An Untimely Frost, page 17
Her critical gaze moved up. She’d swept her dark red hair away from her oval face and rolled it into a classic chignon at the nape of her neck. Since she had no bangs, she had coaxed some shorter strands around her face into curls with the help of the curling rod Rose had insisted she bring.
“You cannot allow yourself to lose your femininity, Lilly, even though you will be doing the work of a man.”
A light dusting of powder gave her skin translucence, and her cheekbones and lips had been pinked with so deft a hand that only the most critical scrutiny would detect it.
Since she had no fine jewelry, Rose had fashioned a wide brown velvet ribbon that fit perfectly around Lilly’s slender throat and pinned a delicate cameo brooch to it. The brooch was one of the few good pieces she’d inherited from Kate, likely a gift from a lover.
As she stood before the mirror, checking her handiwork, her eyes widened. Rose would be pleased, Lilly thought. Gone was the skinny, plain, red-haired girl and the average-looking woman who’d returned her gaze from the mirror for twenty-two years.
Tonight a stranger stared back at her. She was not fixed up to look like a stage character. She hadn’t been made up to look like the Southern belle, Mrs. Cartwright. She looked feminine. Stylish. She looked, she thought on a sharply indrawn breath . . . very much like her mother.
The realization should have been pleasing, and it was, yet the pleasure was tempered by the fear that had plagued her from the time she’d figured out the truth about Kate’s lifestyle. She didn’t want to be like Kate. Wouldn’t.
She reached for her wrap and paused. Was that fear the reason she’d chosen to portray a picture of drabness to the world? Oh, she was always neat and tidy, but her choice of clothing had always been simple, unassuming, and unadorned. Her hairstyle, usually a no-nonsense knot atop her head, reflected that unpretentiousness. Had she downplayed her looks all these years because she was trying so hard to distance herself from her mother? Was she inviting some sort of disaster tonight?
Just because you see some of Kate’s beauty in yourself for the first time doesn’t mean that you will somehow take on her bad tendencies.
The reminder set her mind at ease. She was going to the theater, and she would enjoy the night, whatever it brought. Grabbing her bronze-toned velvet wrap, she went downstairs and hailed a cab to take her to dinner.
The drive to the restaurant was short and uneventful. As she entered the eating establishment, she decided that Delaney’s French Café would be worth whatever it cost. The elegantly appointed restaurant was impressive with its white linens, silver flatware, and gleaming wood. Paintings in the style of the Pre-Raphaelites adorned the wine-colored walls, and strategically placed statuary and hothouse ferns added a touch of elegance.
As she followed the maître d’ to the table, she could not deny that many masculine heads turned her way. Neither could she deny that the attention pleased her. She wondered fleetingly what her mother would think of her. Would she be as proud of her grownup daughter as Pierce and Rose were?
It doesn’t matter a fig!
Except that somewhere deep inside, it did. Even in death, Kate had the ability to influence Lilly’s thoughts and feelings. Still, as long as she was careful to not imitate her mother’s behavior, perhaps all would be well.
After perusing the menu’s offerings, she treated herself to a veal cutlet in a wine sauce, with tiny baked redskin potatoes dripping butter and sprinkled with parsley, as well as fresh asparagus that had been shipped on a refrigerated rail car. For dessert, she chose a cup of coffee and a slice of decadently rich chocolate cake topped with fresh-whipped cream. Then, feeling as if she needed a nap instead of an evening out, she gladly paid her exorbitant bill, then hired a cab to take her to the theater on Jefferson Street.
Her driver pulled up behind a rig with SALZENSTEIN’S emblazoned on the door and took his place in line so as to let her disembark near the chain-suspended overhang that offered protection to the arriving patrons in the event of inclement weather. Several other hired hacks were lined up, waiting to discharge their passengers in front of the unprepossessing building.
Formerly Rudolph’s, the new Chatterton’s Opera House was the result of a reconstruction effort by George W. Chatterton, Sr. He had purchased the building after it suffered a devastating fire five years earlier.
