City of Ash (25 page)

“Yes, I see that now.”

I glared at him.

“I want you to remember something,” he said. “That woman I told you about—the one who could help us both? I was speaking of Mrs. Langley. I can’t lobby in your favor if you won’t at least try to be pleasant.”

“I don’t think it’s me she means to help,” I said nastily.

“I can’t imagine why.” He went to the door, and I was glad. I waited for him to leave.

But he turned just before he opened it and said, “Mrs. Wilkes—”

“What?” I snapped.

“If you’d rather be doing something else when a man’s in bed with you, perhaps you’ve never found the right lover.”

With that, he went out the door. It thudded shut behind him.

I threw my brush at it. I fucking hated playwrights. Trust them to always know exactly how to get in the last word.

Geneva

B
y the time the carriage dropped me before the theater the next morning, I thought I knew most of my lines well enough. I’d stayed up late into the night studying, determined to win whatever grudging respect the company might offer. It seemed obvious that impressing Mrs. Wilkes was a lost cause—and I did not let myself think of the very expensive notepaper she’d tossed aside as if it had no more worth than one of the printed broadsheets that adorned every telegraph pole in the city—but I had hopes of impressing the man who had made her his muse. Now I understood what Sebastian DeWitt had been trying to tell me that day in the parlor, and I wanted to prove to him that I was worthy of Penelope Justis—and yes, even more worthy than the woman who embodied the character for him.

When I stepped onstage, Mr. DeWitt glanced up from the table and gave me a reassuring smile. “Ah—here you are. Good morning, Mrs. Langley.”

“Good morning.” I was thrilled by his smile, but my own faltered as I looked at the others, their expressions all variations on a theme of dismissal and dislike.

Lucius Greene looked up from where he was conferring with a carpenter over some drawing, and twirled his wrist at me, a broad and overly theatrical gesture. “There have been some script changes this morning, Mrs. Langley. Mr. Geary has your pages copied out.”

I looked at Mr. DeWitt in alarm. All my effort for naught. “Script changes?”

“It couldn’t be helped,” he said. “But as you’ll see, it affects everyone.”

It was true; it seemed everyone had pages they were studying. I would not be the only one this morning. Still, I had wanted so to impress them. I had wanted to impress
him
.

I said quietly, “I had learned all the lines.”

He glanced up again, obviously surprised. “You did? How long did that take you?”

“The better part of the night, I’m afraid. I told you I meant to do your play justice.”

He smiled.

I said, “You didn’t tell me you wrote it for
her.
”

His smile died; he glanced to where she stood. “It hardly matters.”

“I wish you had said something.”

“What difference would it have made?”

I did not know what to say to that—he made me want to speak the truth, and the truth was that it would have made none at all. I had wanted to help him, yes, but I had also wanted this play for myself, and it was as Nathan said, she could have it back when I was done with it. It wasn’t as if I meant to keep it. I felt disconcerted and guilty. I glanced down at the pages in my hand. “Well, I hope Mr. Greene has not ruined it.”

“Not all of the changes are of Greene’s design. Some are my own.”

“Yours? But why?”

Again, a glance toward Mrs. Wilkes, as if he could not help himself. “I’ve decided Penelope has a more … cunning nature.”

“Oh? Do I detect some disillusionment?”

“Let’s just say I’ve had an epiphany,” he said with a small and rather curious smile.

“I cannot help but say that I’m glad to hear it. You’re no ordinary man, Mr. DeWitt. You deserve a muse who understands that.”

This was too much; I knew it by the way his expression
tightened. He was not ready to hear criticism of her, no matter how well earned.

“She’s been treated as unfairly as you have, Mrs. Langley.” His voice was very soft. “You may want to keep that in mind.”

I felt his censure like a little burn.

Mr. Geary shouted, “Act one, scene three! Places, everyone!”

Mr. DeWitt picked up his pen and looked back at his papers. “Your cue, Mrs. Langley.”

