by John Jakes
“I was awful in the play, Mr. Prince.”
He thought a moment. “I couldn’t agree more. But as I told Addie, it’s happened to every actor. As you gain experience, you’ll learn to save yourself in rehearsal so there’ll be energy left for the performance. You shouldn’t worry too much. The audience didn’t go so far as to throw things. Only your colleagues knew how really bad you were,” he finished with a chuckle that took the sting from the remark.
“Well,” Eleanor replied, “I don’t know whether I’ll be around long enough to learn from my mistakes.”
“Mmm,” he said again. “Are you homesick?”
“Very.”
“So Martha and I suspected. I hope that will pass. After a night or two, you’ll be splendid as Little Eva, take my word. Even Goldman won’t be half bad once he learns how to use makeup to age himself. Handsome boy, Goldman.”
“Mr. Prince, I don’t mean to offend you, but except for the scenes when you or your wife were onstage, the whole show was terrible. The audience knew it, too.”
He digested that. “Of course they did. But they still enjoyed themselves. They helped create the illusion that they were witnessing a passable performance. We created the illusion that we were presenting one—and more important, we sustained it afterward. You’ll find that actors are superb at convincing themselves they were grand when they weren’t at all. You have a candor that’s refreshing, Eleanor”—he squeezed her shoulder—“and you do have talent. I, by contrast, shall never be a performer of the first magnitude. I might have had some chance at one time, before certain—appetites of mine got the better—well, never mind that. Merely let it be said that I do have an eye for spotting talent in others. Even more of an eye than old Horace.”
“Who?”
“Horace. Bascom. That’s his real name.”
It struck her as funny, somehow. She laughed, and Prince went on. “When Horace auditions females, he tends to be mesmerized by bustlines and speculations about who might be willing to warm his bed.” There was an odd undertone of disgust in the actor’s voice. His eyes drifted to the passing hills. “This time Horace chose wisely—as regards ability, I mean to say. I was genuinely impressed by your reading at the rehearsal. I do believe that with the proper guidance and a few strokes of good fortune, within ten or twelve years you can be an actress who is respected and sought after by the leading producers and managers. I’d even go so far as to say you might well be one of the reigning ladies of the American stage.”
For several moments she couldn’t speak. And then she could only think of something hopelessly inane. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Prince.”
“Kindness has nothing to do with it, my dear. I told you the truth. If you do achieve what I think you can achieve, limitless possibilities will be open to you. The most important, I suppose, would be in connection with a marriage partner.”
She wanted to tell him she had no interest in that sort of thing. But she didn’t want to interrupt and perhaps hurt his feelings.
“You’ll be able to do much more than select from one or two gentlemen of promising but unrealized potential. You’ll have a flock of ’em after you. Men who’ve already made their marks. Piled up fortunes, or gotten hold of the reins of political power. It won’t be a case of too narrow a choice, but too wide a one. And it all comes from making the stage your conquered province. You can do it. You have the beauty. I am now satisfied that you have the talent. The only thing lacking—indeed, the ingredient even more essential than natural ability—is ambition. Without it, you’ll never reach the pinnacle. With it, you’ll be there while you’re still young and vigorous enough to enjoy it.”
It was a dazzling prospect, and his sincerity almost convinced her it was a realistic one. But she didn’t want a husband, ever. She especially didn’t want a husband who was a Congressman or a stockbroker. She only cared about one person, and she hardly dared admit that to herself—
Prince took her silence for suspicion.
“Believe me, there’s no ulterior motive behind all I’ve said. Indeed, I shall be happy to look after you in a most fatherly fashion, and see that Bascom doesn’t drive you wild with his pawings and slaverings. Has he started?”
“Oh, just a bit. I fended him off, though.”
“Good. It isn’t hard.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Horace is really quite a decent fellow. God-awful actor, but a decent fellow. As soon as you’ve discouraged him once or twice, he’ll be off chasing some skirt he’s spied in the audience. How he keeps it up at his age is beyond me. Just be assured, my dear—I have no interest in you as a bed warmer.”
