A Haunting Reprise

by Amanda DeWees

  Her eyes snapped. “Blasphemous girl. Don’t speak of your father that way.” Then she collected herself and said with an attempt at dignity, “You may tell your husband that I thank him for the kind offer and am pleased to accept. It is the least you can do considering all the heartache you gave your father during his lifetime.”

  Shaking my head in exasperation, I went to pack my trunk. Considering the likelihood that my father and I would have caused each other just as much unhappiness had I not left home, her charge seemed quite unfair. But it was not from my father alone that I had inherited what Roderick had once called my hardheadedness, and I knew that prolonging the discussion would have achieved nothing beyond making us both lose our tempers.

  When I had finished packing and my mood was calmer, I drew Polly aside to show her the tickets to the dress rehearsal and reception. “I realize that you’re in mourning,” I said, “but if you feel you are able—”

  She snatched one of the tickets from my hand before I could finish the sentence. “How thrilling!” she exclaimed. “You can introduce me to everyone who can help my career! That is to say—did Father make up his mind before he died? Did he actually say that I might become an actress?”

  Here was my opportunity to make a clean breast of it. But looking at her shining eyes, thinking of how diligently she had worked to improve herself—and reflecting upon how drab a life awaited her should she follow the path Father had wanted for her—I could not disappoint her.

  “He said that you ought to use your good sense but listen to your heart’s promptings,” I said.

  A crash behind us made us both start. A large framed print on the wall had somehow fallen to the floor, breaking the glass.

  The broken shards scattered on the floorboards would be a danger to the children, and I reached for the bell pull to ring for Ada. So trivial an accident could not distract Polly from her happiness, though. She seized my hands in delight.

  “Oh, thank you, Sybil! I cannot believe you changed his mind. I’m so happy! Wait until I tell Mama.”

  “It may be best for you to keep this to yourself, at least at first,” I said hastily. “We oughtn’t to bother Mother with such matters just now. Your news will keep—at least until you secure a role.” And with any luck, by the time that happened, Roderick and I might not even be in England.

  I DID NOT ATTEND THE funeral. My mother had told me that I wouldn’t be welcome since Father had not approved of women and children at funerals, and I saw no point in forcing the issue. Instead I settled into my new quarters at the Langham and luxuriated in spending much more time with Roderick. And I was excited as the night of the Macbeth final dress rehearsal and reception neared. Not only would it be a good opportunity to introduce Roderick and Polly to my friends, but I had realized that it would be a perfect occasion to draw Martin out of his hermitlike existence.

  When I proposed the idea to Roderick, though, he was not terribly enthusiastic. “I’d rather hoped to have you for myself,” he said. “But it is a generous impulse.”

  “Polly will be with us in any case,” I reminded him.

  “Well, they seem an unlikely couple, but that’s better than our being a threesome. We can send the two of them off together.”

  “Ridiculous man, I’m not trying to play matchmaker! Nevertheless, I’m certain he is lonely and would benefit from company—especially that of old acquaintances.”

  He pulled a doubtful face. “Mightn’t they only remind him of the night when the woman he loved was killed?”

  Recalling the vaporous white arms of Aurelia tightly entwined about him, I said, “I don’t think he is in danger of forgetting it.”

  To my delight, Martin accepted the invitation with all evidence of pleasure. He joined me and Roderick for tea at our hotel to discuss the upcoming event, and I noticed that in the bright sunlight of the open courtyard I did not see his familiar phantom. “Is Aurelia with you now?” I asked him.

  He sat back in his wrought iron chair, not even having to glance about him. He wore his habitual black suit and white shirt, striking a stark contrast to Roderick, who wore a dark blue coat and trousers with a claret waistcoat. “I do not sense her, no.”

  “Then she does roam about?”

  “She does not always choose to materialize. Especially in daylight.”

  “You don’t think,” I began as a worrisome idea sprang to mind, “that she will be—er—jealous of your escorting my sister to the reception?”