It was the scene where the servant, Marjory, reveals to Penelope her devious plan: to dissuade Barnabus from seducing the young Delia by calling up the spirit of Florence, the older sister he’d wronged, and therefore nudging him toward madness.

It was also a scene for only two characters: Penelope and Marjory—or in this case, myself and Mrs. Wilkes.

I went to center stage with as much dignity as I could muster. Mrs. Wilkes stood there already, frowning at the pages in her hand—a relief, I had to admit. I’d half expected her to have them memorized already. Mr. Greene brought a chair.

“For Penelope,” he told me, and I sat obediently. “The fireplace is there—” He gestured vaguely before me. “Marjory is building up the fire for her mistress.”

Mrs. Wilkes went to the nonexistent fireplace, going down onto her knees before it, muttering beneath her breath something about “a familiar position” though I didn’t hear all of it. It was no doubt some crude insult leveled at me, and I was still attempting to decipher it when I realized she’d delivered her line and was staring at me with undisguised contempt.

“The words are in front of you, I believe,” she said. “Or do you intend that the prompter should act your part?”

“Forgive me,” I said, flustered and disliking that I’d allowed myself to be so. “I was momentarily distracted.”

“There are many more distractions onstage. How will you manage then?”

I ignored her and glanced down at the pages, finding my lines. “ ‘As if any fire could warm me now. I am cold clear into my heart, and I think I shall be as long as Barnabus Cadsworth walks this earth.’ ”

“ ‘The Cadsworths live a long time, miss. ’Tis in their blood. I should hate to see you cold forever.’ ”

“Take her hand there, Bea,” interrupted Mr. Greene. “Twist a bit so you’re kneeling at her side. You’re trying to comfort her. Your relationship is closer than master and servant.”

Mrs. Wilkes turned, flopping her hand out stiffly. Reluctantly, I took it.

DeWitt said, “Ladies—”

“What?” Mrs. Wilkes snapped.

I was startled by her temper, but Mr. DeWitt seemed unmoved. “Just that it looks awkward. They do love each other. They’re much more like sisters.”

She said, “Have you such familiarity with the upper class, Mr. DeWitt, that you know such a thing to be possible? I doubt Mrs. Langley would allow such familiarity from a servant.”

“It doesn’t matter what Mrs. Langley would do,” DeWitt said. “It only matters what Penelope would do.”

“I agree,” I said. “Penny does not look upon Marjory as a servant. After all, she is in love with Marjory’s brother.”

“Which also seems odd, don’t you think?” Mrs. Wilkes asked. “A well-born woman like Penelope having an affair with her stableboy?”

“Mr. DeWitt has written it extraordinarily well,” I defended. “He is hardly just her stableboy. Penelope and Keefe were raised together. It seems a purer sort of love to my eyes.”

“Really? You think it so? In my experience, when the upper class mingles with the lower, they’re only slumming.”

I thought of Claude, of the artists I knew who came from poor families. “I’d prefer to think the feelings more exalted than that.”

She gave me a slow, steady look. “You think lust an exalted feeling?”

I refused to give her the satisfaction of reacting to her crude word choice. Firmly, I said, “In some cases, it can be, depending on the circumstance.”

“The circumstance. I see. How very convenient.”

“Bea!” Mr. Greene said sharply. “Might we press ahead?”

She ignored him. “I suppose you’re rich enough to make circumstances as exalted as you want them to be, aren’t you, Mrs. Langley? How lovely you and your husband must find it, to be able to make the world whatever you like. It’s not a stableboy coupling with his lady, but pure love. How wonderfully transcendent. Why, you could perceive anything in such a light. A patron and a writer, for example. Or a rich man—and his mistress.”

She met my gaze boldly, and there was something reckless in her eyes that reminded me of … of me.

The others went still. I felt the change in the air, a hovering expectation.

I heard again the words she’d said yesterday—
“Your husband’s so good at casting”
—and suddenly, with no more than that, everything fell into place, the little disparate things that had troubled me. Nathan’s investment in the Regal. The ease of his arrangement with Mr. Greene. His buying
Penelope Justis
to begin with, and his knowledge that Sebastian DeWitt had written it for her.