“I’ve never worried about that,” she told him truthfully. “You and Mrs. Prince seem very happily married.”
His laugh was touched with cynicism. “We are. In our profession, marriage is a great convenience. Two can eat more cheaply than one. Martha and I constantly help one another with lines, and with interpretations—we fix each other’s costumes—it’s an ideal arrangement. As for romantic inclinations”—he shrugged—“mine do not lie in the direction of the female sex.”
The statement had an aggressive ring to it, as if he were deliberately defying her conventional notions of morality. And in truth, she was shocked. She’d heard of men who felt as he did. His thoroughly masculine manner had deceived her—though come to think of it, she’d noticed him being almost excessively cordial to Leo ever since the troupe left New York. She hid her feelings. The tension went out of the moment.
Musing, he went on. “But if I have any suspense passion, it’s for the applause. I see the same worn, shabby backdrops that you do. I stand in the wings and watch Nicolai misbehave in front of several hundred people and I think, my God, this is a profession for madmen, and the people are equally mad to pay fifty cents to view such a debacle. But then the final curtain approaches, and I ride to heaven in my gold car, and the sound that comes swelling up from the house makes me quite willing to deceive myself for the rest of my life. Deceive myself into believing this tawdry existence is beautiful. That it’s art. That it matters. You, though—”
Another squeeze. This time she managed to stay relaxed.
“You won’t have to practice that kind of deception when you’re my age. Before long, you’ll leave Horace and Addie and the rest of us far behind.”
Suddenly the door opened. Prince quickly lowered his arm. “Oh, Goldman. Good evening,” he said rather stiffly.
Eleanor was embarrassed. So was Leo. “Good evening—ah—I was only looking for Eleanor—excuse me—”
Prince waved. “No, come out, come out. I’m just leaving.”
Leo hesitated, then moved past him to stand near Eleanor. The older man added, “Make sure she doesn’t stay out here too long, my boy. We don’t want her coming down with a sore throat or chilblains.”
Eleanor leaned forward and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He blinked and reached for the handle of the door. The train swayed on its way around a long curve. Prince lost his balance. Leo grabbed his arm.
“Don’t fall, sir.”
With a look so intense, it made Leo glance away, Prince patted his hand and then disengaged. “Oh, no, my dear boy,” he said with a little smile. “That happened many years ago.”
He touched two fingers to his brow—a salute that somehow had great panache despite the hour and the setting. Then he turned, opened the door, and stumbled as he went inside. “Goddamn it,” they heard him mutter as he disappeared, “I hate spoiling an exit.”
iii
“Are you all right, Eleanor?”
“My,” she said, “I seem to have my share of guardians this evening.”
“It’s very late. Almost dawn, I’ll bet. Prince wasn’t—bothering you, was he?”
“I think he’s the last person who’d ever try that.”
“I’m not so sure.” Leo rubbed his upper arms slowly; he’d donned an old, faded overcoat on top
of his nightshirt. His feet were bare, like hers. “I was worried when you came out here by yourself. Then Prince trailed you and I got even more worried.”
“Were you lying in your berth listening?”
A nod, a rueful smile. “I couldn’t sleep either. I was thinking.”
“About what?”
“You.”
She tingled, hearing that word—and suddenly she realized her fear of affection had weakened ever since her reconciliation with her father. It was as if that moment had shattered some invisible chain. Just a moment ago, she’d kissed Dan Prince and not even thought twice.
Still, she remembered how the men who’d come to the house had hurt her. A tightness spread through her loins and up into her breasts. She sensed that a crisis had come—one that Leo could know nothing about.
Nor did she dare tell him. Instead, she said, “I was doing some thinking too. I played my part so badly in Albany, I was actually thinking of resigning from the troupe and going home. Mr. Prince encouraged me to stay—”
“Good!”