  But Martin shook his head with a tired smile. In the sunlight the white streaks in his hair were more evident, the lines of sadness and pain around his eyes more prominent. He was still a handsome man, but he looked his age. Granted, the air of tragedy hovering about him added to his fascination, and I saw several women at neighboring tables sneaking looks at him.

  “Aurelia knows that my heart will always be hers,” he said.

  Roderick had drained his cup of tea in two swallows and was jiggling one foot with impatience. His violin awaited him upstairs in our suite. “All she has to do is meet Polly,” he said, “and there will be no question of your deserting her for the girl.”

  I gave him a pained look, which he answered with an unrepentant wink.

  Fortunately Martin was gentlemanly enough to take the remark as a joke. “No sister of Sybil’s could be otherwise than charming and lovable. But I’m certain that even if my heart were free, Miss Ingersoll would prefer someone nearer her own age. All the same, I look forward to making her acquaintance.”

  Roderick shook his head. “My advice is to lower your expectations,” he said, and sprang to his feet. “I hope you’ll pardon me, but I’m in the middle of an andante and can hear it calling to me clear from the fifth floor. Pray excuse me.”

  “I must apologize for my husband’s manners, or lack of them,” I said as he left us, his swift strides taking him toward the nearest staircase. He was evidently too impatient to await the convenience of the elevator. “His artistic temperament will out, I’m afraid.” Even so, he was not usually this cavalier about socializing, and I suspected that his bias against Martin had spurred his abrupt departure.

  “I quite understand. He has a great deal of energy,” Martin observed as Roderick vanished up the stairs.

  “He does indeed,” I said demurely to my teacup.

  “How does he get along with Gerhardt Atherton?”

  “They haven’t met yet. In fact, I haven’t laid eyes on Atherton since returning to England.” His understanding dark eyes invited trust, and I decided to confide in him. “From the behavior of his wife, I suspect he is actually avoiding me. I shall be so glad to see him at last at the reception and get the awkwardness of the first meeting over with.”

  “But why should there be awkwardness?”

  “I suppose I may as well tell you, for people are bound to bring it up.” In as few words as possible I sketched in the background: Atherton’s irresponsibility, my rash decision to accept the blame, and the damage it had done to my reputation. “I’ve no idea how much of the fiction still remains to be undone,” I said. “So I should warn you that being in my party may not place you in a most favorable position.”

  He waved that away. He had an actor’s facility for dramatic gestures, which no doubt enhanced his effectiveness as a medium. His hands were long and thin, and a heavy signet ring set with onyx heightened their aristocratic appearance. “I can think of no party to which I would rather belong, Sybil,” he said.

  “While your gallantry is appreciated,” I said, “I hope you’ll not come to regret it.”

  TIME PASSED SWIFTLY until the day of the reception. When the night arrived I decided on a sort of fashion compromise: a black velvet evening dress from the House of Worth with a great deal of glittering beadwork. Even though its sparkle made it inappropriate for mourning in the strictest sense, by wearing black I hoped to be less likely to wound my mother if by some chance a newspaper should describe what was worn by the most prominent ladies in attendance toni
ght.

  “Not that I’m dressing to please her,” I said to Roderick as I was putting the finishing touches on my ensemble.

  He was looking over some sheet music and making pencil notations on it while waiting for me to finish dressing. Since his evening clothes posed no decisions to make except perhaps the choice of cufflinks and shirt studs, he had finished dressing long since. As always, he looked devilishly handsome in the white stiff-front shirt and black tailcoat and trousers; the stark black and white set off his olive complexion dramatically and made his curly dark hair seem wilder than ever. A study in contrasts, the passionate Romantic in the uniform of the proper gentleman.

  Now he said, “It seems to me that the effect of having your mother back in your life is to plunge you into doubt about your choice of clothing. Is this going to become a regular feature of our lives?”

  “Of course not,” I said, stung. “I just don’t want to wear something too inappropriate.”