“I’ve heard she has a sweet tooth.”

Mrs. Wilkes was my husband’s mistress.

I choked back my rage and pain and humiliation. I would not display it here, not in front of them. I would not give her the satisfaction. Instead, I said, as calmly as I could, “Shall we proceed?” and took great satisfaction at her puzzled frown. She’d thought to disarm me; well, she could not unsettle me, not outwardly, not with my generations of good breeding, stiff composure, unruffled dignity.

I felt the relief of the company, as if they’d taken a deep breath in unison. With a wary look, she read her next line.

How I got through the rest of that scene with her, I do not know. I only know that when I got to the last lines, the new ones, I understood them; I knew exactly how to say them, how to infuse each word with chilly anger. “ ‘I tell you this, God: whatever your will, I shall not rest easy in’t! I shall have my vengeance on Barnabus Cadsworth. I shall catch him in the web I weave and strangle him with my strings. I shall not rest until he repents for the death of my sister.’ ”

The company went quiet as if someone had cracked a whip over them. I felt their stares. I saw Mr. DeWitt’s startlement, Mr. Greene’s puzzled frown. But mostly I saw Mrs. Wilkes still.

Mr. Geary called for a break, and I tucked the script pages beneath my arm and made for backstage. I did not think I could bear to look at her another moment. I wanted to flee, to nurse my pride and my hurt in secret. Nathan had betrayed me, and I felt like a fool. How grateful I’d been for his offer of the theater, how pleased that he was becoming again the man I’d loved. My vision blurred, my disappointment overwhelmed me. I’d tried so hard since we’d come here, and I’d thought everything was going so well. I’d begun to hold hope for our marriage again, and all the time.… How it must amuse him to think of the two of us together. How entertained he must have been when I talked of buying her a gift.
“I’ve heard she has a sweet tooth,”
indeed. And as for the others … it was obvious they all knew too. Even Sebastian DeWitt, and that was the worst thing of all. He must have known. She was his muse, for God’s sake—I could not imagine how he could bear to see her with Nathan. And yet he had not shared it with me. I had thought him a friend, and he had said nothing, had given not a single warning.

I wanted to leave. But then I heard them there, on the stage, laughing with one another, and Mr. Greene called, “Let’s resume, children!” and I heard her say, “Wherever did Mrs. Langley get to? Do you think she might have run away?” There was scattered laughter.

I took a deep breath and blinked away my tears. I turned back to the stage, ready to continue. Through the curtains, I saw her standing onstage, self-assured, composed, her face so like mine, and I went cold and resolute. If what Mrs. Wilkes wanted was a war, I was more than ready to give her one.

I
had been so angry that when Mr. DeWitt gestured for me to come to him at the end of rehearsal, I turned coldly away and hurried to my carriage. My hurt and disappointment were unbearable, and I did not want to speak to him or anyone else. But it seemed I had little choice, because when I arrived home, Mrs. Porter and Mrs. Brown were waiting.

I was surprised, but I told Bonnie to bring the tea, and then I composed myself and went to join the women in the parlor.

They sat silently, identical bookends, perched on the edges of the striped satin chairs, their gloved hands clasped primly in their laps. When I came inside, saying, “Mrs. Brown, Mrs. Porter, how lovely to see you,” they both looked up at me with polite smiles.

Mrs. Porter said, “Mrs. Langley, this is not a social call. In fact, we’ve come on a … well, a mercy mission, as it were.”

“A mercy mission?” I asked.

Mrs. Brown nodded shortly. She looked uncomfortable. “I—that is,
we
heard only yesterday that you were embarking upon a rather troubling enterprise.”

“We’re speaking of your intention to follow in Mr. Reading’s footsteps,” said Mrs. Porter bluntly. “We’ve heard you’re actually rehearsing a play at the Regal. That you mean to … act … with them.”

“Yes indeed,” I said. “We’ve only just started, of course, but it’s been a singular experience thus far.”