“Are you hoping to take the role of the Scottish Lady for yourself?”
I turned to stare at her. “Heavens, no. Why would I?”
She was watching me with the kind of calculation that did, in fact, put me in mind of the Scottish Lady. “You were once leading lady here, after all,” she said. “It would make all the sense in the world for you to want to regain that position.”
“Miss Holm, that isn’t why I’m here,” I said. “I loved my years with this troupe, but I’ve moved on. My life is quite different now. I’m no longer forced to work by financial need, and if I want to perform again I don’t have to resort to underhanded schemes to do so. My husband and I can even mount a production of our own if I desire.”
She seemed only partially satisfied. “But it might be a point of pride to you to reclaim your place here after the circumstances under which you left.”
That was surprisingly insightful. I mustn’t underestimate her because of her youth. “My pride is involved,” I acknowledged. “I didn’t want to leave things on such ill terms with my old friends. But I have no intention of taking the stage again with this troupe. You have nothing to fear from me, Narcissa. You are the leading lady now. You are the one audiences come to see.”
Dropping her eyes, she stood twisting her handkerchief in her hands, and color began to creep into her pale cheeks. “I think I misjudged you,” she said. “I’ve suspected for some time that you were innocent of what Atherton claimed. Last night I felt certain.”
I was surprised by how pleased I was to hear this. “What convinced you?”
“I saw your face when he denied you, and what I saw was honest pain and righteous indignation. A guilty woman wouldn’t have looked that way. But it goes back further than that,” she admitted. “In the time I’ve known Mr. Atherton I’ve seen how loose he is with the truth—was, I mean—when it suited his ends. Whereas I’d heard nothing but good of you until he unfolded the story to Ivor when the idea of partnering was first broached.” She dropped her eyes. “To be perfectly honest,” she said in a subdued tone, “it was convenient for me to believe Mr. Atherton’s stories about you because it meant I didn’t have to feel guilty for taking your place.” She raised her eyes to meet mine once more, and I saw conviction in them. “I believe I can trust you,” she said.
This seemed like a genuinely friendly overture, and I wanted to receive it as such. Perhaps after all she was not the conniving minx I had thought her. But the terrible thought came to me that this might all be a performance. If she was involved with Atherton’s death, this might be an attempt to blind me to it by winning my trust.
For now, I resolved to accept her offered friendship—but not to dismiss the possibility of hidden motives.
“Thank you for believing in me, Miss Holm,” I said, wondering if in fact she did. “I promise you, I have your welfare at heart as well as that of the rest of the troupe. We can make a success of this production—I’m certain of it.”
Joining me at the bookcase, she sighed. “I wish I were as certain. And my understudy may not be pleased at suddenly having to learn an expanded role.”
As simply as that, I had my opportunity. “Who is your understudy?”
“Maggie Rhodes. She is playing the third witch.”
As I recalled, Maggie was a competent performer but hardly an inspired one. Possibly her chief virtue as understudy was a figure that was similar enough to the leading lady’s that the costumes would fit her.
“I doubt she anticipates having to go on for me,” Narcissa continued. “I’ve not missed a performance since joining the troupe.”
“Perhaps a new understudy is in order,” I said, careful not to let my eagerness show. “I wonder if you would consider giving my sister Polly a trial. She thinks she wants to be an actress, and this would be a perfect opportunity for her to get a closer look at what that life would be like.”
I could see from her face that she was taken aback, and I could hardly blame her. For me to propose such a thing hard on the heels of her declaring her trust in me probably struck her as audacious at best and opportunistic at worst.
“Is she any good?” she asked.
“She may be, if she applies herself. Understudying you might give her the incentive she needs to keep working hard.”
“You are working with her, I gather? Training her?”
“Yes, every day,” I reassured her. “She isn’t a complete neophyte, I promise. She is also about your height, so wearing your costumes shouldn’t pose much of a problem—not that it will come to that, I’m sure.”
From her expression I couldn’t tell whether she was in favor of the plan. She took her time replying, and I conquered the impulse to offer more persuasions.
“Speaking of my costumes,” she said at last, “My dresser fled this morning after learning the news about Mr. Atherton. She was convinced that we were none of us safe in our beds with a murderer running about.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. It must be frightening for her if this is the closest she has been to such a dreadful crime.”
She shrugged that away. “She was a silly girl and no great loss. But I do need a new dresser. If your sister will perform that office for me, she may be my understudy.”
That would be an excellent way for Polly to see more of the life of a trouper, without even setting foot onstage. “I can’t imagine she’d object to that,” I said. “It’s very generous of you.”
She put out her hand. “Then we have an agreement.”
As I shook her hand to seal our bargain, however, I wondered what I was getting myself—and Polly—into. When I looked at Narcissa now I saw no trace of the tearful, vulnerable girl from just minutes before. Maybe Polly and I both needed to be on our guard around Narcissa Holm.
Chapter Ten
Telling Polly the news was my next order of business. I also realized that she might be shaken and frightened after the night before, for that was probably the first murder scene at which she had been present—and hopefully the last. So when I alighted from my carriage before the Notley shop, I had no idea what might await.
