by Amanda Elyot
One of the “monks” lifted a ram’s horn from a hook on the wall behind him, brought it to his lips and blew one long blast, followed by eight short ones, then another long blast. The rest of the brotherhood stood facing the center of the table. Two women garbed as nuns in habits and wimples of black and white led a female attired as a novitiate in snowy white to the head of the table. The anonymity of the “sacrificial virgin” was ensured by the mask she wore: a white one that covered her face from her forehead past her cheekbones, enhanced with a blood-red teardrop painted to appear as though it dripped from the “virgin’s” left eye. The woman’s mouth was stained a ruby red.
In a carefully ordered procession, each “monk” had his turn with the newly baptized “virgin,” declaiming the phrase “in love and friendship and in Lucifer’s name!” before he sought entry, to the loud cheers of his audience. One “brother” who was even more exuberant than the rest, dislodged her mask, pushing it back from her face and over her hairline.
C.J., who had a relatively good view of the proceedings from behind her pillar, gasped when she discovered the identity of the “novitiate” and covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her shock. The young “virgin” who had been enduring such repeated defloration was none other than Lady Rose, whom C.J. had witnessed so cruelly “cut” in the Assembly Rooms for parading the barely discernible results of her illegitimate pregnancy. Could the girl have fallen so fast? What, C.J. wondered, had happened to Lord Featherstone, the babe’s father, who had seemed so enamored of his lady?
Having witnessed a variety of lewd displays this evening, the only thing that truly scandalized C.J. was the predicament of Lady Rose, and she was powerless to do anything but stew in her anger about the unfairness of it all and the insensitivity of the society they lived in. For one unfortunate indiscretion, the ill-fated aristocratic beauty was doomed to a whore’s destiny. While the individual members of the secret order continued to initiate Lady Rose into their sacred rites, C.J. slipped out the door and retraced her steps to Mrs. Lindsey’s noisy parlor, where the revels showed no signs of abating. She opened the establishment’s main portal. Peering cautiously down the street and finding it empty, C.J. heaved a relieved sigh and headed home, grimly acknowledging that if someone had set Saunders to spy on her movements, she was not entirely out of danger.
Chapter Eighteen
A chapter crowded with incident, in which our heroine eavesdrops on a tidbit of theatrical history and engages in some impromptu acting of her own; Saunders’s suspicious nature is further piqued; and a dream come true presents some nightmarish choices.
HAVING SAFELY REACHED the countess’s town house, C.J. considered the ramifications of penning a note to Lady Wickham the following morning, asking her to release Mary Sykes. The resolute little scullery maid was the only person C.J. would trust to care for the countess while she tried to return to her own era to obtain the modern medicine that could save Lady Dalrymple’s life. But after agonizing for several hours, arguing both sides of the issue with herself, C.J. ultimately thought better of sending such a missive. The less Lady Wickham, or anyone on the outside, learned of her business, the better.
LATER, EAGER TO RETURN to her own world before it was too late, C.J. stood at the back of the darkened Theatre Royal watching the mid-afternoon rehearsal, looking for an opportunity to slip through time. At first she thought she was seeing De Montfort, because the supernumeraries’ costumes were more or less the same generic medieval garb, but as soon as the leading lady set foot onstage, it was apparent that quite a different play was being acted.
Siddons was wearing the most expensive “nightdress” that C.J. had ever seen—a gossamer, cloth-of-gold confection with a train that trailed behind her like several feet of white cobwebs. Candle in hand, she made an unearthly Lady Macbeth. Although she had little time to waste, how could C.J. not savor this once-in-a-lifetime chance to witness the legendary tragedienne’s “innovative” interpretation of the famous sleepwalking scene?
True to Darlington’s description, Sarah Siddons did not break stride from her somnambulant state, but hung the long taper in its brass holder on a conveniently contrived crook in the stone walls of Dunsinane, permitting an astonished “doctor” and “gentlewoman” to marvel as she rubbed her hands together in the futile attempt to blot out the remembrance of Lady Macbeth’s bloody deeds.
