The Lady of Lyon House (2 page)

Bill would be behind the bar, polishing the flat marble surface, or else he would be dusting the bottles while he chatted with a customer. Mattie would be perched on the stool behind the cash register, or she would be in the office, marking up accounts in the ledger. She had the level head and acute business sense that kept things running on an even keel, while Bill contributed the affable manner and casual charm that kept the customers contented.

Jameson's was a second rate music hall, without the glitter and sparkle of the more expensive places, but it was the best second rate. The food was good, the liquor the best, the beer was unwatered and the entertainment provided was noisy and pleasant, however uninspired it might be. It was a rowdy, lively place, full of noise and activity. For all their merriment, the customers were usually well behaved. If a fight broke out, as frequently happened, Bill and his muscular bouncer soon squelched it. Most of the customers were regulars, men and women who came in two or three times a week to relax and enjoy the congenial atmosphere.

We had had one celebrity, and that had been an exciting night for me. It was three years ago, when I was fifteen, and I had already begun to put on a puppet show between intermissions. It had started as a fill-in for some of the acts that couldn't go on for one reason or another, but the audience had enjoyed it so much that the puppet routine became a regular part of the show. There had been a tiny write-up about it in the paper: Julia Meredith and her puppets make debut at Jameson's Music Hall. The article mentioned my age and the nice reception my act had received. It was this article that brought Mr. Dickens to the music hall.

He sat at the front table, a large, florid man with thick, dark hair and clear blue eyes that twinkled with merriment. He wore a loud, colorful vest with an impressive gold watch chain draped across it. His hair was a little mussed, and he frequently stroked his “door-knocker” beard. When I put my puppets through their paces, he laughed loudly, banging the table with his fist. His laughter was rich and melodious, filling the room with its lovely sound. The other customers sat in awe of the great man, laughing when he laughed, silent when he was silent. When the show was over, he asked to see me, and Bill brought him backstage.

I was embarrassed and flustered, not knowing what to say to such a great person. He seemed to be aware of this, and he shook my hand and told me I had given him much pleasure. I stammered that he had been giving me pleasure for years, as I had read every one of his books as they came out. He laughed and said he hoped the next one would please me as much. He promised to send me a copy, and I forgot that promise until one day a package wrapped in brown paper was delivered backstage. I tore away the papers to find
A Tale of Two Cities
. It has always been my favorite of his books.

I stood backstage now, pulling off my gloves. I hung my cloak up on a peg and brushed my skirts. It was a little chilly here, the air crisp and bracing. I stood in front of the long mirror that hung beside the entrance. My hair was slightly damp, and it fell in rich, silvery-blonde curls to my shoulders. I brushed a lock away from my temple and studied my face. I was a little pale, although there was a spot of pink on each cheekbone. My eyes seemed very large and still a little frightened. They were a deep blue, almost violet, surrounded by long, dark lashes that brushed my cheeks. There were soft gray shadows about the lids, delicate shadowing that most people thought was artificial. Below each cheekbone there was a slight hollow, softly molded, giving me a rather pensive look, even when I smiled. My lips were firm, a pale coral color that owed nothing to rouge. If I was not beautiful like my sister Maureen had been, at least my face was interesting, with unusual coloring.

As I stood studying myself in the mirror, Laverne Maddux came down the staircase, her heels clattering on the iron steps. She was a large, buxom redhead with enormous brown eyes and a pixie smile that delighted the customers. Laverne sang brassy, slightly risque songs with the audience joining in for all the choruses. She had a salty tongue, a carefree manner and a warm, generous nature. She roomed with the Jamesons, her room right down the hall from my own, and I considered her my best friend, even if she was in her late thirties. Now Laverne was wearing a pink dress glittering with spangles. Her red hair was piled on top of her head and tied with a large pink bow. She was perspiring, despite the chill.

“Blast!” Laverne. cried, seeing me. “To think I spend hours over this face of mine and can't achieve half the effect you do just by opening your eyes. You're a little early, aren't you?”