“—and I decided I had to because it’s wrong to be a quitter. People in our family just don’t do it.” All at once she felt incredibly tired. “We’d better get some rest, Leo. We have to play Syracuse tomorrow nigh—no, tonight. It’s already Tuesday, isn’t it?”
She started to move by him to the door. She didn’t trust herself out here alone with Leo. She knew how he felt, and if she broke down, it would only lead to—
His hand closed gently on her forearm. She started to protest, then saw by starlight that his mouth had set in that determined way.
He said softly, “Before you go, I want to tell you one thing. I thought you were wonderful tonight.”
“Oh, Leo, I wasn’t.”
“Then we disagree.”
“I was so afraid—”
“Of what?”
“Everything.”
His face was suddenly very close. And there were delicious feelings in her arm where he held her. The tightness was melting, and no matter how she warned herself about the danger, she didn’t seem to care about it. The starlight, Prince’s reassuring words, Leo standing so close and touching her so tenderly—all conspired to allay her fears and leave her open to a flood of wondrously new emotions.
“You mustn’t be afraid of anything, Eleanor,” he said. “Not of yourself, and not of me. I know things have hurt you in the past. I don’t know what they are, I just see it in your eyes sometimes. But you mustn’t be afraid of me, because I love you, and I have since that day I saw you at the Academy. I’d die before I’d hurt you intentionally—I’d die if I hurt you accidentally, too. I’m going to make you love me. I never thought we’d be together on this tour, but now that we are, I swear I’m going to make you love me as much as I love you.”
Then his head blocked the stars as he bent to kiss her.
For the first few seconds she was terrified. She tasted the warmth of his lips, and felt their gentleness; felt how lightly, almost respectfully he held her with just one arm resting over her shoulder. The fear faded.
She slid her arm around him, drew away just a little and said in a hushed voice, “Do you know, I think you might.”
Then she kissed his mouth with the ardor she’d denied far too long.
iv
After the kiss, he was the soul of courtesy. He continued to hold her, but he sensed the lingering tension in her and went no further. He put his old overcoat around her. Miraculously, both her chilliness and her tiredness vanished in an instant.
They stood talking in that shy, excited way lovers have, speaking of where they were going—far out beyond the Mississippi—to places they had only read about. She was unexpectedly, unbelievably happy. She could look forward to working. To perfecting her craft. And to being with Leo.
Perhaps Prince’s prediction would come true, and Leo’s as well.
Finally they fell silent, and she nestled against Leo’s chest. He stood behind her, his arms around her and very lightly touching the undersides of her breasts through her robe. With his lips close to her ear, kissing gently every moment or so, they watched the immense banners of stars the night had unfurled.
The sky made her think of the flag. How many states had she seen in her lifetime? Only Virginia, New York, and those between. But the flag had thirty-eight stars now—Colorado had come in during the centennial year—and a population of nearly fifty million people.
Fifty million! So many—and so much country, westward beneath the arch of stars.
How wonderful to see it with someone like Leo. The prospect thrilled her. She’d write Papa and tell him everything she was doing—
Well, almost everything.
“Leo?” She covered her mouth to hide a yawn she couldn’t hold back.
“Yes.”
“I have to go to bed.”
He cleared his throat in an exaggerated way. “At your service, madam.”
To her astonishment, she found she could make light of something terrifying. Perhaps it would always be terrifying; perhaps the shame and the pain could never be expunged. Yet she took it as a hopeful sign that she was able to tease him.
“By myself, Leo Goldman. We aren’t married yet.”
“We will be.”
She laughed. “You’re impossible.”
“And patient. Very, very patient.”
On tiptoe, she kissed him, then took his hand and led him into the darkness, her fingers twined with his in perfect trust.
