Perdita (5 page)

“Bursting at the seams, but she’s a bit of a tough old hen for me. I like ‘em young.” There was a longish silence, then he spoke again. “God, I’m drunk,” he said, in a wearied voice. “Good party though. Mama will give me hell for leaving so early. We better get back to Stornaway. Twenty miles—it’ll take over an hour.”

“Back to Dull-cinea,” the other man said, laughing. “Dull, dull,
dull,
Dulcinea! But she’s a good girl,” he added, in a dutiful way.

“Top of the trees,” his friend agreed readily, consigning to the lady the same epithet given Perdita.

They straggled off together, beginning to sing “Faire, Sweet, Cruel” in a very creditable duet. I was weak with relief that they had not discovered us.

“He certainly likes me,” was Perdita’s contented comment.

“Aren’t you flattered? He wouldn’t recognize you if he fell over you tomorrow. He was dead drunk.”

“Oh he was not quite down among the dead men. It means out stone cold,” she told me. A new piece of distinction picked up from Angie. “Anyway, it’s all right. I would recognize him,” she said, yawning. His friend called him Storn, and he mentioned Stornaway. It is only twenty miles away. Someone must know who he is. The other was called Staff—it must be a nickname. Maybe he would like
you,
Moira.”

“You are really too kind. Anyone who liked Phoebe would not care for an abbess. I suppose he called me that because I wore a dark gown.”

"Oh no, it is what gentlemen call a female who handles prostitutes,” she said, in the sweetest, most innocent voice ever heard. "Angie told me. She used to work for the Abbess Rose in London, but the woman beat her and took all the money for herself, so she ran away. Poor Angie has had a hard life.”

"Yes, I come to realize life on the streets without any money is not easy.”

Another yawn was my reply. I set my head on the pillow, and to my utter amazement, I slept.

Chapter Four

Daylight showed me the bower in which I had so innocently slept was done up in red satin. Sheets, pillows, curtains and all were blood-red satin. The sun filtering through the windows bathed the whole in a fiery glow, turning us into a pair of scarlet women. Perdita still slept. I made as little disturbance as possible struggling into my gown. I could hear some low voices and sounds of activity beyond the carriage. I quietly opened the door and climbed out.

It was a fine day. Reimer’s Hall was on the crest of a hill, with the awakening town spreading out below us, the early workers already beginning to appear on the street. In the other direction, it was country. Birds chirped above, the sun shone, the breeze ruffling the grass was pleasantly refreshing, not cold. The odor of coffee and bacon tantalized me. Looking around, I saw an open fire, around which half a dozen people had gathered, eating and drinking, like a pack of gypsies. Mr. Daugherty was amongst them, quite a gypsy baron, being the only one in a proper shirt and jacket. When he saw me, he got a cup of coffee and came towards me.

"Good morning, ma’am. You had no trouble last night?”

"No, none, though I am considerably worried those two gentlemen might return.”

"Not a chance of it. They were so thoroughly disguised they would not know where to go looking if they wanted to. They won’t remember a thing, and will take it for a dream if they do.”

“I hope you may be right. The thing is, Mr. Daugherty, we find ourselves financially embarrassed.”

"'Tis no unusual occurrence hereabouts, ma’am. I’m in the basket myself. April told me of your mishap. Typical for the innkeeper to rob you, then threaten to call in the constable. You are welcome to join us as far as London, but I must ask you to work for your keep. Fiddler’s pay is all I can offer—thanks and wine.”

"What,  no food?”

He took this for a prime joke. "Oh aye, peck and booze was my meaning. Food and drink, but you must realize the others would resent it if you didn’t pay the piper, you see. Already Phoebe is making noises about her carriage . . ."

"She is welcome to it. Truth to tell, I am not accustomed to red satin bedding.”

“I recognized you for a first-class act.”

"Oh muslin is all we require!” I told him, wondering what this man would consider classier than satin. "Naturally
we are willing to work. I would be happy to do what I can, but Miss Brodie must under no account appear again on the stage."

"You?” he asked, staring. "I--I don’t think
you
are just our sort, ma’am. No offence meant I assure you, but . . .”