“There was nothing left to do at the boarding house. I finished sewing the sitting room curtains and folded up all the laundry.”

“You work yourself to a frazzle,” Laverne said. “Always doing something, never just sitting and resting your feet.”

“It's the least I can do,” I replied. “Mattie and Bill are so good to me—”

“You've got a point there,” Laverne agreed. A frown crossed her brow. “You're going to have to go on early tonight, kiddo. Bert's been hitting the bottle again and Sarah has him up in the dressing room, trying to sober him up in time for the last spot. If that man doesn't lay off the stuff, Bill's goin' to throw him out.”

Bert and Sarah Clemmons did a song and dance routine that had been pleasing the audiences for almost twenty years. They had been members of Bill's original troupe, and I knew that he would never fire them, no matter how Bert drank. They had lost a child a few years back, and he had started drinking then, consuming more and more as the years passed. He and Sarah were both quiet, both quietly charming, and in their black costumes sewn with large silver buckles they did slow paced numbers that caused the audience to sigh with nostalgia. They also lived with us at the boarding house, and sometimes, if I happened to be sitting alone in the parlor when Bert came in, he would sit down and talk to me about my parents, who had been his best friends.

“Do you think you'll have my blue thing done by Saturday?” Laverne asked.

“I'm sewing on the sequins and feathers now,” I replied. “I should have it done by then.”

“I want to wear it Saturday night,” she said. “I'm getting tired of this rag—” She swept her hands over the pink dress. “I'm sure the fellows are, too.”

In addition to doing a routine with my puppets, I was the official wardrobe mistress for the music hall. I did most of the sewing up in my dressing room, making all the bright, spangled costumes for the troupe. Besides Laverne and the Clemmons, there were eight chorus girls working for Bill. They shared a large, barn-like dressing room near the attic that always sounded like an aviary full of exotic birds. Most of the girls were in their middle or late twenties, loud, brassy creatures who treated me like a favored child. They were always running into my dressing room to have me sew a feather on or take up a hem. All of them brought their dresses to me for repairs, and twice a year I made a new set of costumes for them. I loved the work, and it was one of the ways I could pay Bill and Mattie for their kindness.

“Is there a crowd tonight?” I asked Laverne.

“About the same as usual. Pretty good for a Thursday night. They will come packing in later on—always do. By the way, your boy friend is out there again tonight.”

“My boy friend?” I said, startled.

“Sure. Don't tell me you haven't noticed him.”

“No, I haven't.”

“He's always at the same table, right up in front. He sits there with a glass of beer until you come on, and when your bit's over, he pays for the beer and leaves. Same thing every night for a week now.”

“Are you certain, Laverne?”

“Sure. He's there tonight, same table. A good looking fellow, too. Classy. All the girls have commented on him. They say he comes just to see you.”

Laverne smiled, her hands on her hips. “You sure he hasn't come round to see you? You don't have a secret romance, do you, kid?”

“Nothing of the sort,” I protested. “I want to have a look at this remarkable creature.” I tried to speak lightly, but my voice trembled just a little.

I followed Laverne onto the darkened stage, moving around all the ropes and pulleys and props. We went over to the curtain and opened the little peep hole through which the performers could survey the house. Laverne looked for a moment and then motioned for me to look. She told me where the man was sitting and described him to me.

I saw the large, crowded hall. Waiters with trays of beer balanced on the palms of their hands circulated among the tables. Men in suits and shirt sleeves and women in colorful dresses and feather boas sat at the tables, eating, drinking, laughing, waiting for the show to begin. I saw Bill behind the bar, polishing the silver handle of one of the great wooden kegs, and Mattie was perched by the cash register, looking about her with slight disapproval.

“There he is, second table to your right,” Laverne said.

The man was sitting there casually, his fingers wrapped around a stein of beer which he did not drink. He was alone, and he seemed to be separate and apart from the other customers, not belonging for some reason. Draped over the back of the chair next to him was a brown and yellow checked cloak.

