Saving the Scot, page 28
Ian grabbed the first conveyance he could find, a battered contraption drawn by a gray-muzzled nag. “How long will it take you to get me to the Lyceum?”
“About twenty minutes, I’d say.”
“Make it ten and there’s an extra guinea in it.”
The hack would have to backtrack to the river as the Lyceum was located near the docks. Another bad omen. In his experience, docks in any port city were a dangerous place to be at night. He had no weapons. Not even his sgian-dubh. Louisa was better armed than he was with her wee pistols. Why didn’t he think to bring a dirk with him at the very least? No matter. He’d trample on any man who got in the way of finding Louisa. His lass.
They were stalled by a long line of carriages blocking the narrow road. “What’s the holdup?” Ian called.
“It’s Saturday night, sir. Everyone’s going to the Lyceum.”
Ian exited the creaky box, paid the man, and raced down the line of carriages. No doubt he’d find the theater at the end. His heart sank when the pool of light from the theater shone on a crowd of men. This was no regular theater. This was a show for gentlemen only. He tried to push through but was shoved back with shouts of, “Get in line,” and “They’re not letting anyone in yet.”
He investigated the side of the building. Theaters had back entrances for the actors, didn’t they? Maybe he could buy his way inside, find her, and haul her out of there before… Before what?
The flat-nosed giant standing guard at the door was not interested in Ian’s coin or his pleas. “Buy a ticket like everyone else. You can meet your little lady after the show.”
“Would you give her a message for me?”
“Do I look like an errand boy?”
Rather than press his luck, he did as the giant suggested. He returned to the front door, waited his turn, and bought a ticket. A chalk sign on the lobby wall read:
Tonight’s Featured Performances
Titian the Magician
The Ravishing Ginny Tumble
Daring Dancers Do
Elsa the Sultry Swede
A man ran up to the sign and hastily chalked in, Lulu the Sassie Lassie, in a sloppy scrawl. Bloody hell. The Sassie Lassie. Well, they got that right, but for the wrong reason. She was here. Now how to reach her? The security was tight and he could understand why. The show hadn’t even started and the men were already half drunk and restless.
No such places like this existed in Scotland that Ian knew of, but he had heard of theaters in London that featured performances catering to…male appetites. Bloody hell. Bloody frigging hell.
He took advantage of a lull in activity and pushed his way through the crowd toward the stage. His eyes burned from the smoke. It seemed as though everyone in attendance was puffing on a cheroot. Low-hanging chandeliers provided very little light. No chairs and tables in this place. Standing room only. Evidently the management’s objective was to cram as many paying customers as possible into every show.
A lad was performing tricks with his dog on a dimly lit raised stage in front of tall red curtains trimmed with gold fringe. No one was paying any attention to the boy’s act. Ten feet was as close as he could get to the stage. Ten feet of gaping pit lay between him and his pathway to Louisa. The stage was elevated so that everyone in the room could see the performers. More than likely, the height was intended to protect the performers from anyone spanning the breach and making off with one of the ladies, which had been his original makeshift plan. He had to think of another way. A distraction maybe?
Someone drew aside the curtain and a roar of appreciation rose up from the men. Ian swallowed his heart.
…
Everything was happening so fast. One minute Mr. Daggett was helping Louisa out of the carriage, and the next she was being hustled into the theater by a strange man with a ridiculous mustache.
“But I didnae get a chance to thank Mr. Daggett.”
“You’ll get your chance. He’ll be around after the show. You can thank him then.”
The way the mustache man smiled unsettled her. There was some added meaning behind his words she couldn’t decipher. He more or less dragged her through a shabby-looking, smelly theater with a raised stage and no seats.
“Tell me, what play will you present this evening?”
Mustache Man laughed.
“I ken my showing up at the last minute like this is inconvenient, but I’m a quick study. If you give me the sides, I can—” The man opened a secret door made invisible by the way it was painted to look like the rest of the proscenium wall. “Where are we going?”
“Backstage.” His grip on her arm tightened, and he shoved her into a dark corridor. “Can you sing?”