Ada ushered me in with a minimum of rudeness. Mother, Mollie, and the children were gathered in the parlor, still subdued in this house of mourning, and only Mollie showed any sign of being glad to see me. “How lovely to have you back so soon,” she said.
Mother sniffed but did not otherwise comment. Her eyes were fixed on some embroidery work with a great deal of black in it. The little girls had looked up eagerly, but their faces fell when they saw that Roderick was not with me.
“Is Polly here?” I asked.
“I believe she’s in her room. Ada, won’t you fetch her?”
“That’s all right,” I said quickly. “I’ll go find her.”
When I entered the room the girls shared it seemed different somehow, and after a few moments I realized that it was unusually bare. The framed pictures that had adorned the walls were gone, as were a number of small china ornaments. Perhaps Mother and Ada were preparing to scrub down or paint the walls.
Polly was lying on her stomach on her bed, in complete defiance of Mother’s standards of ladylike comportment, reading about the latest fashions in Ladies’ Monthly Magazine. Not exactly the picture of innocence shattered. Sometimes I forgot how resilient the young could be.
“I wanted to see how you’re doing after last night,” I said. “Being present at the scene of a murder must have been horribly unnerving.”
“It was no more unnerving than what happened when I returned home,” she said, darting an irritated glance at me before turning her attention back to the magazine. “Violet and Myrtle woke up when I came in, though I crept ever so quietly, and wouldn’t stop pestering me until I told them where I had been. They still believe I had some kind of assignation.”
“Dyed-in-the-wool romantics, the pair of them.” Then an unpleasant thought struck me. “You didn’t tell them about the murder, did you?”
She gave me a dis
gusted look. “I’m not a complete idiot. I told them about the play. The costumes, the sets, the fancy things to eat at the reception.” She stopped and swallowed hard. “I swore them to secrecy and told them that you were going to help me become an actress so that I could be in plays just like this one. That’s when it happened.”
“What happened?” I pictured Mother bursting into the room in her nightgown like a Fury in cotton flannel.
Polly picked at the coverlet, avoiding my eyes. “The most horrendous crash. It sounded like the ceiling had caved in. It hadn’t, of course, but every single picture on the walls suddenly came loose and hit the floor. There was glass everywhere, the girls were shrieking... it was dreadful.”
“It must have been,” I said, startled, and sat down on the bed next to her. “What happened then?”
“Well, by some miracle Mother and Mollie and Jerome hadn’t been wakened by the noise, so I crept downstairs for a dustpan and swept everything up. Ada asked about the pictures this morning, and I told her there had been an earthquake in the night. I don’t think she believed me.”
Perturbed, I went to examine the walls where the pictures had hung. All of the nails had pulled out of the walls. Even if there were some kind of rot or decay in the walls, not all of the pictures would have fallen at once. Something peculiar was going on, and I knew I must investigate further. But first I had a more pleasant task.
“I brought good news,” I said, and at once Polly sat up, eyes wide with expectation.
“What is it? Have you found me a part?”
“Very nearly. There are to be some changes to Macbeth, and you are to be Narcissa Holm’s new dresser and understudy.”
With a smothered squeal she bounded up to hug me. “Oh, thank you, Sybil! How thrilling! When do I start? Today? Say it’s to be today.”
“The sooner the better,” I said, smiling at her excitement. “There is much to be done.”
“I shall play Lady Macbeth!” she crowed, dancing about the room. “My first role, and it’s to be so wonderfully wicked.”
“Now, just a moment,” I said sternly. “Being an understudy doesn’t guarantee that you’ll ever get to go onstage. And the role isn’t Lady Macbeth.”
“It isn’t?” Halted in her swooping dance, she stared at me with the beginning of irritation. “Who am I to play, then? You’d better tell me everything.”
“And so I shall, but first we must tell Mother.”
She gave a wail and fell onto the bed as if she had been struck by a bullet. “No, we can’t!” she moaned into the counterpane.
Considering how dramatic her behavior was, it seemed all the more likely that the theater was her natural milieu. I tugged her back to her feet. “We must, Polly. There isn’t any way to keep this a secret, and trying to do so would distract you from learning your role. You need to be able to bring your full concentration to your new position—and the troupe needs an understudy who isn’t liable to be pulled from the production by her mother.”
Oh, how she grumbled. But at last she let me march her down the hall to the parlor.
The others were as we had left them. No one even looked up until I said, “Mother, may Polly and I have a word with you?”
“I suppose.” But she made no move to rise from her place on the sofa. Stifling a sigh, I sat down and motioned for Polly to do the same.
“You know that the reason Polly came to find me was so that I could help her make her way in the theatrical profession,” I began. “Well, I am happy to say that I have secured for her a position as understudy.”
That got her attention. Setting down her embroidery, she folded her hands in her lap deliberately and gave me the full force of her steely gaze. I tried to remember that I was an adult woman and not a little girl about to be scolded. “Understudy to what?” she asked in chilly tones.