With its reputation of being “the finest theater in the middle west” and of showcasing the crème de la crème of the theatrical world, her first impression was disappointment, especially since it was well-known that Mr. Chatterton had used the talents of a New York architect. The building sat in an area amongst several saloons, with one called Sullivan’s next door. Most likely, they did a brisk business before and after the performances.
Stifling her disillusionment, she dismounted, paid the driver, gathered her skirts in one hand, and stepped through the main door. Looking around, she saw the ticket booth inside to the left. Thankfully, she was able to bypass it. When she’d first arrived in town, she’d asked for information about purchasing a ticket at her hotel and was told that since she’d waited until the last moment, she should make haste to Chatterton’s Jewelry store to purchase a ticket before the performance sold out.
Off to the jeweler’s she had gone. Reserved seating was out of the question, and she was thankful to snare one of the few remaining balcony tickets for one dollar, though even that was a bit rich for her blood. She would have been just as thrilled to watch the play from the lower-priced seating in the gallery, as long as she had the opportunity to see Miss Anderson’s performance.
When Lilly told the austere female behind the display counter she would take the balcony seat, the odious woman had leaned over the glass encasement filled with expensive baubles and snatched the money from her hand. Then she’d pointed her nose toward the ceiling and told Lilly in a haughty tone that if she should ever hope to attend such a stellar performance in the future, she should buy her ticket well in advance.
At the last minute, on the off chance that the woman might remember, she showed the clerk a sketch she’d made of the signet ring and asked if she recalled anyone purchasing such an item. The answer had been a chilly, unequivocal “no,” which was what Lilly expected.
Now, as she checked her wrap with a young woman who handed her the stub of a claim ticket, she asked if there was anyone who might have worked there eleven years earlier. Maybe someone would remember a man with a signet ring and the letter “T.” The young lady pointed toward Chester Carpenter, the ticket taker.
Along with other theatergoers, Lilly made her way toward Mr. Carpenter. Now was not a good moment to conduct an interview, but she did ask him if they could speak at some other time. Giving her an inquisitive look, he assured her that if she came back after the performance, he would be happy to oblige her. She smiled and thanked him.
She then was pushed along by the crowd, which split into three lines as they made their way to their allotted seats: Lilly to the left and the gallery; the balcony viewers to the right. The patrons bearing tickets for the coveted, reserved, dollar-and-a-half seats went straight ahead.
The sound of the orchestra warming up set her heart racing. Unseen fingertips danced over keys, offering pitch and running through finger-limbering scales. Violin strings twanged and whined, a backdrop for the clear sweet sound of horns of every kind. It was seldom she was on this side of the stage, and never before had she been permitted the opportunity to watch an actress with the accomplishment of Mary Anderson. It was a night she knew she would remember forever.
Lilly’s first glimpse of the auditorium brought a gasp of surprise and pleasure. If she’d been disenchanted with the building’s exterior, the inside more than made up for it. She lifted her gaze to the ceiling where a scattering of trumpet-blowing cherubs cavorted over the highly wrought expanse. The marvelous, new-fangled wonder of electricity sent dozens—if not hundreds—of bulbs aglow from the enormous chandelier that hung from the center, illuminating the rich and not-so-rich of Springfield society. They were all decked out in their finest, with jewels glittering from wrists and ears and necks while others nestled in the cleavage of plump bosoms.
Red and gilt abounded. Curtains draped the walls, many surrounded by framed advertisements of local businesses: Myers Great Bargain Emporium for men’s clothing, hot and cold baths for the whole family at the St. Nicholas Hotel and Barber Shop, fine dining at J. Maldaner’s European Restaurant on Fifth Street, and all sorts of grocery items—from plain to fancy—could be found at Connelly’s and Wickersham’s.
The lights had not yet gone down, and her rapt gaze moved from the figures in the orchestra pit to the double tiers of boxes on either side of the proscenium. She gave a sigh of purest pleasure and sank into her seat. It wasn’t long before the lights went down and the audience began to settle in, shifting and whispering, eagerly awaiting the first line. A man wearing just his shirt sleeves and a derby hat peeked around the curtain, and the footlights went up. The curtains swished open revealing the set director’s vision of a public place in Verona, Italy. Romeo and Juliet, the tale of young star-crossed lovers, began.