CHAPTER TWO

H
E WAS
relatively young, not more than thirty, and he had an air of distinction that set him apart from the other people in the hall. He wore elegant clothes, a dark brown suit, a vest of yellow satin embroidered with brown fleurs-de-lis which proclaimed his good taste and good tailor. His hair was rich chestnut brown, one smooth wave fallen over his forehead, and his eyes were dark brown. His brows were black, finely arched over the slightly drooping lids. A thin pink scar made a line from one cheekbone to his chin, and this defect gave him a strange attractiveness. His face was tanned, and his body was the strong, muscular body of one who spends much time outdoors in active pursuits.

“Nice, isn't he?” Laverne whispered.

“I wonder who he is?”

“I have no idea. I know he doesn't belong here, though. He's the white tie and tails sort, not the shirt sleeve and derby kind who hang around here. Probably slumming. He's always alone, though. That sort usually comes with a crowd to laugh at and mock the other half.”

“He's been coming in for a week?” I asked.

“Regular as clockwork,” she said.

The man seemed entirely at his ease at the table, sitting back in his chair, one ankle propped casually over his knee, his hand resting on the back of the chair beside him. I had an impression of strength and agility, as though the man had great power which he kept closely in check, holding it back. There was a half-humorous smile on his firm pink lips. They were a little too large, the mouth mobile and expressive. He was a man who would laugh easily and just as easily draw back in anger.

I turned away, trying to keep my face expressionless. I was almost certain he was the man who had been following me. I was frightened of him, even more so now that he had become a reality, not just a shadowy form moving through the fog. A tremor of fear went through me and my throat felt a little dry. What did he want? Why did he follow me? Why did he come here every night just to see me?

“Some beau,” Laverne remarked as we walked away from the stage.

“I'm sure you must be mistaken,” I said. “I've never seen the man before in my life. Why in the world should he be interested in me?”

“Take another look in that mirror, kid,” she replied.

“I don't like it a bit,” I said. “I'm going to tell Bill.”

“And what would Bill do?”

“Have him thrown out of the place,” I answered crisply.

“Wait till you have reason for it, kid. He isn't doing any harm.”

“Isn't he?”

“Why are you so upset?” she asked, her voice concerned. “You're pale. Your hand is trembling. Say—tell me the truth now. Has this fellow been bothering you?”

“I—no. I told you I had never seen him before.”

“Well, if he does, you just let me know. You're just a kid, not one of those chorus dolls who encourage that sort of thing. You tell Laverne if that guy tries anything.”

“I will,” I replied. “I'd better go on up to the dressing room and get everything ready, Laverne.”

“Yeah, the band's tuning up. It's almost time for me to go out and do my turn. See you later, kid.”

I climbed up the winding iron staircase to the area above where my dressing room was located. Three of the chorus girls came hurrying out of their room as I passed, large, blonde women with painted faces and shrill voices. They wore green dresses spangled with blue sequins, and green and blue feathers in their hair. They waved at me, talking loudly as they clambered down the staircase I had just come up.

My dressing room was very small, one tiny window looking down on the street below. It was cluttered with costumes in the process of being repaired, bright dresses hanging on the wall, a pile of feathers and beads on one chair. A stack of books was on the floor beside a cot, and a tiny stove perched in one corner, affording little heat. All the walls were damp, the plaster chipped, concentric brown moisture stains on the ceiling. This was my retreat, the one place where I felt secure and at ease. Tonight it gave me little comfort. I was on edge, and my head was throbbing.

I sat down on the cot and took the puppets out of their long, flat red box. Many years ago Bill had given me a puppet to play with, and I had been so intrigued that I soon learned to make it walk and dance and move like a real person. That puppet was long since gone, but the four I had now I had made myself, carefully constructing them of soft wood and painting them. I made all their clothes, and over the years they had become almost like people to me: Gretchen with her wide blue eyes, Hans with his moppish shock of blond hair, Dil the Dragon with green scales and humorous pink tongue, Miranda with her bright red mouth and flashing brown eyes.