“Is she the only likely candidate who comes to mind? We need alternatives in case she’s not interested. Surely in a town this size, we’d have more variety to choose from.” Melvin scrubbed his hand down his face. He felt trapped in a corner. If Miss Ross said no . . .
“If you have to cancel and move on to the next play, what are your losses?” Tobias asked. “I don’t mean to inquire about the details of your finances—I meant, in a more general sense.”
“I’ll be out the cost of the playbills,” he said. Playbills weren’t the most horrible expense involved in a theater, but when they were operating on such a tight budget, it seemed much more of a catastrophe than it was. “And some fabric for costumes, but I suppose we can use those for another production, so it’s not really a loss. We’ll figure it out. I’ve lost more money than this before.”
“And you seem to have bounced back then, so you’ll do it again this time,” Louisa said encouragingly. “Miss Ross seems like a very pleasant girl, and I’m sure she’d be willing to hear you out even if she’s not able to take the role.”
“I’m not worried about her being pleasant,” Melvin replied. “I’m worried about her rejection.”
“And you won’t know about that until you’ve spoken with her.” Louisa nodded the girl’s direction. “Why don’t you wait around a few minutes after we’re done eating? Order some dessert or something. We’ll leave, and that will give the two of you some privacy to talk.”
He nodded. He supposed he’d have to do it if he wanted the play to have a chance at success. She’d likely say no, he’d be no worse off than he was at the moment, and he’d just have to cancel the play. There was nothing to worry about—nothing at all.
***
Catherine accepted payment from Mr. Redfern and thanked him for his business, then turned to clear the table. She was surprised to see Mr. Westcott still sitting there.
“Oh, hello,” she said. “I thought you’d left with your friends.”
“No, I stayed back because I need to speak with you. Can you spare me a moment?”
“I can after I serve the table by the door.”
“Thank you. I’d appreciate it.”
Catherine picked up that table’s order and delivered it, wondering the whole time what Mr. Westcott could possibly want to speak with her about. Had she made a mistake with his lunch? She didn’t think so—and if she had, he would have told her about it at the time. He seemed a little nervous, and that made her feel a little nervous.
An older woman in a beautiful deep purple gown entered the restaurant just then and stood there expectantly. Ivy had gone into the kitchen to collect her next table’s order, so Catherine approached the lady and invited her to be seated.
“Thank you, my dear. This is a lovely table. May I please trouble you for a pot of tea? Chamomile, I think, and if you have any biscuits with butter and jam, that would be nice.”
“Of course,” Catherine answered. She sent an apologetic look toward Mr. Westcott, who seemed startled by something, and went into the kitchen to find her cousin.
“Ivy, could you please get a pot of chamomile tea, some biscuits, some butter, and some jam for the older lady I just seated? Mr. Westcott has asked to speak with me, and he doesn’t look at all well.”
Ivy frowned. “Does he need the doctor?”
“I think he’s all right, but I don’t want to leave him alone any longer than necessary.”
“Yes, I’ll get the tea. Go see what he needs—I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“Me too.”
Catherine joined Mr. Westcott at his table. As she approached, he rose and pulled out a chair for her, which was odd considering that she was a waitress here. This must not be about restaurant business at all.
“Miss Ross, before I ask you what I really came here to ask you, I must first ask you—can you see that woman over there?” He motioned toward the lady in purple.
“Yes, I can see her,” Catherine replied slowly. “I seated her at that table and took her order. Mr. Westcott, you seem flustered. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Perfectly fine.” He turned back to her and smiled, but it seemed forced. “She ordered, you say?”
“Yes. Just tea and biscuits.”
“Ah.” He nodded a few times, then cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose that’s neither here nor there. Miss Ross, you know how frustrated I’ve been over the state of affairs at my theater.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, a suggestion was made to me today . . . That is, someone thought . . .”
She smiled encouragingly, even though she wished he’d just say whatever was on his mind. He was making her more nervous with his hesitation.
