City of Ash (17 page)

I sighed, and then I thought of
Penelope Justis
and how well Sebastian DeWitt understood the things that constrained women, their hopes and their desires. I thought of the things I’d told him I wanted. To have my life back, to eat fish and talk late into the night, to stare into his eyes, to act upon a stage. Impossible things. Nathan wanted me to be happy, yes, but I was no fool to think there were no limits in that. Claude had taught me that. My father and Nathan and society had hammered it home. For me … for any woman … satisfaction could only be taken in half measures. And all my wishes otherwise, no matter how ardently felt, were as nothing.

Beatrice

S
ebastian DeWitt’s play began like a dozen others:

But that beginning was misleading; by the time the first scene ended, I knew I was reading something different, and I loved every moment of it, the haunting by the betrayed Florence’s spirit and Penelope’s strength of purpose in attempting to save her other sister, Delia, from Barnabus Cadsworth’s clutches. It was a vengeance melodrama, a grieving family bent on justice, a rich, spoiled villain used to getting whatever he wanted, yes, all seen a hundred times, but the twist DeWitt put on it was something fine; what a mind he had! First there was the servant girl’s plan to turn the villain mad by degrees, then there was Penelope’s taking greater risks and putting herself in greater and greater danger to keep sweet Delia from Florence’s fate.…

And the characters were some of the best I’d ever read: the villain, Barnabus Cadsworth, had more depth than the usual melodrama villains, and it was a part that would showcase Aloysius’s tragedian abilities perfectly; the twin roles of the younger sister Delia and the scheming servant Marjory were ones Susan would relish not just because they were so much bigger than anything she’d played before, but also because Marjory Hart was both loving and devious, and that was an actor’s favorite meat. There was Mrs. Cadsworth, the villain’s mother, who would give Mrs. Chace a more active part than she’d had in years. And of course the hero, Marjory’s brother, Keefe, who had all of Jackson’s favorite traits: good looks and stunts to show off his prowess. Jack would find Keefe Hart irresistible.

And there was Penelope Justis herself. I knew the moment I read her first lines that she would be the role to make my career,
and that I’d no doubt still be playing her into my dotage, and it wasn’t just because of the sheer beauty of her tragic death soliloquy. The audience would fall in love with her. So pure of heart, so
good
, but impulsive, and so angry at the villain’s mistreatment of her elder sister that she fell thoughtlessly into Marjory’s fatal plan.

I could not put the script down but found myself mouthing the lines into the night, bending close to see Sebastian DeWitt’s penciled comments. He understood the character so well, and I knew what he’d told me was true—if I followed his comments, if I became Penelope Justis instead of simply bending her to my usual bag of tricks, I would make an unparalleled success of this role.

Thankfully, Nathan had not seen fit to visit me the last two nights, so after performances, I’d had the hours to myself to learn as many lines as I could. Lucius was a tyrant when it came to rehearsals; our first, scheduled for ten this morning, would be the only one where he allowed us to work with the script. After that, he’d levy forfeits, which I couldn’t afford.

So I worked until the early hours, sighing when I finally set the script aside to get some sleep. But the play would not leave me, and when the morning came fully on, I was still awake. I was too excited to be tired. I washed and dressed, and ate a candied fig and two cherries, and that morning I didn’t waste time worrying that no amount of scrubbing could rid the kohl from the fine lines forming at the corners of my eyes. I was about to embark upon the role of my life, at long last, and I wanted to grab Sebastian DeWitt and kiss him for it.

When I got to the stage, the others were already there. Aloys and Brody running lines—Brody was playing Barnabus Cadsworth’s servant as well as the reverend and several other minor roles—and Mrs. Chace waving her fan about her florid face. Mr. Galloway, who would play both my father and the elder Mr. Cadsworth, ate a pear while Lucius and Marcus Geary conferred near the script table. Susan sat on a riser, swinging her legs like a little girl as she memorized her part, her lips moving fast and silently.

The carpenters were already working on the sets; the theater
was filled with the sounds of hammering and sawing, and painters perched on scaffolding before a huge drop of sized muslin, filling it with the broad outlines of what looked like a cottage garden.

Jack leaned back against a flat. When I went over to him, he winked and said, “I see we have a passionate kiss in act one, sweeting.”

“Is that so? I didn’t notice.”

“Liar. I shall endeavor to make it pleasing for you. God knows you’ve been waiting for it long enough.”

I smiled and pressed myself teasingly against him. “Stick your tongue in my mouth, Jack, and I’ll cut it off.”

He laughed. “One wonders that Lucius could even think of casting you as such a sweet innocent.”

“It’s who you know, Jack.”

“ ‘Truer words, et cetera, et cetera.’ … I wonder where I could find a rich protector of my own?”

“Try the Rainier Club,” I said.

Jack gave me a wry smile. “I had thought rather a patroness. Or better yet, a besotted playwright along the lines of your Mr. DeWitt. But of the opposite sex, of course. How clever you were to have found him.”

Jack’s gaze slid toward the seats in the parquet. I followed it to see Sebastian DeWitt coming down the aisle between them.

“He’s been watching you for months, you know,” Jack told me. “We were beginning to wonder whether we should call the police. Or … whether perhaps he was the father of your secret child.”

I laughed. “A secret child? You couldn’t give me a long-lost brother instead?”

“My dear, that kind of brotherly affection is against the law—or if it isn’t, it should be.”

We both watched DeWitt bound up the stairs to the stage. His glance came to me—immediately and intensely—and he said, “Good morning, Mrs. Wilkes,” as if I were the only one in the room before he went to the script table, pulling his satchel off his shoulder.

