.

  The woman’s expression told me she disapproved of me. “Oh, you wish, do you?” she said without humor. “And who, might I ask—”

  “Don’t be tiresome, Ada,” said Polly, stepping around me. Evidently she had overcome her nerves, at least enough to confront what must be the maid of all work. “It’s me. Let us in.”

  Ada made no move to allow us by, instead propping her hands on her hips and glaring Polly down. “And what makes you think you can waltz back in without a by-your-leave afte
r worrying your poor mother half to death? She’s been fretting something terrible for fear you’d been kidnapped or run off with some ne’er-do-well. You’d better have a good excuse, young lady.”

  “I do,” Polly informed her. “I’ve brought home the prodigal daughter.”

  I had to admit that she had an instinct for drama. Ada gave me startled look and then, blessedly, stepped back to let us into the vestibule. “I’ll let the missus know you’re here,” she said.

  “Ada, wait,” Polly said quickly. “It’s meant to be a surprise. Won’t you let us go up unannounced?”

  The maid huffed out a sigh. “I suppose you may as well.”

  Under her critical eye we ascended the narrow stair.

  When I judged that we were out of earshot, I said in a low voice, “What happened to my telegram announcing that we were coming?”

  Polly avoided my eyes. “I—I may not have given it to the porter in time.” When I groaned, she added defensively, “I was afraid that if they had any warning they might refuse to see you—or worse, refuse to take me back.”

  “Whereas springing me on them as a surprise is certain to put them in a more receptive frame of mind.”

  But she looked miserable enough without my continuing to reproach her, so I fell silent. After all, the consequences, whatever they were, would fall more heavily on her, since she was still their dependent. I had freedom that she did not—freedom that she needed my help in attaining.

  When we came to a landing with two doors, Polly nodded toward the nearer one, and I opened it with a slight feeling of breathlessness.

  The parlor, curiously, was situated in the back of the building, and on this overcast day it was brightly illuminated by gaslight. The brilliant light made it easy to see how very crowded the room was with an abundance of furniture and bric-a-brac, but it also showed that the room was scrupulously clean. Looking at all of the framed engravings and china ornaments, I was pleasantly surprised. The sheer quantity of furnishings suggested that my family was better off than when I had left them. There was a piano, for one thing, which definitely showed they had come up in the world—or at least intended to give that impression.