“Have you have any experience on the stage, Miss Ross? Acting experience, that is?”
“I . . . I beg your pardon?”
“Have you ever been in a play, or considered being in one?”
She blinked. “No, I never have. Are you asking me . . .?”
“I’d be much relieved and very honored if you’d consider it.”
She sat back and studied him, overwhelmed. “Mr. Westcott, I’ve never even imagined myself up on stage. I came here to help my uncle and with any luck, find a husband. That’s it. I don’t have any grand and glorious aspirations.”
“You don’t need to have grand and glorious aspirations. You just need to be willing to give it a try for a few weeks. Miss Ross, you have the look we need—you appear young and innocent, but you also have the maturity to command a stage, and you’re the same body type as Miss White, so you should fit her dress with a minimum of alterations.”
“You’ve asked me to take this role because I fit the dress? That seems like an odd reason to cast an actress, Mr. Westcott.”
“Believe me, I know it sounds very odd, but I have to know if you’re at least willing to consider it.”
Catherine honestly had no idea how to respond. She liked Mr. Westcott—she liked him a great deal, actually, despite his idiosyncrasies. Or perhaps because of them. She liked his dedication to his work, his passion for the arts, the way his hair curled around the tips of his ears—she pulled in a breath. Yes, she liked him, but that didn’t mean this was a good idea. It would be foolish of her to agree just because she found the man intriguing.
“I’ve never memorized anything as long as a script,” she said. “In fact, I haven’t memorized anything at all since the spring recital when I was eleven. It was a horrid poem about a rabbit trying to escape being eaten by a bear—it was assigned to me, and wasn’t my personal choice. I’ve never cared to memorize anything since.”
He smiled. “I can understand why. What ended up happening to the rabbit?”
“It ended rather ambiguously—it was supposed to make the audience draw their own conclusions. Of course, in my version, the rabbit escapes, gets married, has twelve batches of children, and lives happily ever after. Some of the boys in my class, though . . .” She shuddered. “They all enjoyed hunting, and they made up these dreadful stories about rabbit stew.”
“I won’t ask you to memorize anything about rabbits in mortal peril,” he replied. “But please, Miss Ross, please consider auditioning. I don’t mean to sound desperate, but you are my last hope. If we can’t fill this part immediately, I’ll have to cancel. That won’t be as devastating as it might sound, but it would be disappointing.”
“And if I said no?”
“If you said no, I would probably sit here and consume far too much pie, but I would eventually recover.”
She looked down at her folded hands. Was this something she could even do? She’d never stood up in front of an entire room of people before—even the spring recital was sparsely attended. What if she forgot everything she was supposed to say? What if she burst into giggles, or even worse, tears? What if she let Mr. Westcott down with her performance?
“May I have a few moments to think about it?” she said at last.
“Of course. I’ll sit her
e and finish my coffee, and you take whatever time you need.”
She rose from her chair, noticing that the lady in purple had just summoned her. “I’ll be back,” she promised, then made her way across the dining room.
“How may I help you?” she asked the woman.
“Perhaps it’s more a question of how I can help you,” she replied. “You seemed to be having a rather serious conversation with your young man.”
“Oh, he’s not my young man,” Catherine replied. “He’s a regular customer here at the Iron Skillet—we’re acquainted, but that’s the extent of it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” The woman did look disappointed to hear it. “At any rate, something’s troubling you, and I wondered if I could be of assistance.”
“That’s very kind, but I don’t see how. He’s asked me to do something I don’t think I can do.”
The woman’s hand flew to her throat. “You don’t mean he’s suggested anything inappropriate, do you?”
“Gracious, no. He’s not that sort of man. It’s just not something I’m sure I can do. I don’t think I’m brave enough.”
The woman gave her a benevolent smile. “If courage wasn’t an issue, would you like to do this . . . whatever it is?”
Catherine thought about that for a moment. “I might,” she said at last. “It might be exciting.”