Chapter XII
Julia’s Fate
i
ORDERLIES IN BLOOD-SPECKLED white aprons moved up and down the hallway where Carter and Will waited. The boys sat on a bench whose old wood was nearly as bleached and pale as their faces. It was three in the morning, Tuesday. From time to time Will reached out to pat Carter’s hand.
The second floor of the New York Hospital at Duane and Broadway reeked of strong soap and other, less appetizing substances. Julia had been rushed to the hospital by ambulance, while Mills had taken the calash to upper Fifth Avenue to summon Gideon.
Carter and Will had said they wanted to accompany Gideon to the hospital. The boys had been waiting on the bench for nearly five hours. Carter sat motionless, staring at the old, worn flooring. The gas jet above the bench cast a sickly, wavering light on his face, and on Will’s sagging head and drooping eyelids. Will jerked upright when a woman screamed in the distant reaches of the hospital.
He shuddered. Carter put his arm around the smaller boy and held him.
Some five minutes later, Gideon emerged from the nearby ward. His step was unsteady, his face pale and perspiring from the fever that still plagued him. Both boys watched Gideon. His expression quickly dulled the hopeful light in their eyes.
Carter’s voice was barely audible as he asked, “Any change, sir?”
Gideon shook his head. He sank down on the bench next to Julia’s son. “It may be hours, or days, before there’s a change one way or another. You’re too old for me to lie to you, Carter. Her condition is extremely serious. In the war, the surgeons always despaired when an ambulance brought in a man who had a stomach wound. The consultant I called in, Dr. Bradwell, is one of the best in the city. But even he’s almost helpless. There just are no techniques for treating a wound like your mother’s.”
“Then will she—will she die?”
Gideon seemed stricken hoarse. “As I told you, we may not know until tomorrow, or for several days.”
“What are her chances?”
Will couldn’t tell whether his father was overcome with sorrow, or with anger. A little of both, he thought as Gideon said, “Very slim.”
ii
At sunrise, Gideon persuaded the boys to go home with Mills while he kept the vigil. Shortly after eight, he was called from Julia’s bedside to speak with a police inspector in the hallway.
The inspector reluctantly informed him that a sweep of Tenth Avenue had turned up no reliable witnesses to the stabbing. Several
people had seen it, but most recalled the attacker only as a poorly dressed tramp. No one could remember a face, or a voice. The witnesses even disagreed on what the attacker was wearing. The inspector had three descriptions, no two of which matched.
Gideon had suspected it would come out that way. He simply stared at the inspector until the man doffed his derby and mumbled that he’d keep Mr. Kent apprised of any new developments. Then he put on his hat and shuffled toward the stairs.
Gideon went back into the ward and presently fell asleep in the chair beside Julia’s bed. When Dr. Bradwell woke him, afternoon sunlight was streaming in. In the bed beyond, a young man who’d lost a leg in a street railway accident moaned in pained slumber.
Bradwell surveyed Julia’s still hands resting on the sheet. The backs of her hands were so white, her veins were clearly visible.
“You’d better go home and rest a while,” the doctor advised him.
The pain beat like red waves in Gideon’s mind. “I have to wait until I know whether she’ll make it.” He had never experienced such pain before—not with Margaret, not with his own father—never.
“Mr. Kent, I’ve told you before”—Bradwell sounded a trifle impatient—“it may be days. There is nothing you can do.”
He saw Thomas Courtleigh’s face. Yes, there is.
“All right. I’ll go home.”
iii
Two days later, Julia rallied for a few hours, then began sinking again. Gideon sat with her all Thursday night and into Friday morning, listening to her shallow breathing and saying to himself that he had to go on alone even if she died. The trouble was, he knew he couldn’t.
Perhaps because he was exhausted and still sick, sometime during that long night something seemed to click over in his mind, just as it had the night he walked out on Margaret. Around seven, he kissed Julia’s chilly forehead. Her lids barely stirred. An hour later, up on Fifth Avenue, Carter discovered him packing a valise.