It was only my charge who was first-class, I deduced. "None taken. I did not mean to imply I either sing or act, sir. I am a fair stitcher, however, and would be happy to help out in that capacity.”

"Oh," he said, with very little interest, “I have a wardrobe mistress already. Min, Miss Cork, tends to our costume needs. I cannot afford two.”

We strolled to a couple of large rocks, which we used as chairs for our outdoor breakfast. I tried the coffee, but found it quite simply undrinkable. I swear it had been boiling an hour. Every bit of bitterness had been allowed to steep out of it. An iridescent slick of oil glimmered on its surface. “You could certainly use a cook,” I mentioned, emptying the cup on the ground.

“You cook?” he asked, with very definite interest at this absurd idea.

“A little,” I told him. “When I was following the drum. My father was an army man, a captain.”

“That would be helpful. We could save a deal of blunt if we could eat more of our meals on the spot. Eating at inns is the killer. There’d be no
haute cuisine
called for. Bread, cheese, wine—fruit, now that summer is coming on, with an occasional hot meal if you can manage it.”

“Stew and soup,” I mentioned, with a look at their single pot.

“Ah, that’d be grand. Real stew. A rare treat. Will you give it a run, then?”

“I would be happy to, and Perdita can help me.”

“There is where I fear we will come to cuffs. Only you will cook.”

"That was not my meaning!”

“It is mine,” he said simply. “I am not running a charity show. We have to make ends meet. The girl is a good drawing card, a regular canary, and it will only be till we get to London, you know. A couple more stops. What difference will it make?”

We were not so very far removed from Swindon yet that I could feel safe. By nightfall we would be farther removed. It did not seem likely that any of Sir Wilfrid’s friends would enter such an establishment as Tuck’s. We were desperate, and if Perdita could sing us to London, it must be done, but under her stage name, of course.

"How long will it take us to get there?” I asked, after a frowning pause.

"Four days. We have still to play Kingsclere, Farnborough, possibly Woking, and we are home. If the Woking deal falls through, it will be one less. We move on as soon as breakfast is over, to get set up for tonight at Kingsclere, a small hall only. We won’t break even, but will be less in debt than if we omitted it.”

“There is nothing for it then but to go along. If those men should show up again . . ."

“O’Reilly will show ‘em the door. He’s a good lad. You’d be recognizing the Warder, from last night’s play.”

“He is not the only thing about the play that is familiar.”

“You recognized my source, did you?”

“Yes, and most of the lines, to say nothing of the songs. Why did you change the name?”

“The title is too well known. Folks want originality, do you see? They remember Gay’s title, and think they don’t want to see
The Beggar’s Opera again,
but they don’t recognize it, or care, once they are in. I’ve never had to give a refund, in any case. We do a mighty fine
Tempest
as well, but I call it
Stormy Passage,
and leave out some characters.”

I figured it was Caliban who was lumbering towards us, also the Warder, O’Reilly. He was a dark-haired, hulking brute of a fellow, holding a loaf of bread between his hairy hands, and gnawing at it as he advanced. “I’ll make you known to the folks,” Daugherty said, evading the newcomer.

We went to the fireside, where I was presented to several common strangers, whose first business was to discover my name. In the interest of as much privacy as possible, I told them Molly, which pleased the Irish amongst them, of which there were several.

They did not ask my last name, nor did I volunteer one. O’Reilly took the notion I was his own private property, and asserted his claim by putting his ham hands around my waist and lifting me a yard into the air. I told him if he ever touched me again, I would pour scalding water over him, which he took as a good token of success with me.

"O'Reilly is a fine lad, but he never can keep his hands off a pretty woman,” Daugherty told me, somewhat belatedly. “That is the worst, indeed the only vice in him.” He was mistaken there, but that will come out soon enough.

I demanded an apron, and told O’Reilly he might feel free to leave as soon as he had finished eating, as I was busy.

He gave me a not very clean dish wiper, which I tucked into my skirt band, then I dumped the gritty black mess they called coffee on the ground and made up fresh, in the black open pot that hung over the fire. "It's a good cuppa tay we ought to be having,” O’Reilly said sadly.