“I’m told I have a pleasant voice.”
He opened another door to a well-lit hallway. People bustled in and out of rooms, paced up and down the hall, and chattered with each other. From behind a door, she heard a woman vocalizing scales. Her heart thumped hard in her chest, and she got that same thrill she’d had while waiting in the wings of the Grass Market Theatre.
Mustache Man said, “Wait here and don’t make a move.” He entered a side room and closed the door behind him. A muffled argument between two men raged for a few seconds and ended abruptly.
A wee man came out of the room immediately afterward. He, too, had a crazy, twirly mustache and his hair had been parted in the middle and slicked down. She estimated he was four feet tall if he was an inch. He wore a brilliant green coat, matching green trousers, and a yellow neckcloth tied under his chin. He scowled at her and jammed his hands on his nonexistent hips.
“What’s yer name?” he barked.
“How do you do. I’m Louisa Robertson.”
He made a face. “We’re gonna have to come up with a better name than that. Karl says you can sing.”
“I never had the opportunity to sing on stage before, but—”
“What are you, English? Irish?”
“I’m from Edinburgh.” When he looked at her blankly, she added, “I’m a Scot.”
He fiddled with the curly ends of his mustache. “Lulu the Sassie Lassie. That’s what we’ll call you. What song are you going to sing?”
Things were happening at such a pace, Louisa was having trouble keeping up. “Em…” She remembered the song she sang on board the Gael Forss. It had pleased the crew enormously. “How about ‘The Maiden of Bashful Fifteen’?”
His scowl changed to a broad smile. “Exactly. An innocent Scottish lassie straight off the farm. They’re gonna love you.”
Louisa returned his smile, encouraged by his faith in her as a professional actress.
“This way,” he said, and she followed the diminutive figure down the hall to a room filled with ladies in various states of undress. She expected them to scream in protest when the wee fellow entered, but they took no notice of him. “Hey, Ginny. Meet Lulu. We’re gonna bill her as the innocent lassie from Scotland. Find her something to wear and tell her what to do.”
Ginny was a beautiful woman with a pile of blond curls on top of her head. Her generous bosom was overflowing her corset and the only other articles of clothing she wore were pantalettes, stockings, and shoes, all in pastel blues, pinks, yellows, and greens. “Sure. Come on in, Lulu.”
Louisa stepped around the other six ladies. They all wore the same outfit, black corsets and knee-length black petticoats trimmed with a rainbow of ruffles. Ginny pawed through a rack of frocks and pulled out a pink polka-dot gown with long sleeves and ruffles along the hem and cuffs. It was sweet but looked more like something she’d worn when she was ten years old.
“Here, you can wear this.”
“Thank you. Are you a singer, too?”
Ginny smiled. “You could say that.”
“Where shall I go to change?”
Ginny’s eyebrows drew together. They’d been darkened with charcoal. Her lips and cheeks were heavily rouged, as well. “Right here. You’re in the dressing room, dearie.”
Louisa glanced around. “In front of everyone?”
Ginny laughed. “Your first time?”
“Oh, no. I’ve performed on stage in Edinburgh. The Grass Market Theatre. I played Viola in Shakes—”
“Good for you, dearie. Now get changed. You’re on after Titian the Magician and before my act. Be sure and get the boys riled up for me.”
“Riled up?”
“You know, a little tease. Take down your hair. Show them some ankle and maybe a bit more. If you take off your garter and throw it into the crowd, they’ll love you.”
She was speechless. Show her ankles? On purpose? Remove her garter? Outrageous. She glanced around the room. The other ladies weren’t putting on any gowns over their undergarments. She supposed she was lucky. At least she hadn’t been asked to wear one of the black corset costumes.
“Hurry up,” Ginny said. “You’re on in five minutes.”
Louisa stepped behind the rack of costumes, unpinned her gown, and wriggled into the childlike frock. One of the black corset ladies, a dancer she guessed, offered to tie the bow in the back for her. She asked the lady, “Does the management pay us at the end of the evening?”