Briefly I explained the situation. “So you see, this is a wonderful opportunity for her, and I hope that you will be able to see that and not—er—stand in her way.”
“Stand in her way?” she echoed. “How could I do otherwise?” She had listened without a word or gesture, and now it appeared that she had done so in order to save up all her fury for this moment. “You know full well how your father felt about actresses. I would be betraying his memory by letting my youngest daughter follow your example.”
“But he gave me his blessing,” Polly said.
My mother looked at her in disbelief. “When did he do that?”
“Just a day or so before he died,” Polly said. I wished I had a way to stop her. “Sybil told me,” she added, sealing my fate.
“Oh, she did, did she?” My mother’s tone was acidly sweet. “How convenient.” When she turned her glare on me, I found myself wishing I could hide. “I can only imagine how much you had to badger and harangue the poor man. When he was at his weakest, all you could think about were your own selfish plans.”
“I had no plans except to help Polly achieve her independence,” I said, uncomfortably aware of how defensive I sounded. “I didn’t think it was fair for her to be held back by Father’s prejudices. Polly is nearly an adult and has the right to make her own choices.”
Polly was staring at me now with an expression that told me she did not appreciate the selflessness of my actions. “So you lied to me?” she cried. “Father didn’t give me his blessing?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, more uncomfortable by the second. “I meant it for the best.”
My mother looked as scandalized as if I had stood up in church and started to dance the can-can. “How could you possibly think such a thing?” she demanded. “I didn’t bring you up to be so heedless and disrespectful.”
“If Father had had any reasonable objections, I would have respected them,” I protested. “But he didn’t have logic on his side—or compassion. Mother, don’t you think Polly deserves a chance to at least find out if she could have a future in the theater? She might make a real success of it.”
A week ago I would have been astonished to hear myself speaking so passionately on Polly’s behalf. Roderick had noted before that as soon as I was barred from doing something, I immediately became determined to do it. (He was not above putting this insight to use when it served his own ends, but that was his husbandly prerogative.) So now I heard myself declaring, “Polly shall have every chance I can give her of succeeding in the theater. We would very much like your blessing, but if Polly is prepared to go forward without it, I will not shrink from helping her.”
My mother’s face was flushed with displeasure, and she took a deep breath as if about to unleash some barrage of parental censure at me. But suddenly I was distracted. Beyond her, a small china figurine on the sideboard had begun to tremble as if agitated. As I watched, the shaking increased, and the clattering noise caused my mother and sister to turn and stare.
“What on earth—” my mother began, when the figurine leaped straight into the air and hovered for a second. Polly gasped, and even I could not help but jump. Regaining my presence of mind just in time, I cried, “Duck!” and tugged at Polly’s arm as the china ornament flew through the air in our direction. The figurine sailed through the air where my head had been just a moment before and smashed against the wall.
“How did that happen?” my mother whispered. She had gone pale, and she stared at the wall where the ornament had left a scuff on the wallpaper. “There’s no one there.”
A sickening theory was forming in my mind. Now a soft, rapid thudding noise drew my eye to the far wall, where a framed photograph of my parents was beginning to jitter and jounce. With a papery flutter, the sheet music on the piano flung itself to the floor. The noise increased as more and more objects around the room began to shake and vibrate wherever they stood or hung.
“This is not good,” I said, striving to keep calm even as the divan on which I had been sitting began to shiver and strain to leave the floor. “We mustn’t remain here.”
“But what is happening?” Mother asked.
The three of us gained the door just in time. No sooner had I slammed it closed and leaned against it with my full weight than the framed sampler hit the door with a force that made me flinch. There was a tinkling of breaking glass, then a cacophony of crashing and banging.
My mother gripped my shoulder in alarm, and Polly put her hands to her ears. The noise brought Ada, who was just in time to hear silence fall.
I waited a few moments to be sure the danger was past, then opened the door.
All things considered, there was little serious damage, but the sight was enough to make Mother and Ada gasp. The furniture had piled up against one wall, and the drapes had been dragged down from the curtain rods and lay on the floor. With a loud pop the frosted glass shade on one of the gas jets exploded, and all of us flinched despite being at a safe distance.
I could feel my mother shaking, and I put my arm around her. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I can’t help but feel I am at least partly responsible for this.”
She turned wide, shocked eyes to me. “But how could you be to blame? What explanation can there possibly be for such a thing?”
“I’m afraid,” I said as gently as I could, “that you are being haunted.”
“Fiddlesticks!” Ada declared.
Polly gave a gasp that was almost a laugh. “Are you in earnest?”
My lips compressed in frustration. I had underestimated my father’s obstinacy and spite. Why had I been born to so stubborn a father? Or why, having such a father, must I have inherited that same stubbornness? This was all the more proof that had I not left home at fifteen we would have been at cross purposes every moment of the day.
With a gesture I indicated the mess in the parlor. “There can be no other explanation to this kind of violent damage. Clearly a poltergeist is at work here. And judging from the times he chooses to make an appearance, it seems obvious to me that the ghost is Father.”
A Haunting Reprise Page 15
