Obviously, he is merely a good friend to the two of us. I am, sadly, very well aware that he doesn’t seem to cause the same sort of electrical disturbances in the atmosphere that happen when the duke is about, and he has never given me the slightest hint that he cherishes any deeper feelings for me. Cabot is simply excellent company to Tommy and me, and that is all.
I know that seems rather like protesting too much. But even if I had been minded to consider a courtship with Cabot, I had quite enough to contemplate with deciding what I intended to do when we took The Princes to London. Certainly now, with Gil back in town, I hoped I could keep the friendship as it stood.
Men, though, have been known to get rather silly about women having male friends, and I dearly hoped Gil would not do so. And equally that Cabot would not develop any strange ideas, though that seemed highly unlikely.
At any rate, if Mrs. G doesn’t deem Cabot worthy of the teatime extravaganzas she launches for some guests, she surely finds him acceptable, as evidenced by the plates of cucumber sandwiches decorated with little rosettes of the same vegetable and small apple tarts finished with tiny pastry stars. She has quite a range of expression for showing her opinions of our visitors in the refreshments, with the lemon-curd tarts and fanciful garnishes whenever Preston or another favorite appears, and plain bread and butter sandwiches for those few she finds unworthy. She’s usually right, so I am glad to see the embellishments when the senior Mr. Bridgewater calls.
She also provides well for his companion. What appeared at first to be a large tawny bear was stretched out in the foyer, a soup bone between its giant paws, happily asleep . . . and snoring. Noble, for that is the mastiff’s name, generally accompanied Cabot to all but the fanciest occasions, quietly shadowing his master with a sweet adoration that belied his gigantic size. Noble is another example of Cabot’s own kind nature; he took in the poor creature after some society acquaintance meant to destroy him. Apparently, the enormous animal was ordered at great cost from England, only to disappoint because he was not the expected ferocious guard dog.
Unwilling to disturb his dog dreams, I merely smiled at Noble and proceeded into the humans’ tea.
“A lovely and generous table, as always, Miss Ella,” Cabot observed as I poured.
Tommy shot me a grin, well aware of Mrs. G’s habits. “I never turn down apple tarts.”
I did my best not to glance longingly at them and contented myself with a cup of tea. As a little girl growing up on the Lower East Side, I’d never have imagined it, but since people in our current respectable circle can frequently eat five times a day, it’s all too easy to become overfed, and a woman who plays slim boys for a living must be exceedingly careful.
I forswear most sweets before and during a run for that very reason and perhaps overindulge a bit for a week or so after. Not as disciplined as some singers I know, but it will do. In any case, apple tarts aren’t my favorite, so it’s fairly easy to pass them up.
“Mrs. G is quite impressive,” I said.
“As is everyone in this establishment.”
We smiled modestly, and the conversation moved into a discussion of our current reading material: a new biography of John Adams for Tommy, a study of court politics in the English Reformation for Cabot, and (because I had no intention of bringing up that book on Hawaii) the amusingly overwrought jeremiad against women’s education that I had brought home from the lending library purely because it was so badly written and made me so mad.
“I’m quite certain you can find any number of other things to make you angry, Miss Ella,” Cabot observed with a laugh.
“I’ve been telling her that for days.” Tommy shook his head. “She keeps picking it up to read and lasts five minutes, muttering imprecations against the good Reverend Weems.”
“We need to know what people like that think in order to defeat them,” I said irritably.
“I don’t disagree,” Cabot said, taking another sandwich, “but you can surely take the main argument and then find something more enjoyable to read.”
“I should.” I nodded. “I have some lighter works from my last library visit.”
“Lighter meaning that book on Hawaii and a new biography of poor Marie Antoinette.” Tommy chuckled. “We really do need to get you to start reading sensational romances, at least during a run.”
We three shook our heads together.
“Well, speaking of sensational,” Cabot began, “I have been following Miss Hetty’s excellent coverage of the Van Vleet murder in the Beacon.”