“Sometimes. If the take at the door is good and if the boys love your performance.” She finished the bow. “Wait. You need something else.” She rubbed rouge into Louisa’s cheeks.
“Oh, I dinnae use that.”
“Quiet.” The lady dabbed more on her lips. “There ya go. You look great. Stage is to the right and up the stairs.”
The stairs led to the stage left wing. The noxious smell of tobacco filled her nostrils and her stomach rolled over. Dear Lord. I can’t be sick. Not now. Not right before her American debut.
A man on stage was performing magic tricks to an audience that wasn’t impressed. In fact, they were so busy talking amongst themselves, they didn’t pay any attention. A few audience members shouted for the magician to finish already, and one called, “We want Ginny Tumble. Where’s Ginny Tumble?”
Ginny Tumble, the pretty blond lady who’d helped her choose a costume, must be the star.
Assuming he was the stage manager, she approached the man standing in the wings.
“Does the orchestra have the music for my song?”
“Music?”
“Yes. I’m singing ‘The Maiden of Bashful Fifteen’.”
The stage manager laughed. “Yeah, sure. Harvey will give you a musical intro, and then you start singing. He’ll follow you.”
The wee Green Man found her. “Ready, Lulu?” The name Lulu, what her brothers sometimes called her, didn’t sound right coming from a stranger. He made the name sound…rude.
She stared down her nose at him and nodded. “I’m ready.”
The magician took his bows to a smattering of applause and carried his things off as Green Man waddled out to center stage.
On the way past Louisa, Titian the Magician said, “Careful. They’re out for blood tonight.”
…
Ian figured, based on the magician’s reception, things did not bode well for tonight’s performers. The men were here to see ladies. More than likely, they were here to get a keek of flesh, too. It better not be Louisa’s. And what the hell was she going to do? Read Shakespeare to this crowd? Jee-sus. That would not go over at all.
A wee man toddled out on stage and introduced himself as Larry the Leprechaun. “I’ve got a special treat for you tonight.” He used a singsong tune as if cajoling children. “Now settle down and behave yourselves, gentlemen. Our next performer is a sweet little girl just arrived from Scotland. She’s as innocent as milk and pure as the driven snow.”
Bloody hell. Ian’s insides churned. The wee one’s words said one thing, but his tone implied the opposite. He glanced around the theater again, searching for ways to scale the stage and rescue her if necessary. His only consolation: if he couldn’t get up there, no one else could.
Larry the Leprechaun held out his stubby arm. “Straight from Scotland, Lulu the Sassie Lassie.”
Hoots and howls and rude shouts erupted from the crowd and penetrated the smoky haze. A woman in a pink dress with cherry cheeks and a rosebud mouth walked hesitantly to center stage. Was that Louisa? She clasped her gloved hands tightly at her waist. Had it not been for those wide green eyes, he wouldn’t have recognized her. Good God, she’d let her hair down. He was going to have to kill her.
The pianoforte started up, and the raucous crowd simmered down. Louisa glanced at the musician in the pit, looking puzzled. She mouthed a few words as if starting to sing but nothing came out. The musician started his intro again. Oh, Christ. She was shaking. The poor lass was terrified. And no wonder. The crowd hadn’t given her a chance. They were already grumbling and shouting, “Louder, Lassie! We can’t hear you!” and “If you’re not going to sing, show us some leg.”
Ian’s impulse to find the arseholes responsible for those remarks and beat them bloody was quickly doused when he realized he’d have to fight every man in the room.
She started and stopped and tried again, searching for the key. Her voice was thready and weak. Not at all like the bold voice she’d used aboard the Gael Forss. She was singing the same song, too. Ian could just pick it out among the cacophony of catcalls. “The Maiden of Bashful Fifteen.” Christ, why did it have to be that tune? Why not a church hymn or something?
“Shut up!” he shouted to the men next to him to no effect. He roared, “Pipe down, ye bastards. Give the little lady a chance, goddamn ye!”
Surprisingly, the crowd did quiet, and Louisa’s sweet voice cut through the smoke.
