City of Ash (27 page)

I nodded and pulled on my calico, and then I went out the door without even a good-bye.

I buttoned my bodice as I made my way past those waiting to see the other players, and up the stairs to the back door, and then I was outside into a night whose air was thick with dust. It wasn’t until then that I realized my hair was bouncing around my shoulders and I’d left my hairpins back in the dressing room, but I wouldn’t go back despite how vulnerable it made me feel.
With my hair down like this I might be mistaken for a whore—more so than usual, anyway—and that made my nightly walk home even more frightening than it already was.

There were streetlamps all the way along to the hotel, but walking home alone late at night was still something I’d never got used to. It terrified me, frankly, and the streetlamps somehow made it even worse. In darkness, I was as invisible to someone as they were to me, but in the lamplight, anyone hiding in the shadows might see me, and I would never know it. I’d made rules for myself: walk purposefully and without hesitation. Say nothing, even when spoken to. Stare straight ahead, but be aware every moment of the edges and what was behind. Never pass between two advancing men. Never take the inside of the walk when passing a stranger. Never pass an alley without stepping into the street to put the whole width of the walk between me and it. Never be afraid to take to the center of the street.

I was about halfway home when I began to hear the footsteps on the boardwalk across the street. I glanced over—a shadow clinging to the other shadows. The width of the street was between us; I told myself I was safe enough. No doubt it was some man making his way home—it wasn’t as if the boardwalks were deserted, after all. But this was different, as if someone kept time to my pace. I felt as if I were being watched.

I sped my step; whoever it was kept carefully behind, but the distance between us never changed. A coincidence, I told myself, but I knew it wasn’t.
Just get home, Bea
. I crossed the street to the next block, hurrying now, walking as fast as I could without running. And then, finally, I was at the boardinghouse. I jerked open the door and ran for the stairs.

When I was at my door, I fumbled with the key; finally I got it open and stumbled inside, locking it again, leaning against it, listening.

It took me a moment to realize he hadn’t followed me, and then another to rush to my window, which I’d left open, and look to see if I could spot him. The street was empty below.

But then I glanced down the block. There, just coming out from the glow of the streetlamp, was a man—and I knew it was
the same man who’d been following me, because I recognized him. In the lamplight, his hair glowed a dark, rich red. I knew his walk, though I would have sworn I did not. Sebastian DeWitt.

Geneva

T
hey were laughing when I came in the next morning. Mrs. Wilkes and that handsome boy, Brody Townshend, and Mr. Wheeler, huddled together at the far corner of the stage, and at the sight of her my anger surged anew. I looked away with as unaffected an air as I could muster. I felt defeated, but I was damned if I would let her know that. I hoped that Nathan had managed to have a word with Mr. Greene—if nothing else, it would put her on notice that I was not to be trifled with, even if I could not help whatever reassurances Nathan whispered to her when they were alone in bed. I took some solace from the fact that I was still his wife, and he would not risk everything over a mistress, nor, I thought, would he take the risk that I might write of my unhappiness to my father. So perhaps any word Nathan might put to her via Mr. Greene would at least have some effect.

I went to the table where Sebastian DeWitt sat scribbling over scenes like a madman. He glanced up—a quick, distracted glance, a distracted smile—and then down again as if he hadn’t really seen me, and I said in a low voice, “You didn’t tell me.”

He paused, and looked up again, his pen stilling. “Tell you what?” he asked blankly.

I glanced at the others. “About Mrs. Wilkes. And my husband.”

“Ah.” Now I had his attention. He sat back, letting his pen fall from his fingers. “What was I to say?”

“You let her humiliate me—”

“No. Your husband allowed that.”

“How you leap to her defense! Just as Nathan did. I know she is your muse, Mr. DeWitt, but it would have been a kindness to say something.”

Patiently, he said, “You would have hated her from the moment you met her.”

“Instead of hating her now. Yes, how much worse that would have been.”

“It gave you a chance to like her, at least. And your husband
is
my patron, Mrs. Langley. I doubt he would have appreciated my telling you.”

“I had not thought you part of that wretched men’s club.”

“I can’t bite the hand that feeds me.”

“What about my hand?”

He met my gaze. “I’m sorry for that.”

I understood his reasons for not saying anything, but I was disappointed too. I had thought we were better friends. I could not resist saying, “Do you know, Mr. DeWitt, I admire your fortitude. Truthfully, I don’t know how you do it.”

He looked wary. “Do what?”

“Tolerate the fact that your muse is my husband’s mistress.”

A self-deprecating smile. “To have what I want requires sacrifice. I’ve reached a point in my life where I accept the necessity.”

“I don’t believe you’ve accepted it. I believe you hate it.”

“Hating it doesn’t make it disappear. There are ladders to climb even to heaven, Mrs. Langley.” He reached down and picked up a few pages, lines crossed out and overwritten, and handed them to me. “Here, I’ve given you a ladder. Perhaps it will help you to forgive me.”

I stared down at the pages. “What is this?”

Again the smile. “More changes.”

“More?”

“Greene wishes more ‘spectacle.’ And I’ve cut Delia.”

“You’ve cut Delia? Why?”

“Because it works better if Barnabus goes after Penelope. Especially as she is to become nearly his equal in villainy.”

“But then—” He had made Penelope a greater and more
complex character, and I suspected he’d done it for me.
“I’ve given you a ladder.”
I glanced quickly at Mrs. Wilkes. “You would have had to take the meat from Marjory. Your muse cannot like it.”

“Question not the whims of playwrights, Mrs. Langley, lest you offend them into cutting your part,” said a deep voice from behind me.