C.J., too, was transfixed. And this was only a rehearsal. What struck her as so extraordinary was not the “newness” of Siddons’s stage business, but the woman’s undeniable majesty. She had true “star power.” Very few stage actresses of C.J.’s own era projected such strength and confidence. Unfortunately, C.J. knew she had to tear herself away to try to sneak backstage. In an effort to avoid calling attention to herself, she stealthily hugged the wall of the orchestra stalls.
The theatre manager himself applauded Mrs. Siddons’s brilliant performance in the rehearsal and released her in order to work on the opening scene of the play. The actors playing the three witches were called to the stage, and those portraying Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, and Lennox—with what seemed like a dozen attendants—were told to stand by for their entrance.
The prompter called out the words music, and fog, and thunder and lightning, so the witches could time their stage business and be properly cued for their lines. They had no sooner begun when an actor attired in tights, deliberately tattered inky robes, and an enormous headdress that severely limited his visibility—and carrying a huge bowl overflowing with disgusting-looking animal parts—stumbled and fell. Like a series of dominoes, the extras waiting to enter with the Scottish nobility toppled over one another in a cacophony of clanking halberds, claymores, and round, target-shaped shields. To C.J., it seemed like a miscue straight out of Monty Python.
“Stop!” roared the manger. “Come out here, you!” he commanded the “evil spirit” busily adjusting his top-heavy headdress, which had gone woefully askew in the melee. “Who is that?” he demanded of the assembled cast. The young man dressed as the goblin stepped forward. “Remove your mask. I can’t see your face. I want to remember that face!” thundered the livid theatre manager. With some difficulty, the neophyte undid the leather straps that bound the elaborate headdress under his chin. “Who are you?” his employer demanded.
“Kean, sir. Edmund Kean,” answered the stocky young man.
“Time is money, and you have wasted both, Master Kean. Were it not for engaging your services, such as they are, the company would be spending the afternoon at the Black Swan, instead of rehearsing in a beerless theatre.”
“I’m sorry, sir. This is the first time I have appeared in a tragedy.”
“Well, Ned,” the manager replied with extreme condescension. “If I have any say in the matter, you will never work in one again! Back to work, everyone!” he commanded.
C.J. would wager that time had erased all memory of the name of the manager of Bath’s Theatre Royal in 1801; but Edmund Kean, now merely an inexperienced youth at the brink of an illustrious, though tempestuous, career as one of the great tragic actors of the English stage, was—despite this inauspicious debut—going to prove his employer’s prognostication to be dramatically incorrect.
What an amazing place to be . . . right here, right now! And she had to leave it as soon as possible! Was there no justice?
The ruckus following Master Kean’s portentous entrance and the attendant histrionics of the theatre manager afforded C.J. the opportunity to slink backstage. She was on the verge of combing the racks of medieval robes in search of an appropriate disguise when she felt a hand clamp down upon her shoulder.
“What ’ave we ’ere?” rhetorically asked the burly stagehand, mercifully neither Turpin nor Twist. C.J. panicked. The first defense that sprang to her mind was to feign total ignorance. And what better way to do that than to appear not to understand a word of English.
“Pardon?” asked C.J., widening her eyes. “Je ne comprends pas l’anglais.” Pretending to be Fre
nch might not work, but it wasn’t as lame as saying, “This is the first time I have appeared in a tragedy.” She surmised that the irony would be lost somehow.
The stagehand scowled. “Listen, Frenchy, I dunno how you got in ’ere, but this ain’t a museum.”
“Je suis . . . perdue?” C.J. replied in her most plaintive voice, indicating that she had gotten lost.
“Well, you just get along now,” the stagehand advised as he steered her toward the backstage door that opened onto her favorite alley. “If the manager sees you back ’ere, there’ll be ’ell to pay. ’E’s already in a snit over that damn clumsy fool Kean causin’ such a ruckus.”
C.J. nodded and smiled like an uncomprehending idiot, and when she found herself in the narrow lane outside of the theatre, just for good measure she looked about like a confused rabbit, in case the stagehand was watching her. Which he was. “Down the lane, mamselle,” he boomed, as though her inability to understand his words was due to deafness, rather than a language barrier. He gesticulated wildly in the direction of Orchard Street when C.J. deliberately began to head the opposite way, which would have landed her smack in the middle of a whitewashed stone wall. Afraid that she might be overplaying her hand, she looked back and, grinning foolishly at him, scampered out to the main thoroughfare.