  “You aren’t usually so beholden to what’s conventional.” He looked up from his work and studied me. “Wouldn’t you rather make a bold statement of independence and show what a mockery mourning garb is?”

  I put my hands on my hips and looked at him in the mirror. His expression was suspiciously guileless. “Just what is it that you are trying to steer me into wearing?” I wondered. “The dress I wore at our wedding, perhaps?”

  His face grew so wide-eyed in its innocence that I half expected a halo to materialize atop his tumbled dark curls. “If that’s what you are inclined to wear, naturally I wouldn’t dream of stopping you.”

  The dress in question was a daring ivory satin evening gown I had purchased in Paris. He had shown such enthusiasm for it that I had chosen it for my wedding dress, but I had worn it only rarely since then. I didn’t want to dilute its effect by wearing it too frequently... and it was certainly more likely to cause people to stare than the black velvet.

  At the time that Mr. Worth had set about creating the black gown for me, I had objected to the color, fearing it would make me look too old. Ultimately I had given way since he was, after all, the most talented couturier in Europe. Now I was glad I had deferred to him... but also glad he had ornamented the dress with so many glittering crystal and cut-steel beads.

  “I prefer the black for this evening,” I said. “It lends me a touch of dignity, I think. Did you just snicker at me?”

  “Not at all, not at all.” He rose and came to kiss my neck as I reached for faceted jet earrings. “Perhaps I dragged your mother into the matter unfairly. I ought to know by now that it is the actress in you that makes you so particular about your clothing.”

  “Why, any actress worth her salt is particular. A well-chosen ensemble can do half her work for her before she even opens her mouth.” With my earrings screwed on, I turned and slipped my arms around his neck. “Do you remember the magnificent magenta dress I wore to Miss Dove’s musicale in New York?”

  A slow, reminiscent smile showed that he not only remembered but approved. “It was the first time I had seen you wear anything but mourning,” he said, his voice husky. “I thought my eyes would start out of my head when you came down the stairs wearing that color—and that revealing neckline.” He drew me close and kissed me, as he had so nearly done when I wore the magenta dress. His lips were warm and slow, as if we had all night to do nothing else but this, and their touch kindled a molten warmth in me. Presently he said, “Was that the point of the magenta dress—to seduce me? If so, well played, Miss Ingram.”

  “The point was to give me confidence and make me feel like myself again,” I said demurely, “but its effect on you achieved much the same goal. Whereas this black dress, I hope, will show how mature and poised I am—the last person to steal money from her fellow troupers.” If I was correct, the gown might chase away any lingering doubts in my friends’ minds that I was innocent of the poisonous rumor.

  Roderick considered my words. “There is also the fact that such a lavish gown will show that you are not suffering any financial hardship and have no need of embezzling.”

  “Exactly! But there is also one more reason to wear it, perhaps the best reason of all.”

  “Which is?”

  “It will prevent Polly from sulking all evening. She is determined to wear mourning, and she will be as cross as two sticks if I wear something too festive.” Her attending the performance tonight was a serious enough breach of mourning etiquette without adding improperly colorful attire as well, or so she felt. In her place, I probably would have felt the same.

  Roderick gave a rueful smile. “If the dress will make Polly easier to live with, then I have no argument with it whatever. Besides...”

  “Yes?”

  His hands glided up my arms to caress my shoulders, which were bared by the gown. “It does have its own merits,” he murmured.

  We had to cut this pleasant conversation short, however, since it was time we went to the lobby to meet Martin. He arrived promptly, looking most distinguished in his evening clothes and black cape as he doffed his high silk hat to me. The white streaks in his dark hair were all the more dramatic when set off by his attire, and I noticed Roderick looking at him with narrowed eyes as if trying to determine whether they were in fact artificial.

  “What a magnificent gown you are wearing, Miss Ingram,” he said in his low, hypnotic voice. “It puts me in mind of that verse of Byron’s. ‘She walks in beauty, like the night / Of cloudless climes and starry skies....’ The poet’s cousin must have looked just like you in her spangled black dress when she inspired those lines.”