I looked over my shoulder to see—surprisingly—Aloysius Metairie, stroking his closely trimmed Vandyke beard.

“You speak as one with experience,” I said, suspicious and not bothering to hide it.

“Sadly, aye.” Mr. Metairie glanced down at the pages in my hand. “Our own playwright is very evenhanded, fortunately for you, despite certain other … circumstances. And with your quick intellect, madam, I expect you’ll have the additional lines learned in no time.”

“Well … thank you.”

He smiled, his dark eyes twinkling. “Fear not, Mrs. Langley. I’m no Trojan horse.” He touched my arm lightly and then moved away, back to where Mr. Galloway and Mrs. Chace stood chattering.

“Metairie makes a good champion,” Mr. DeWitt said in a low voice.

I was puzzled. “Champion? But only yesterday—”

“He’s the chief tragedian,” he said pointedly, and when I looked uncomprehendingly at him, he explained, “The others follow him, not the other way ’round.”

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

Despite Mr. Metairie’s and Mr. DeWitt’s reassurance, I was wary. Mr. Greene sent me and Mr. Metairie climbing together to the top of a scaffold that would eventually become the cataract that emptied into a pool below. The platform was very narrow, and my bustle was a distinct disadvantage, both in allowing me to climb and in giving us enough room to stand together at the top. I was afraid even my slightest turn would send Mr. Metairie plunging twenty feet to the floor. He had his arm about my waist, holding me tightly, while Mr. Greene called up from below:

“The pool will be quite deep, Mrs. Langley. I assure you that you shan’t injure yourself in falling.”

“In falling?” I asked.

“You can swim, can’t you, madam?”

I swallowed. It seemed very far down. “I am not a strong swimmer, no.”

From where she stood near the wings, I saw Mrs. Wilkes lean close to whisper something to Mr. Wheeler, who laughed.

“Good enough!” Mr. Greene said. “All you need to do is struggle to the surface. Ah, I wish we had a horse that could plunge in with you. People love a horse. Add a horse, Mr. DeWitt.”

“We haven’t time to make the waterfall big enough for a horse, Lucius.” The carpenter looked up from where he stood beside Mr. Greene. “We’re falling behind as it is.”

“If you recall the disaster in
Mazeppa
, Lucius, Jack was lucky to escape with a broken leg,” Mr. Metairie said drolly from beside me.

“A mere anomaly,” Mr. Wheeler called out. “I don’t mind a horse, and I’ve no doubt Mrs. Langley is a skilled rider.”

I could not suppress my shudder at the thought. “I’m afraid I haven’t the skill to ride a horse up a … scaffold.”

“There’s not enough
time
, Lucius,” the carpenter said again.

Mr. Greene sighed heavily. “Oh, very well. No horse. But … what about a dog, DeWitt? Perhaps Miss Justis could have a little dog? One that does tricks, perhaps?”

“We could get that spaniel we used in
Murder on the Cliff,
” said Mrs. Wilkes sweetly.

“It didn’t bite that hard,” said Brody Townshend, smiling. “I’ve barely got any scar.”

“It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it, Lucius?” Mr. Metairie said. “The play is to be performed the week after next.”

“Days still to get a dog,” Mr. Greene said.

“Why not a little circus of dogs?” Mrs. Wilkes suggested.

Mr. Greene stroked his mustache. “Yes. Yes, a good idea! Last year Langford had that circus at the Palace. It did very well. Mrs. Langley, have you experience with dogs?”

We were very high up. I was feeling dizzy. “I—”

“I think a circus of dogs might lessen the suspense,” Mr.
DeWitt interjected drily. “Barnabus means to seduce Penny, after all—very hard to do with dogs performing tricks all about.”

“Ah, yes of course,” Mr. Greene said. “A bit distracting. I see. Ah well, then, no dog circus. Carry on.”

“So am I to throw Penelope to the pool, or simply lose hold of her?” Mr. Metairie asked.

Mr. Townshend offered, “Perhaps you could try it both ways. I guess with that bustle, she’d bounce right back.”

Mrs. Wilkes laughed out loud. I looked down into her jeering face, and I could not stop myself from saying, “I do wish we could find a way to put Marjory in this scene. With all the changes, I’m quite worried that she’s barely in the play now.”

Beatrice Wilkes gave me exactly what I wanted. In her expression I saw a stunned and angry surprise. I smiled at her as coldly as I could and was rewarded with her gaping mouth, eyes narrowed to slits. It was the most perfect moment.

Beatrice

S
he was clever enough, I had to admit. An insult delivered with such smooth polish, and that bearing—what the hell did they do, breed for it? Just one more reason to dislike her, and don’t think I didn’t.

Susan stifled a laugh and looked away from me guiltily, and I thought,
there goes another one
. And then, to make it all worse, when Geary called for a scene change, Lucius grabbed my arm, stopping me. “No trifling with her today, Beatrice.”

Not
Bea. Beatrice
. I frowned. “Of course not.”

“One should not prick a sleeping lion.”

“I fancy myself the lion in this case, Lucius, but never fear, I’ll tread lightly today.”

He nodded and let me go, and I looked across the stage at Jackson, raising my eyebrow in question. He only shrugged.

And then Mrs. Langley approached center stage to meet me, frosty as ice on a pump handle, and angry besides, in that way people are when they’re thwarted, and I wished once again that I’d managed to keep quiet about my arrangement with her husband. I thought of the note I’d sent Nathan this morning begging for forgiveness—I couldn’t go on being such a fool, after all—and hoped to hell I’d see him tonight.