Lilly was so caught up in the story that it was intermission time before she realized it. She joined the others making their way to the lobby, more in the hope that standing might ease her protesting ribcage than a desire to mix and mingle.
The area was packed. Soon cigar and pipe smoke floated on the currents of dozens of conversations and the occasional burst of laughter. Dark-clad bodies brushed against ivory skin and a shifting rainbow sea of satin, taffeta, and lace gowns. Feeling a bit out of place, she was admiring a framed broadside of Miss Anderson that touted the play, when a gravelly voice said, “Quite lovely, isn’t she?”
Lilly turned to see a tightly coiffed, too-rouged woman of indeterminate age, who introduced herself as Matilda Hawthorne and immediately launched into an account of her recent trip to Philadelphia. She gushed over her meeting with Diamond Jim Brady and seeing the incomparable Lillian Russell’s performance at The Walnut. Lilly was only half listening to the woman’s garrulous praise when she looked up and saw a familiar figure.
The boxer! While her mind registered the phenomenon, he gave her his familiar audacious wink. For a moment, she was too stunned to do more than stare at him. When reason returned, she deliberately focused her attention back to the ancient dowager.
“My, my,” the woman said, her fan swishing back and forth in front of her face. “What a forward young man. Do you know him?”
“No, I’ve just seen him . . . around.” Was he following her as she’d first thought when she’d seen the notice?
“Well, he certainly seems smitten with you. Oh, dear! Here he comes.” Clearly interested in whatever was about to transpire, Matilda Hawthorne moved closer to Lilly and watched curiously as the “forward young man” approached them.
He looked to be in his late twenties, Lilly thought. Other than the scar on his cheek, the bump on his oft-broken nose, and the breadth of his shoulders, which was somewhat rare in the aristocratic circles of the upper class, there was little about him to suggest he was anything but a well-heeled young man about town. His hair had been touched with brilliantine in an effort to subdue the unruly dark waves into a semblance of neatness. He was clean shaven but for his neatly trimmed mustache. A two-button black dinner jacket with a satin shawl collar covered a wing-collared, stiff-fronted white shirt. Black, narrow-toed dress shoes and a white bow tie completed his fashionable evening attire.
His smile included Lilly and her companion.
Her initial impression of the boxer in Vandalia had been that he was flirty and supremely confident. His easy charm, so reminiscent of Timothy’s behavior, was apparent by the way he moved through the crowd, smiling and speaking to every man and woman along the way. As the Red Sea had for the Israelites, the sea of bodies parted for him.
As he drew closer, his discerning blue gaze found hers. His mouth, beneath the dark mustache, lifted in another of those lazy smiles. Her fingers tightened around her beaded reticule. He stopped in front of her and Matilda, and made a huge show of kissing the older woman’s hand and complimenting her on her attire. Matilda blushed and fluttered about like a bird in spring.
Good grief! The man was an inveterate flirt. If his behavior as he crossed the room was anything to go by, he chatted up anything in skirts. As she stood watching him and Matilda bantering back and forth, she became aware of the manly scent that emanated from him. It wasn’t the bay rum he’d favored before—thank goodness—but something that smelled of sandalwood and patchouli and whispered of the Orient. She pressed her lips together and stiffened her spine.
Another well-dressed matriarch approached and took Matilda’s arm, tugging her toward a small group across the way with a murmured apology. They gave a little wave to Lilly and sailed into the crowd.
The stranger focused his attention on her, his considering gaze traveling from her feet to the top of her head. Missing nothing.
“Hullo, ma’am,” he said with another smile. “It seems our paths were destined to cross again.” His rich Irish brogue fell from his finely shaped lips with lilting ease.
“By no fault of mine, I assure you,” Lilly responded in a chilly tone, her awareness making her forget her vow to be pleasant to him. “I begin to think you are following me.”