  Roderick muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “I can quote Byron too.” But when Martin looked inquiringly at him he pretended to have a cough.

  We had to stop on our way to the Crystal Palace to fetch Polly, and Roderick directed the driver to rein in a few buildings down so as not to attract the notice of anyone in the household. I went to knock softly at the street door, and my sister, who had been watching for me, slipped out of the house to join me.

  “I had to creep down the back stairs like a burglar,” she complained as we made our way to the carriage. “My heart was beating like mad. What if Mama had caught me? Or Ada?”

  “I’m glad you had no difficulty,” I said. I was learning to let her grumbling flow over me as a zephyr passed over the fields and meadows. Complaints were simply her native song, like the coo of a dove or the lowing of cattle... though, granted, a bit more aggrieved in tone.

  Martin was waiting to hand us into the carriage. “Permit me to present my sister,” I said to him. As he bowed over Polly’s hand, she executed a rather nice curtsey. She wore her hair up now and looked quite grown-up in her black gown, and Martin sounded entirely sincere when he told her, “How honored I am to be escorting you this evening, Miss Ingersoll, especially when you are making a special exception to your mourning.”

  Polly’s face brightened into flattered interest. She must, I reflected, be at just the right age to be fascinated by the Byronic type of man with his air of tragic romance. How fortunate! She even thanked Martin and told him, “The honor is mine,” demonstrating better manners than I had expected.

  Now that she was distracted from her grievances, Polly chattered a great deal on the journey to the Crystal Palace. Martin was quiet, perhaps reflecting on the old acquaintances he would see and the distressing circumstances in which he had parted from them years ago. In the dim carriage interior I could see the vaporous tendrils curling about his head and shoulders that testified to Aurelia’s spectral presence, and I was struck anew by the sad pensiveness of his eyes, the lines of suffering in his face. Whether blessing or curse, or something of both, his dead sweetheart would never let him fully belong to the present.

  But then, perhaps all of us were burdened with our pasts in a way. Certainly Roderick had been when we first met. As for me... would my friends ever quite feel the same way about me? Even if they believed in my innocence, our friendships would almost
certainly be changed. Perhaps I was doomed to carry their lingering doubts with me for the rest of my life, as Marley’s ghost was cursed to drag his chain and bank boxes. I knew I was being morbid, but I could not suppress a shiver.

  Roderick clasped my hand, and when I looked up, the steady, reassuring love in his eyes calmed me. “Don’t worry,” he said softly. “Any friend deserving of the name will stand by you.”

  Heartened, I shook off my gloomy thoughts. It was unlike me to be so pessimistic.

  Perhaps that was what came of wearing black.

  Chapter Eight

  Normally the Crystal Palace closed at sundown, since there was no artificial illumination for the building or grounds, but we arrived to find it a blaze of light—and never had that well-worn phrase been more apt. Electric lighting had been selectively installed in one wing of the building itself. With the transparent glass walls of the palace, it looked from a distance almost as if this mass of light and color was not enclosed at all but had simply bloomed out of the surrounding darkness. It was so bright it made me squint as we neared.

  The cascades and massive fountains had been shut off for the night, which was just as well. Otherwise the noise of the gushing jets of water would have made conversation difficult if not impossible.

  Atherton had had the grounds illuminated with torchieres, and in the flickering light there was something otherworldly about the eerie life-size sculptures of prehistoric animals that populated the grounds and the islands in the lake. With their claws, long tails, and gaping jaws filled with sharp teeth, the scaly lumbering figures of the dinosaurs seemed almost alive.

  “When I was a child my sisters and brothers and I played hide and seek among them,” I recalled. “Some of the biggest creatures have a hole in their bellies, so we could actually climb up inside them. One isn’t supposed to, of course, but those were the best hiding places one could imagine.”