“She’s a terrific writer,” Tommy agreed. “And it’s a good chance for her to impress her editor.”
“Who still wants to leave her to cover hats.” I topped up everyone’s cups with a scowl.
“Everyone isn’t as progressive as we might hope, Miss Ella, even with our new century coming.”
“True.”
“In any case, I’m rather amazed by the whole thing, from murder to acquittal.”
Tommy and I did our best not to snicker, and I took the reply. “Wives don’t kill their husbands only in the poorer neighborhoods.”
Cabot shook his head, and I noticed a trace of a flush at the top of his ears. “No, Miss Ella, I didn’t mean to sound snobbish. My amazement is at the drama of his end. Hosmer was the dullest person I have ever known.”
“I see.”
“And the woman seemed grateful enough for her good fortune in marrying him, if very well aware of her own attractions.”
I noted that he did not refer to her as a lady.
“Really.” Tommy had, of course, followed the case every drop as closely as the rest of us. “I admit I assumed she married him out of love for his bank account and not his sensitive soul.”
Cabot laughed. “I believe the sensitive soul must have had something to do with it, Tom. Hosmer wasn’t really that well off.”
We both looked at him in surprise.
He took a breath. The Bridgewaters, a genuine Knickerbocker clan who share a fortune of the Astor or Vanderbilt school, are far too well bred to speak of money in any detail. “Remember, he worked at the stock exchange.”
We nodded. It was all he need say. Bridgewaters do not work to increase their fortune, and they leave the management of same to hirelings. If Hosmer, despite his own illustrious Knickerbocker name and Fifth Avenue manse, was dirtying his hands with stock trading, he was several notches down from Cabot.
Not, I hasten to add here, that he meant Hosmer was close to pushing a peddler’s cart on Mulberry Street. Cabot’s perspective is just a bit different. His family, whose original name was de Brede Wege, had already been quite well off when those scruffy Puritans arrived on the Mayflower, and the family stayed that way by buying large swaths of land. The other Anglicized version of the name is Broadway, and there’s a reason one of the City’s main thoroughfares carries it. Even the other storied clans are parvenus to the Bridgewaters, since they are so high up that everyone remotely respectable is basically the same distance away. Which likely explains Cabot’s comfortable friendship with us.
“Risky business, stocks,” Tommy said before taking a sip of his tea and cutting his eyes to me. “I prefer real property. Just not too much of it.”
We, naturally, own the town house and Aunt Ellen’s brownstone, as well as a couple of other buildings and the lots on which they stand. And while probably the only certain thing in life is change, still, real estate in New York City has a most satisfying tendency to gain in value if one holds on to it.
Just ask the de Brede Weges.
The current head of the clan joined our canny nods. “Quite so, Tom. In any case, it’s all terribly unfortunate. Either we admitted a murderess into our circles, and she walked free . . .”
“Or an innocent woman was rightly cleared of a crime she didn’t commit.” I looked to Toms, thinking of another person who might be innocent.
Cabot shrugged and then put down his cup and turned to me with a faint smile. “I’m terribly sorry
to bring up such dismal topics at our tea, Miss Ella.”
“We talk of many things.” I smiled back. “It’s not distressing. I’m proud of Hetty.”
“Women do not get nearly the opportunities they deserve, it’s true.”
We skated easily into a discussion of women’s education and Cabot’s plans to offer reading groups for young working women at his family’s lending libraries. Soon, though, it was time for us to start preparing for the evening, and Cabot took his leave.
As is appropriate for friends, Tommy and I both saw him to the door, where we stood together at three corners, exchanging handshakes.
Just then, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see Noble standing on his hind legs. Since this had happened before, I had a moment to steel myself before getting my nose soundly licked. Of course, we all dissolved into laughter and gave Noble a generous ration of attention before returning to our human farewells.