“And why would you be thinking that?” he asked, suddenly solemn.
Why was it, she wondered, that most dark-haired, blue-eyed people were exceedingly attractive?
“Perhaps because you do not appear to be the type to enjoy the theater.”
He placed his right hand over his heart, as if her words wounded him. “Ouch! Pretty to look at, but sharp of tongue.” The expression in his eyes was serious as he said, “I assure you, madam, that I have connections to the theater that go back to my youth, and I am not following you. I’m merely goin’ where I’m sent, tryin’ to make an honest living. What type of person do you have me pegged for, if I may be so bold to ask?”
“Well, after assessing each of our meetings, I think you are a man who uses his looks and his charm to get your way with women. I believe you are as good an actor as Miss Anderson is an actress.”
He laughed softly. Despite her determination, the husky sound sent a shiver of responsiveness through her.
Unmindful of her inner turmoil, the stranger gave a negligent shrug. “I told you I see no harm in a little flirting, and I cannot deny that I’ve had my share of success with the fair sex.”
“Oh, I do not doubt it,” she replied crossly.
Drat the man! He was too likeable for his own good or anyone else’s for that matter. Think of Timothy hurting you and Rose, of him stealing and spending your hard-earned money. Think of him doing that to all those other women.
“And you think that the attention I’m payin’ to you is an act, that I have no real interest beyond my . . . ‘gettin’ my way’ with you?” he asked, that teasing glint back in his eyes.
“I dare say you do not want to know what I think, sir.”
He stared down at her, and before she knew what he was about, he reached out and touched her mouth with his fingertip. “‘. . . teach not thy lip such scorn, for it was made for kissing, lady, not for such contempt . . .’”
Lilly gasped, whether in surprise that he knew Shakespeare or shock at his boldness, she could not say. How dare he quote the bard to her! How dare he touch her! “Sir, you go too far!”
The teasing light in his eyes vanished, along with his smile. “Perhaps you’re right, ma’am,” he said. “My most humble apology.” With a slight bow, he turned and left her to stew in her own ire.
CHAPTER 32
Lilly stood there for several seconds, willing calmness. Rude, obnoxious man! She fluttered her fan in front of her face, trying to cool her anger and the heat of her embarrassment, but both raged too hotly inside her. Blast Tim, and blast the boxer, whoever he was! She had a job to do, and she would do it right, and Robert Pinkerton, Timothy Warner, and this burly buffoon could just go to Hades!
Seeing that the intermission was almost over, she started to return to her seat, but all pleasure in the evening had fled. Enjoying the remainder of the play would be impossible, since she could not rid her mind of a bold smile, husky laughter, and the lilt of an Irish accent. No, it was best that she return to the hotel and try to forget her encounter with the annoying stranger.
Furious at having her evening ruined, she took the claim ticket from her bag and retrieved her cape. As she pushed through Chatterton’s entrance, she noticed that many of the patrons were drifting back to their seats for the second part of the play.
She made her way down to the street and looked around, hoping to catch a ride, but the cabs had yet to return to collect the theater’s patrons. Few people were about: a couple climbed into a lone hack that rolled smartly down the street; across the way, a man strolled toward a woman standing beneath a streetlight. A prostitute, she thought. An enclosed buggy sat, horse waiting patiently for its owner to exit the theater.
Frustrated over her lack of conveyance, she stood, tapping the toe of her satin slipper. There was nothing to do but wait for the hired rigs to come back for their return fares. She spied a millinery shop across the street and decided to check out their spring offerings.
Though it was difficult to see clearly with only the streetlight for illumination, the straw and flower confections arranged in the window proved unsatisfactory in catching her interest, as did the dresses in the windows of the shop next door. Her run-in with the boxer had definitely soured her evening. What, if anything, should she make of him? Was he following her, or were their encounters random as he claimed?
Random or deliberate, he was taken with her, else he would not have instigated two conversations—or been such a flirt. She was equally pleased and distressed by the notion. Heredity warring with common sense. Interested in her or not, she realized that he was a hazard to anyone in a skirt.