“Here’s to the charmer whose dimples we prize,
Now to the damsel with none, sir,
Here’s to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,
Now here’s to the nymph with but one, sir.”
She hadn’t won them over yet, but they’d stopped their catcalls. He joined in the chorus with a full voice.
“Let the toast pass. Drink to the lass,
I’ll warrant she’ll prove an excuse for the glass.”
“Come on, sing, ye bastards!” he yelled. A few men joined him for a repeat of the chorus. Ian doubted she could see him. He was close to the stage but, like the rest of the audience, he stood in near darkness. Just as well, if she spotted him or recognized his voice, she might falter. As much as he wanted to snatch her off the stage and hide her from the leering gazes of two hundred men, he wanted her to succeed, to triumph. She wanted this. She’d crossed the ocean for this.
By God, she was a braw lassie. It took courage for her to stand up there and face the restless, raucous crowd, to hold her ground. Hold her ground like a warrior. And Ian was proud of her.
By the time she started the third verse, the hem of her skirt had stopped trembling, she was in full voice, smiling, and confident. She was the Sassie Lassie and she was loving her moment on stage. Ian loved her, truly loved her, and with a deep pang of sadness, he realized that although Louisa might love him, she loved the theater more. Could he let her go? Did he love her enough to let her go?
Someone grabbed his shoulder. “What the bloody hell is she doing on that stage?”
Shite. Her brother. Nathan surged forward, but Ian held him back, shook him and growled in his ear, “Let her do this. If you drag her off, you’ll humiliate her. Let her do this once. Just once.”
Louisa came around to the chorus, and Ian sang along. So did half the men in the audience. Ian punched Nathan in the arm, encouraging him to join in. With reluctance, Nathan managed to harness his anger long enough to belt out the second round with Ian.
“Let the toast pass. Drink to the lass,
I’ll warrant she’ll prove an excuse for the glass.”
On the fourth verse, Louisa was in her element. She glowed in the footlights, swaying and waltzing side to side on the stage. By the chorus, every man in the room sang along and the chandeliers shook with their voices. She finished to thunderous applause and, “More, more. Give us another!”
She made a low and graceful curtsy, stood, stepped to the side and made another. Then she turned her back to the audience and bent over. Bloody hell, what was she doing? When she turned back around, she had her goddamned garter in hand and tossed it, along with a kiss, into the sea of men. A fight broke out as a dozen drunkards clawed and punched and wrestled to grab it.
When Ian glanced back at the stage, she was gone. His entire body relaxed. It was over.
He hoped.
Ian dragged Nathan out into the lobby, deafeningly quiet compared to the madhouse they’d just escaped. He bought two shots of whisky from the barman. “Slainte,” they said without thinking and tossed the fiery spirit back. They both made gasping sounds and faces.
“God, that is piss-poor whisky,” Nathan spat.
“I’m no’ even sure if it is whisky,” Ian said, trying to get the taste out of his mouth.
“Why did you let her do it?” Nathan demanded. “Why did you let her…flaunt herself up there?”
Ian shook his head. “She wants to be loved. She doesnae think her family loves her. So, she wants to make the world love her instead.”
“We love her,” Nathan said, horrified by Ian’s remark. “My father loves her most of all. And Connor loves her to bits. I frigging sailed across the Atlantic Ocean to see she was happy,” he said, growing agitated. “What more does she want?”
He shrugged. “She wants what you have, the freedom to choose what her future will be.”
“Well, her decisions are shite, if ye ask me. Look how she’s bolloxed up her life.”
“Ye mean because she has to marry me?”
Nathan cut him a look as if to say, That’s exactly what I mean, mate.
“If you dinnae mind my advice—”
“I do, but you’ll give it to me anyway.”
“I will marry her. I want to marry her. But I suggest you let her choose. If you make her, she’ll feel trapped like the feeling she gets in small spaces, ken?”
Nathan glared at him, but he seemed to consider what Ian said. After a moment, he nodded his agreement, albeit reluctantly.
“Let’s go ’round to the backstage door and find your sister. There’s an ogre guarding it, but I think between the two of us we can take him.”