The handbill posted outside the front of the theatre announced the final performance of De Montfort that night. Since this play alone appeared to be the “open sesame,” C.J. would have to avail herself of what would undoubtedly be her last opportunity to find some modern medicine for Lady Dalrymple.
Her state of agitation served her well for a change. On the pretext of feeling faint, and with the certainty that the cool night air would do her good, she persuaded the countess to permit her an early evening constitutional. C.J. kissed her “aunt” good-bye and made sure that she had enough money in her reticule to purchase a theatre ticket in case her stage-door shenanigans backfired yet again.
Saunders discreetly noted the time that Miss Welles departed the residence for the second time that day with no stated destination, no call to pay, nor particular errand to run.
THE SIDE DOOR to the Theatre Royal had been deliberately left ajar that evening for the purposes of generating cross-ventilation, so C.J. slipped in unnoticed amid the usual backstage hubbub that occurred during major scene shifts. Elaborate drops were raised, replaced, and lowered, and the louvered flats rumbled into place while dozens of journeyman actors scrambled to change from one costume into the next.
And once again, just in time for Siddons’s dramatic entrance as Jane de Montfort, C.J. managed to cross the stage and exit into the dark vortex that she prayed would convey her home.
Emerging from the darkness, she staggered back onto the stage, completely dazed. Ralph, the By a Lady assistant set designer, who in C.J.’s absence had made considerable progress on the Steventon parlor, was the first to come to her aid. “Holy shit, what happened to you!” he exclaimed, hammer still in hand. He gave a shout, and the entire production team came running over.
“We’ve spent the past day and a half considering possible replacements for you; Harvey was convinced you’d fallen off the planet. Haven’t you gotten my messages? I’ve been looking for you from here to kingdom come!” Beth said.
“Where have you been?” Humphrey Porter asked her.
“Kingdom come, I think,” C.J. replied, still in somewhat of a fog. The theatre lights were so bright it was hard to see, let alone think, straight. “I . . .” C.J. shook her head, not knowing what else to say that would absolve her of any further inquiry. “Personal business,” she murmured.
Beth flipped open her cell phone and punched up a number. She held up a finger to C.J. as she waited for the call to connect. “Harvey,” she said after a few moments, “we’ve found her.” Beth moved downstage to enjoy some privacy for the remainder of her conversation with the producer. “Right, then!” she said, rejoining the cluster of production staff still surrounding C.J. “We’ll be all set to start rehearsals tomorrow if you—” She stopped speaking abruptly and stared at C.J.’s disheveled appearance. “What the hell happened to you?” she asked, more concerned than appalled. “Wait! Before you tell us, please, please say that you are going to accept the role of Jane Austen before I commit hara-kiri right here in the middle of the stage.”
“Well . . .” C.J. hesitated.
“Please don’t fuck me over, here,” Beth pleaded, “and I mean that in the nicest possible way.”
As her thought process became clearer, C.J. felt as though her entire life was hanging in the balance. On both sides of the scale, actually. On one side—the third-millennium side—she was being offered the role of a lifetime and the chance to finally enjoy the career of her dreams. On the nineteenth-century side of the balance, she was already playing the role of a lifetime in many ways. More urgently, on the other side of the void there was a dying woman who had been her benefactress and for whom she had developed an immensely strong affection. Perhaps only modern pharmaceuticals could save her, and for that C.J. had to risk sacrificing her twenty-first-century existence to bring the remedies with her across time—if the journey was even possible to achieve. Also on the other side was the blossoming friendship with the real Jane Austen, the woman she had idolized all her life. And then there was Lord Darlington and the powerful mutual attraction between them. She had willingly given her body to him and acknowledged that she had parted with her heart as well. Why was everything happening at once?! And in both of her worlds, time played the leading role.