“Good morning to you too, DeWitt,” Jack mocked in an aside.
Then he looked at me. “What’s that on your cheeks, my sweet? A blush? How damning.”

“You know me better than that,” I whispered back. “For God’s sake, Jack, look at his coat.”

“Not rich enough for you, eh? Well, he’s moving up in the world. I hear Lucius paid him fifty for the script.”

“Really? So much?”

Jack smiled. “Another benefit to having a rich patron. How lucky you are, darling. One man rich in coins and another rich in words.”

“And I mean to keep them both happy,” I said.

“What a faithless heart! I almost feel sorry for your hapless playwright, that he doesn’t know you better.”

“But of course you’d never do the same.”

“Oh, never.” Jack laughed and chucked me under the chin.

Lucius called out, “Now that our playwright is here, children, we can begin. Act one, scene one. The funeral, my dears. Places, please.”

For the next three hours, I was hardly aware of DeWitt or anything but the play. It was obvious that the others felt as I did about
Penelope Justis
, one could see it in the way they said their lines, their little flourishes and the relish in their voices, even though no one ever acted fully during a rehearsal. They were all laughing and talking as they left—not that common an occurrence, either, as rehearsals were dull and boring and none of us liked them. Even Lucius seemed pleased, though one would not know it by the way he’d had Mr. DeWitt furiously cutting and recrafting lines. The script table was littered with pages spattered with ink, and DeWitt was still scratching away when I walked over to the table.

He didn’t look up as I approached. He held up his hand, silencing me when I started to speak, which was a little irritating, you know, but I waited obediently until he wrote the last words. He put the pen aside and looked up, blinking as if he’d just waked from some dream. He smiled. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Wilkes? Have you a line you dislike or a scene that requires tightening?”

“I think it’s perfect,” I said.

His smile widened. “Do you?”

“Lucius is always very hard on playwrights, you know. You shouldn’t take it to mean he doesn’t like it.”

“He has a funny way of showing it.” DeWitt leaned back in his chair, rubbing rather absently at a large ink stain on his forefinger. “He’s changed it already so much I hardly recognize it. He’s added a waterfall for you to plunge over. But never fear, you’ll be rescued by the daring Keefe.”

I thought I heard a little resentment. I’d seen it before; Lucius’s venality making mincemeat of a poet’s soul. But DeWitt should have expected it; he’d sold the play, after all; he couldn’t imagine it would stay pristine.

He said, “Well, at least he’s paid for it, which is more than anyone’s done before.”

“I doubt he’ll need to change it very much. Your words work beautifully as they are. I admit I was surprised.”

“You didn’t think me capable of it?” His gaze was disconcertingly direct. His eyes looked gray today.

“No, not that. It’s just … you seem to understand a woman’s heart so well. Or Penelope’s heart, in any case. I’ve rarely played a character I liked better.”

“I’m gratified to hear it.”

“And your cues for me are brilliant, though I think I’ll have to work very hard to capture Penelope as you’ve written her.”

“You’re very talented, Mrs. Wilkes. I expect you’ll have no trouble at all, but I’ll be happy to work with you if it would help.”

I’ll be happy to work with you
. It was clear he meant something else entirely. I was not misreading the challenge there, or his desire. I bit back the retort that was my first instinct and reminded myself that I meant to keep him happy. So I smiled at him instead. “I’ll be sure to let you know if I feel the necessity.”

“Please do,” he said. He held my gaze for a moment more and then dropped it. He capped the inkwell and gathered up his pens, shoving them all into his satchel. “Shall I walk you back to your hotel, Mrs. Wilkes?”

“Oh, there’s no need. It’s broad daylight. I’m safe enough.”

“Who escorts you at night?”

“Lately I don’t often need an escort.”

“Of course.” He picked up the scattered papers, seemingly heedless of their order, and tapped them on the tabletop to even them. “But surely you don’t see Langley every night? Ah—forgive me. It’s none of my business.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“I’m only concerned for your safety. What of the nights you’re alone? Who walks with you then?”

“Sometimes Aloys,” I said. “Or Brody. But not always.”

“Will you promise me something? Promise me that if you find yourself walking alone at night, you’ll ask for me.”

“That’s absurd, Mr. DeWitt. How will I find you to ask?”

“I’m always here, Mrs. Wilkes. All you need to do is look around.”

“But that’s ridiculous. You can’t come to the Regal every night.”

He put the papers into his bag carefully and put the leather flap down. “Why not? Like any writer, I follow my inspiration. Just now, it resides here.”

“I’m certain you could find it in other places as well.”

His smile was wry. “I wish it were so. I can think of several places I’d rather it be. Unfortunately, at present, my inspiration doesn’t seem inclined to follow my wishes.”

“Perhaps because it has other … obligations.”

“Perhaps so.” He shook back his hair and took up the strap of his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. “Let me walk you home, Mrs. Wilkes.”

“I’m not going home just now. I … I thought I’d do some embroidery. On a new costume. In my dressing room.” It was a bald lie. Lucius hadn’t yet given me the raise I’d earn as lead, and so there wasn’t money to buy another gown at the secondhand shop, and I couldn’t embroider a nonexistent dress. But DeWitt’s longing made me vaguely uncomfortable, and I did not want to have to refuse outright what he so obviously wanted. Though neither did I want to anger him.

“Then I’ll see you tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“After the performance.” He smiled. “In the event you need an escort home. Good-bye, Mrs. Wilkes.”

I watched him go down the stage steps and make his way down the aisle. He did not look back, and I had the disconcerting sense that keeping Sebastian DeWitt happy might not be as easy as I’d thought.