Exit the Actress (10 page)

“Ellen”—she turned—“you have nothing to fear, I would never tell them that you are my sister.”

“
Rose
—” I flushed, mortified that she had guessed my thoughts.

“I would never want to shame you, Ellen,” she said softly, looking like Rose again.

In one movement, I was beside her. I squeezed her hand tightly. “Good night, dearest Rose,” I said, kissing her still pale cheek.

“Good night, Ellen.”

I watched her disappear up the lane. She did not turn round again.

Loyal Rose.

Watching her go, I determined, from now on, always to be proud that she is my sister.

No one but Meg knows it was Rose. Harry, bless his lying tongue, said he was drunk and alone and lost his way, and so came to the theatre in search of his father. An unlikely story, but he is sticking to it. Mr. Killigrew keeps asking
who
was with him, but Harry will not give way. I keep my head up—sally, jibe, and flirt with the audience. Just like any other day. It
is
any other day, I tell myself.

Mr. Fuller was brought in to repair his beautiful scenery. It will take him all night. Mr. Killigrew is stony-faced but silent. He didn’t make his usual fuss about the cost. How could he? Harry is keeping himself scarce. I have not yet seen Rose. Say nothing.
Smile.

Rose was hemming my new gown with tiny, clean stitches when I came home. “Do they know?” she asked, expertly snipping off a thread.

“Not yet.”

“Ellen!” Alice hurried up the aisle to me. “Mr. Hart and Mr. Killigrew want to see you.”

“Why?” I asked, alarmed, nearly dropping my basket.

“No idea, but they said they wanted you and Meg sent me to fetch you up to Mr. Killigrew’s
private
office. You’d best hurry.”

“How do I look?” I asked, anxiously unpinning my skirts to cover my dusty boots. I wished I had worn my best skirt, but no matter now. At least I was wearing my new vanilla-water scent, a present from Mr. Adams, the apothecary—he mixed too much in the last batch and saved the extra for me.

“All right,” Alice said, standing back to appraise me. “If I just loosen these,” she said, pulling some curls free from under my cap.

“But…” It takes me forever to get them all under my cap.

“No, leave it a bit undone. It’s alluring.” She looked at me, squinting critically. “Now, bite your lips. Good.” Her gaze travelled downward. “It’s your bosom.”

I rolled my eyes. It always seems to be my bosom.

“Too flat. But if I just tighten these,” she said, nimbly retying my laces, pushing my small breasts firmly up into two soft curves. “Better.”

I paused outside the heavy oak door. My hand was trembling, raised to knock. Head up, Ellen. Heart and courage. Smile.

“Mistress Gwyn, come in,” invited Mr. Killigrew, his ample figure seated behind the surprisingly delicate desk. Kitt slept on his bed by the fire; he lifted his great bear head and thumped his tail when I entered. Mr. Hart was lounging close to the window, his round face flushed. Meg, standing beside him, smiled in encouragement. I moved to the centre of the chamber and stood before him, feeling every bit like a prize goat.

“She’s a pretty little thing, I’ll grant you, but there is not much to her, is there?” said Mr. Killigrew after a long silence, stroking his greying beard. Looking me over carefully, he pronounced his verdict: “Red hair, not ideal. But her eyelashes are dark, and that is something.” I stood a bit taller in my shoes. I was particularly proud of my inky eyelashes and darker brows, happy to have escaped that carroty look so many redheads have. “Good, creamy skin, but not enough of it to notice,” he went on. “Doesn’t have a shape. May as well be a boy. Pull up your skirts; let’s see your feet.” I obliged, quickly pulling off my boot, raising my hem, and poking my stockinged foot towards him. Kitt immediately began to sniff my discarded boot and then nose about in my skirts, hopeful of the treats I usually keep for him in my pockets.

“Shh, not now, good boy.” I eased him away.

“Mmm, small, well-shaped ankles. And you say she can dance?” Mr. Killigrew asked, dropping my foot.

“Yes, Lacy has been watching her and thinks she has a natural grace, although wholly untrained, of course,” Mr. Hart offered easily. I sat between them, a spectator in this exchange. Should I put my boot back on? Kitt was contentedly gnawing on it. “But she seems to learn quickly enough,” Mr. Hart continued. Yes, I was supposed to put my boot back on, I decided. I stooped and retrieved it from the big dog. He promptly slurped my outstretched hand. Mr. Hart was still speaking: “She picked up
Duchesse
in half the time it took Peg, danced it better, and then remembered it well enough to fill in for Lizzie, with a tempo change. Not many can do that.”

“Yes, I saw that,” Killigrew said evenly, his eyes fixed on me. “But that is not enough. She didn’t have to speak, and Nick is a strong partner. Can you read, mistress? Or write? Or play? Or sing?”

“Yes,”
I answered quietly.

“Yes, to which?”

“Yes, to all,” I said, meeting his gaze levelly.

“Humph. We shall see,” he said, turning to Meg. “Call the company up here. No, better yet,” he said, eyeing me, “to the stage. Come along, Mistress Gwyn.” We all—Mr. Hart, Meg, Kitt, and me—trooped out of the room behind him.

A lute was brought. A song Mother sang. An aching ballad. An empty stage. Sing.

“Look at her up there. You can hardly see her. She’ll never hold this stage,” observed Mr. Killigrew from the back of the pit, loudly enough to be heard by the little clutch of friendly faces in the first row. Loud enough to reach me, up here, all alone. “Go on then, girl!” he called, louder still.

I breathe in and begin. Clear-eyed. Low and lilting, soft and strong. A woman singing in the night. A woman singing for her lover. Her lover, lost at sea. A woman calling. A woman waiting. I sing, light and full. I sing, strong and sweet. I sing. Lulling them. Coaxing them. I sing. Charming them into captivity. I am more than myself. My voice is rich and clean, my fingers are sure on the strings; my hips sway gently, my head tilts with pleasure.

I hold them.
I hold the room.
The cavernous, golden room.
I am enchanting.

It is decided—
finally.
I will train with Mr. Lacy and Mr. Hart, the more intimidating of the two, in dancing, singing, speech, deportment, French (for the new comedies), and gesture, each morning, and still work for Meg selling oranges in the afternoons and evenings until I debut.
If
I debut. Until I am actually given a role, Mr. Killigrew will not put me under contract. Ever sceptical, he waits for me to fail. But I won’t!
I won’t!
We begin tomorrow.