“Then let’s pretend you’re the bravest girl on earth. What would you be doing right now if that were the truth?”
“If I were the bravest girl on earth . . .” Catherine pressed her fingers to her mouth as an idea struck her. “I’m not sure I should say it.”
“Oh? Is it that shocking?”
“I think it might be.”
“Well then, my dear, you must tell me. I haven’t been shocked in a very long time, and I think I’m due for a good surprise.”
Catherine leaned over, wondering if she could trust this woman to keep her secret. “If I were the bravest girl on earth, I think I would like to kiss Mr. Westcott.” Now that the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could take them back, but at the same time, it had felt so liberating to say.
The lady grinned. “That’s a wonderful idea, my dear. You should do it!”
“But . . . but I’m not brave! I’m not brave at all!”
“I think you might become so if you give yourself a chance.” The woman offered a hand. “I’m Mrs. Claudia Van Dyke, and it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Catherine Ross. Oh, Mrs. Van Dyke, please promise me you won’t tell anyone what I just said.”
“Of course I won’t. That was a question asked in confidence, and the answer was given in even greater confidence. I do know Mr. Westcott, and I will tell you that you’ve chosen a very nice young man indeed.”
“You know him?”
“I do. He’s a bit hard to communicate with at times, but his heart is golden.”
“I sensed that about him—both the communication issues and about his heart.”
Mrs. Van Dyke laughed. “It’s rather obvious, isn’t it? So, tell me, Miss Ross. Does he want you to star in his play?”
Catherine nodded. “He’d like me to audition, but I don’t know if I can do even that much.”
“Would it be so terrible to give it a try?”
“I might faint in the middle of my reading, and that would be very terrible.”
“Not if a handsome theater owner were to catch you when you swooned.” Mrs. Van Dyke pressed the back of her hand to her forehead and pretended to feel dizzy.
“I’ll think about it,” Catherine said with a smile. “Is there anything else today?”
“No, I’m quite satisfied.” Mrs. Van Dyke placed a few coins on the table. “Consider it, my dear. It’s a risk, but one worth taking.”
“Are you talking about auditioning or kissing him?” Catherine whispered.
“Maybe both,” Mrs. Van Dyke replied, her voice equally quiet. Then she giggled as she walked out the door.
Chapter Four
Melvin watched Miss Ross uncomfortably as she chatted with Mrs. Van Dyke. What was that angel imposter doing there, anyway? If Miss Ross could see her, and she obviously could, that was proof that the woman wasn’t at all who she said she was. On the other hand, what if she was an angel, but she’d chosen to let Miss Ross see her? But why would she let Miss Ross see her, and not Alice? The entire thing was too frustrating for words.
When Miss Ross came back to the table, he held her chair for her again, then studied her eyes. “Well, Miss Ross? Have you given it some thought?”
“I have, and while the idea scares me, I’ve decided to give it a try.”
“You will?” His heart gave an erratic thump, and he took an extra breath. “That’s wonderful. Simply wonderful. Can you come down to the theater this afternoon? Around four o’clock, perhaps?”
She glanced at the large clock that hung over the fireplace. He looked that way as well—it was now one. “Yes, that should be all right,” she said slowly. “My cousin Phoebe could take the rest of my shift—I’m not sure if you’ve met her.”
“Is she the brunette? Yes, I think I’ve seen her. Not often, though.”
“She generally takes care of the house while we’re all here. She’ll be glad for a chance to get out, though.” Miss Ross looked down at the table, then back up. “Mr. Westcott, I need you to understand something. You’ve got so many hopes pinned on me, but I’m worried that I’ll fail you. I’ve never acted or done anything like it, and here you are, expecting me to be the lead in a very well-known play. I’m sure I’ll disappoint you, and I don’t want that.”
He was touched by her sincerity. “Miss Ross, the very fact that you’re giving it a try means the world to me, and if it doesn’t work out, that’s all right. We’ll know that we did absolutely everything we could, and we can let it go with a clear conscience and no what-ifs.”