I sliced the three remaining loaves of bread, holding O’Reilly off from them by a menacing flourish of the knife every time his fingers made for the plate. “Sure and you can’t feed a grown man on
crumbs,
woman,” he told me. His next ploy was to send the monkey to steal some for him. The monkey was called Cathleen, and got away with three slices before I realized from the circle of smiles around me what was afoot, and gave Cathleen the back of my hand across her haunches. She made a very angry, human face.

“Cathleen is jealous of you,” O’Reilly told me.

“Does she usually do the cooking? The coffee tasted like it,” I replied, knowing by that time O’Reilly was responsible for the brew.

“That’s it.”

There was neither butter nor cheese. Coffee with sugar and cream from a nearby farm and dry bread was their fare. They seemed satisfied with it, as I was myself. The open air and the picnic atmosphere lent a novelty, almost a charm to the scene.

The show people, always with the exception of Phoebe, were friendly, warm, and totally depraved. It was not my intention to exclude Phoebe from the depravity, actually. She was probably the worst of a bad lot, but I was not immediately exposed to her. Queen Phoebe, as she was referred to in the group, had her meal carried to the door of her traveling bed by Mr. Daugherty. He entered the carriage, too, though I saw very clearly she opened the door wearing her petticoat, and nothing else.

"Mick is sweet-talking Queen Phoebe,” O’Reilly informed me. Undaunted by my rough treatment of him, he seldom was more than a foot away from me. He was handy for lifting the heavy pot and keeping the fire stoked up. The actors did use some hot water for their morning ablutions, which I was relieved to see, though I think the better part of it was for the men’s shaving. They would each bring a small pot of water and sit it on the edge of the fire. There were more pots than I first thought, but the constant movement of the caravan kept things in a state of confusion.

I took a cup of coffee and a slice of bread to Perdita, and asked O’Reilly to bring me a basin of hot water after we had got the beds pushed back into the seats, to make room. He also found a length of muslin from the wardrobe mistress, which we tore in two to use for facecloths and towels. It was like trying to bathe in a shoebox. This done, I returned to the fire to rinse out the coffee cups, and leave them in the sun to dry. There was no soap to be had.

About an hour after he had entered Phoebe’s carriage, Mr. Daugherty came out, looking tired and disheveled. He winked broadly at O’Reilly, thinking I had not seen him, but I am not so young or innocent as to be unaware what went forth, particularly when I saw his breeches hanging on the door handle on the far side of the carriage when I went to Perdita. If men must behave like animals, however, it is best they do it with others of their own sort, and not with the likes of Perdita, to whom he was attentive when not cajoling the Queen.

After an hour or so, everyone was ready to leave. The costumes were crated, the few bits of scenery dismantled and put into a carriage. My cooking pot held our food and cutlery and cups. "What are we waiting for?” I asked Mr. Daugherty, for I was eager to get on closer at least to London.

“Phoebe has not come out yet,” he told me. That was it. We sat around looking at each other till the Queen stepped out of her drawing room, outfitted as yesterday in the ostrich plumes and the sable wrap, which was seen, in broad daylight, to be infested with moth holes and of uncertain coloring. She was a fine looking woman, for all that. She was close to thirty, I estimated, full-figured, with handsome, striking features, black hair, dark eyes, a large nose and a broad smile.

“I will take my constitewtional now,” she told Daugherty, who nodded his approbation. She paced up and down the meadow, all alone, for perhaps ten minutes, her skirts riling up the dust, and picking up bits of dead grass and burrs as she went. It was really a comical sight to see her so stately and grand in a meadow, insisting on this perquisite she had gained for herself, of holding up business while she walked.

Perdita sat with me on my rock, waiting. When Phoebe was tired, she walked up to us in her grandest manner and stopped. An icy smile was levelled at us. “You girls are new, if I am not mistaken?” she asked, in a parody of graciousness. She was the monarch, greeting new subjects.

"You met April yesterday, Phoebe,” Daugherty reminded her.

“So I did. I had forgotten,” she said, to show us how little she cared for the competition. “Mick mentioned your number went over fairly well last night, dear,” she said, narrowing her eyes for a good examination of my charge’s youthful face.

“Everybody clapped,” Perdita answered simply.

“Your first show?”

“Yes.”

“And what do
you
do, miss?” she asked, turning her attention to me.