“Thank you for a lovely visit,” Cabot said. “I’m glad you two managed to make time in the middle of the run.”
“It was our pleasure.” I held out my hand as I spoke, and Cabot held it for a moment, as he always did, rather than attempting a real or pretended kiss.
The gesture, which would have occasioned more than a small crackle of electricity with Gilbert Saint Aubyn, left me with nothing but the usual feeling of warmth and friendship. And unless I was sadly misreading Cabot, there was no lightning bolt for him, either.
Just as well, one thinks.
Undoubtedly, there are women who would be thrilled for any scrap of attention from him, since he is, after all, the head of the senior branch of the family and not merely unmarried, but never married. Meaning not only a lack of excess offspring to get in the way of one’s eventual child, but also no lost angel taking up space in his heart. And, if that weren’t enough, there was not the usual trail of chorus girls and other questionable companions one might expect in such circumstances.
All of which made him what the society mamas would call a catch.
Not that I would; I’ve never been interested in that game. I suppose one might make a perfectly happy and satisfying marriage out of a good friendship, mutual interests, and comfort with one another, eased along by pots and pots of money. But I can’t imagine why.
Marie’s Irish grandmother was probably too blunt, but there is something to the theory that much of the reason to marry is to have someone to keep you warm at night.
“I’ll see you backstage again sometime soon, since you’ve extended the run.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
“And our next tea.” He turned and shook hands with Tommy.
We three smiled and bowed, Cabot and Noble walked out the door, and the dog quickly pulled his master toward the park, apparently hoping for a good squirrel-chasing session.
“Always good to see a friend. And his dog.” Tommy grinned. “When is the barrister coming again?”
“He’s also a friend of the company,” I reminded him.
“A rather special friend of the company. I wonder if friend is the word he’d use for you, Heller.”
“There are friends and friends,” I said briskly. I had no intention of discussing our “understanding” with Tommy until I knew what it meant myself. “I’m going to feed Montezuma before we go to the theater.”
But as I offered seeds and carrots, I wondered how indeed Gil might describe me, and how I might like to be described.
Chapter 17
Candlelight and Dark Signs
Friday evening, Eamon knocked on my dressing-room door shortly before the two-hour call. Tommy was on the settee, reading a book, and I was idly leafing through the Beacon, enjoying our few moments of quiet.
“May I trouble you with a question, Miss Ella?” From the doorway, he glanced past Tommy, seeming a little awkward and uncertain, as he usually did offstage.
“Certainly. Come on in.”
Tommy motioned him to the settee and lounged in the corner near the doorway. Just propriety. Whatever he claimed about scraps in the street, Eamon wasn’t much of a threat to anyone in real life.
In tough neighborhoods, someone always wants to dice with the big man, and Eamon probably cultivated a certain amount of bluster there as self-protection. Here, still settling into his first major role, he was understandably scared and shy.
“So what do you need to know?”
“I’ve been invited to sing at one of Mrs. Corbyn’s musicales in three weeks, and I’m not certain what I should offer.”
“Well, of course you’ll do Neville’s aria,” I assured him. “If you have a piece you’re known for, you do that.”
He nodded, watching me intently, focused like a student. “I can also sing King Richard’s.”
“I don’t doubt that you can,” I said gently, “but it’s not the one you’ve been doing for appreciative audiences these past weeks.”
His face tightened a little, and his eyes took on a slightly off cast. “I’m at least as good as Ruben.”
Tommy met my eyes behind Eamon’s head.
“That’s neither here nor there, really. Those musicales are just awful, and believe me, you don’t want to be trying out new material. In fact, I’d suggest your audition piece as your encore.”
“Really?” He looked downcast.
“Yes, truly. It feels like a great honor to be invited the first time, and it is, I promise. But it’s an entirely different environment and a different world. You will have many things to think about, and your music should be something you know so well it’s part of your skin.”
“That does make sense. Sunday suit and company manners.”