“You look as if you’ve been through the mill and back,” Humphrey observed. He grabbed a handful of the yellow muslin dress. “It looks like you slept in this.”
C.J. looked down at her gown. “I must have done,” she replied. “I suppose I’ll have some explaining to do to Milena. And the hat and the shawl too. I don’t know what happened.”
“You’ve been gone for two and a half days,” Beth informed her. “And you’re also speaking with an English accent.”
Jesus! She’d been using a foreign accent for so long she’d forgotten to switch back to her own. How embarrassing. “Well, you know me,” she joked feebly, finding her own American voice. “C.J. Welles, method actress. Oh, and yes, by the way. In case I didn’t tell you,” she added, grasping the director’s arm, “of course I want to play Jane. I would love to do the part.”
Beth looked heavenward, at the proscenium arch. “Oh, thank God. Thank God.” She shook C.J.’s hand vigorously, gave her a little hug, and tossed her cell phone to a personal assistant. “Call Harvey back,” she said, “and tell him to messenger the contracts over here right away.” Physically seating her new leading lady, Beth told her, “You’re not moving from this chair, Miss Welles, until you’ve signed your contract.” She tugged at a lock of her flaxen hair. “See this? Gray. I’ve gone gray while you’ve gone missing!”
Two hours, two cups of coffee, and one tuna salad sandwich later, C.J. Welles signed her first Broadway contract. It should have been one of the most thrilling moments of her life, but she was thinking about the fate of Lady Dalrymple. The production staff congratulated her, and C.J. weakly accepted her plaudits. “I’m sorry . . . I know I should act more ecstatic,” C.J. said, “and believe me, I am indeed as high as a kite over all this,” she hastened to assure them. After all, Beth in particular had really gone out on a limb for her. “But I suppose . . . at the moment . . . I’m too exhausted to seem appropriately elated.”
Milena was called down to the theatre to take any further measurements, if necessary, in order to get the ball rolling on the costume construction. She shook her head, somewhat dismayed, when she saw the state of the yellow muslin, the now-ratty and shrunken coquelicot shawl, and the straw hat that looked like it had been a horse’s lunch. C.J. apologized profusely. “If you need me to pay you for the damage to the garments, I will,” she said, heading back to the dressing room to change into her contemporary street clothes.
“Don’t worry about reimbursement,” Milena assured her, “but before you get dressed, I want you to try this for me.” She pulled a light blue dress the color of a Wedgwood vase from a rolling rack of garments and surveyed it. “This doesn’t have a zipper, so it’s easier to adjust. If it fits you, I have the pattern back in my studio, and I can work from that for your day dresses.” The costumer laced C.J. into the sarcenet gown and made a few minor adjustments.
“This itches a bit,” C.J. complained, tugging at the small white ruff at her throat.
Milena looked at the collar and fussed with it a bit. “This is called a Betsie,” she told the actress. “Very fashionable in 1801.”
“Very ugly,” C.J. mused, disappointed and thinking that the blue sarcenet gown that the fashion-forward Madame Delacroix had made for her was ever so much nicer, and only the nerdy girls in 1801 wore Betsie collars. If her destiny was to remain in present-day America, she wanted to look a bit, well, sexy onstage, if it was at all possible with these period dresses that resembled granny nightgowns more than anything else.
“I’m afraid that Jane Austen wasn’t much of a fashion plate,” Milena sighed.
More than you think, C.J. almost said aloud. Instead she said, “Do you mind if I wear this during rehearsals? I’m one of those actresses who finds it easier to work on her character when she’s got a reasonable facsimile of the costume. Particularly with a show like this where my entire body language is dictated by the garments and the customs of the era.”
Milena sighed. “Well, I don’t see why not. As long as it’s all right with Beth. But please don’t bring this one back to me as if it’s been in a cat’s mouth. I’ll give you another reticule and bonnet as well,” she added, leaving the dressing room.
Wow. How strange it felt to put on a pair of jeans and a pullover after all this time in flimsy, empire-waisted gowns. Somehow her tight pants felt more restrictive than any of her 1801 corseting had. Amazing what a body can adjust to, C.J. marveled as she went back downstairs to the theatre.