“You won’t be angry with me?”
He threw up his hands. “Miss Ross, I could never be angry with you for giving it such a brave try. Not only that, but I have no right to be angry with you at all—you owe me nothing. You’re doing this as a kind, generous favor, and I’ll be grateful for it always regardless of what happens.”
She let out a long breath. “That makes me feel better. I didn’t want this to ruin our friendship or our acquaintanceship—or whatever we might want to call this.”
“Friendship seems suitable,” he replied. “In fact, I’d be honored if I could call you Catherine.”
Her cheeks flooded pink, and he thought it was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. “Of course,” she replied.
“And I’m Melvin.” He held out his hand as though introducing himself to her at a party, and she took it. “It’s a pleasure, Catherine.”
“It is indeed, Melvin.” She removed her hand as quickly as she’d granted it. “If I’m to be at the theater at four, I’ll need to return to work now. I’ll see you later.”
“I’ll be looking forward to it. Thank you again, Catherine.”
She didn’t reply, but offered him a shy smile as she all but dashed away from the table.
Melvin smiled as he watched her go. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of her immediately—she seemed perfect in every way for the part. Now to see if she could read the lines with passion and believability.
He’d better get back to the theater and choose the selection he wanted her to read, and to ask Alice to have the costume ready to be tried on. He began to whistle as he walked down the sidewalk—he hadn’t felt this motivated and hopeful in quite a while. It was nice to have that spark returned to him.
***
“A play?” Ivy’s eyes were wide. “You’re going to audition for a play?”
“Yes, the lead. I believe I’ve lost my mind, but when he asked me, I could hardly say no.”
Ivy rested her hand on the kitchen counter. “You’re sweet on him, aren’t you? That’s why you’re doing this.”
Heat flooded Catherin
e’s cheeks when she remembered what she’d confessed to Mrs. Van Dyke. “I do find him interesting, yes.”
“Oh, Catherine.” Ivy shook her head. “You’ve always been several times over more courageous than I am, but I know how much being on display frightens you. Are you sure about this?”
“I . . . I really don’t know, but I’ve got to give it a try. I promised him I would. I also warned him that I’d likely do a terrible job, but he didn’t seem too concerned about that. Do you think Phoebe would cover for me while I’m gone?”
“I’m sure she would. And I’m honestly thrilled for you—I don’t mean to sound discouraging. I’m just surprised.”
“I understand. I’m rather surprised at myself.” Catherine turned as her uncle exited from his small office area. “Uncle Samson, I’m going to ask Phoebe to cover for me a little while this afternoon, if that’s all right.”
“Of course it’s all right. You need some time away from here every once in a while. I’m heading out—would you like me to send her over?”
“Oh, would you? Yes, please.”
He nodded as he put on his hat. “I’ll be back in a little while. I’m going to check in with the stationmaster and see if there’s any word about the derailed train—or if there’s anything we can do.”
“That’s a good idea, Father,” Titus said from his spot at the stove. “I’d like to be of use if I can.”
“We’ll see what news I can dredge up. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Samson pulled the door closed behind him, and Catherine picked up the plate of steak Titus had just prepared.
It was only a matter of minutes before Phoebe arrived, saying she was glad for the chance to get out of doing laundry, and she started the next batch of bread while Catherine swept the floor and took care of some other tasks that had gone too long without attention. She was trying to keep herself from feeling jittery, but it wasn’t working. All too soon, it was time for Catherine to get ready to leave, and she gave herself a good talking-to while she washed up and smoothed her hair.
“You’re going to do a splendid job, and if you don’t, there’s nothing wrong with that,” she said to her reflection in the mirror. “Not everyone is made for the theater, after all.” It was easy enough to tell herself that, but in the back of her mind, she kept thinking about Mr. Westcott and how disappointed he’d be to cancel this play. And also that he might be more likely to grant her that kiss if she did take the role.
Learning Her Lines Page 4