“Oh, yes. And do remember to bow and kiss hands when they’re offered. That crowd sets store on courtliness.”
Eamon gave a sigh at least as wretched as anything Neville could offer. “My goose is cooked, then.”
“Not a bit of it. I’m sure your mother taught you good manners. Just remember to add a little hand-kissing when it feels right, and you’ll be splendid.”
“I don’t actually kiss their hands, do I? I’ve never seen visitors kiss yours.”
“They’d probably like it,” Tommy observed with a chuckle. “But no. Just bow over the hand when the lady holds it out.”
The big ginger boy shook his head. “I see what you mean about making sure the music is something you know well.”
“Exactly. And don’t mention me to Mrs. Corbyn,” I warned. “She does not have a good opinion of me at the moment.”
“Oh?”
“She thinks Heller broke up her daughter’s chance at a coronet.” Tommy shook his head with a grin. “In fact, Miss Pamela had other plans.”
“And good for her,” I added.
“Very good for her,” Toms agreed. “At any rate, Eamon, you’ll be fine. Just keep your head and sing your heart out.”
“Thank you.” Eamon nodded to us both. He started to rise, then paused, his face sharpening with some new concern. “May I ask something else?”
“Of course.” I motioned to him to stay seated.
“I know Ruben was supposed to go on as Richard a few times during the run before . . .”
“Right.” Tommy’s voice had a cautious edge.
“Would the same apply to me?”
The question was careful and neutral, but the expression in his eyes was anything but. Ambition is a good, healthy thing, but misplaced hope is dangerous to a singer. So, too, is trying for too much too soon.
Tommy looked to me, and I to him. From whom would it hurt less?
I finally spoke, slowly and gently. “I’m sorry, Eamon, but no. We really think you are doing a brilliant job as Neville, and don’t want to push you into things you’re not ready for.”
“Oh.” His gaze fell to his hands.
“She’s too kind to tell you that it’s for your own good,” Tommy put in.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re giving a strong and good performance, some
thing you can really build on. But if you go out there as Richard when you’re not ready and you turn in a terrible show, that’s all anyone will remember. Don’t go too far too fast.”
Eamon and Tommy held each other’s gaze for a full measure, and then Eamon nodded reluctantly. “I suppose so.”
“We have nothing but great respect and hope for you,” I said, “and of course you’ll be coming to London if you wish.”
“Oh.” A smile. “That’s all right, then.”
“Yes.” I returned the smile.
Booth knocked on the door just then. “Two-hour call, Miss Shane.”
“Thank you.”
As Booth headed down the row of dressing rooms, Eamon rose. “Thank you, Miss Ella.”
“A pleasure. Would you like to join us for candle lighting shortly? You know you are always welcome.”
“No, um . . . ,” Eamon stammered, his face tightening in a scared and embarrassed grimace. “Just not for me.”
I did not push, and he beat a hasty retreat, leaving Tommy and me exchanging significant glances.
“He’s very young and awkward,” I reminded him. “He may not have meant it that way.”
“Or he did.” Tommy’s jaw tightened. “Do you really want that attitude with us in London?”
“We already asked him. And life has a way of enlightening people.”
Tommy shook his head as he headed for the door and his own preshow work. “You’re too optimistic, Heller. See you in a bit.”
While Eamon wasn’t interested, many other members of the company, and friends, were quite happy to come to candle lighting. I’d seen Mack McTeer wandering about the theater when I came in, as she’d done after school since the matinee, and I had meant to invite her, just to welcome her, but something had distracted me, and I’d never remembered to seek her out. She likely had to be home for dinner in any case.
The dressing room was full enough of people—and goodwill—as it was. Louis, Anna, and Marie were standing together, chatting about their children, as they often did, and clearly glad to share our little ceremony. Tommy gave Rosa an evening newspaper and teased her about her love for the yellow sheets, which they both knew was really a show of admiration for her reading and self-education.
A Fatal First Night Page 13
