The Sweet Far Thing (44 page)

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“I will not see you for a while, Most High,” Gorgon says.

“Why? Where are you going?”

From the corner of my eye, I see her arching her majestic head toward the sky over the Winterlands.

“Far down the river, farther than I have yet gone. If something is at hand, I’ll not be caught unawares.

You must guard yourself.”

“Yes, I know. I hold all the magic,” I answer.

“No,” she corrects. “You must guard yourself because we would not lose you.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, JUST AFTER BREAKFAST, ANNand I sneak into the laundry.

“I could hardly sleep for thinking about our adventure today,” she says. “This afternoon, I might very well change my fate.”

I’ve spent the better part of the past few days perfecting our plan for today’s jaunt to the theater. Fee has forged a letter from her “cousin” Nan Washbrad asking if we might accompany her to London for the day, and Mrs. Nightwing has allowed it.

“Do you think this will work?” Ann asks, biting her lip.

“That rather depends on you. Are you ready?” I ask.

Ann breaks into an enormous grin. “Absolutely!”

“Right. Let’s begin.”

We work in tandem, the magic flowing between us. I can feel Ann’s excitement, her nerves, her unbridled joy. It makes me feel a bit drunk, and I can’t keep from giggling. When I open my eyes, she’s in flux. She cycles through physical changes like a girl trying on different gowns. At last, she settles into the appearance she sought, and Nan Washbrad is back. She twirls about in her new dress, an indigo satin trimmed in lace at the collar and along the hem. A jeweled pin sits at her throat. Her hair has darkened to the color of ebony. It’s piled high upon her head like a very grand lady’s.

“Oh, how nice to be Nan again. How do I look?” she asks, patting her cheeks, examining her hands, her

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dress.

“Like someone who should be on the stage,” I answer. “Now, let’s see if we can put your thespian talents to the test.”

Moments later, Nan Washbrad makes her entrance and is shown to the parlor, where Mrs. Nightwing chats amiably with her, not knowing that her fashionable guest is really Ann Bradshaw, poor scholarship student. Felicity and I can barely contain our wicked glee.

“That was marvelous,” Felicity says, giggling, as we wait for our train. “She never suspected. Not once.

You’ve fooled Mrs. Nightwing, Ann. If that doesn’t give you confidence for facing Mr. Katz, nothing will.”

“What time is it?” Ann asks for possibly the twentieth time since we left Victoria Station and set off for our appointment.

“It is five minutes later than the last time you asked,” I grouse.

“I can’t be late. Miss Trimble’s letter was quite firm on that point.”

“You shan’t be late, for here we are in the Strand. You see? There is the Gaiety.” Felicity points to the great bowed front of the famous music hall.

A trio of beautiful young ladies exits the theater. In their hats adorned with eye-catching plumes, their long black gloves, and fashionable dresses replete with corsages of flowers, they are impossible to ignore.

“Oh, it’s the Gaiety Girls!” Ann exclaims. “They are the most beautiful chorus girls in the world, aren’t they?”

Indeed, men admire their beauty as they walk, but unlike Mrs. Worthington, they do not seem to live only for that recognition. They have their own work and the money to show for it; when they take to the street, it is as if the world is theirs.

“Someday, people shall say, ‘Why, look, there goes the great Ann Bradshaw! What a marvel she is!’” I tell her.

Ann adjusts and readjusts the pin at her neck. “Only if I am not late to my appointment.”

Address in hand, we travel the Strand in search of our destination. At last we find the unremarkable door, and our knock is met by a lanky young man in trousers and suspenders, no waistcoat, and a bowler hat. He’s got a cigarette clenched between his teeth. He eyes us warily.

“Can I help you?” he asks with an American accent.

“Y-yes, I’ve an appointment with M-Mr. Katz.” Ann produces the letter. The young man reads it over and swings the door open. “Right on time. He’ll like that.” He lowers his voice. “Mr. Katz’ll dock your
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pay for bein’ late. Charlie Smalls, by the way. Pleasure.”

Charlie Smalls has a gap-toothed grin that makes his narrow face come alive. It’s the sort of smile you can’t help returning, and I’m glad he’s the first to welcome us.

“Are you an actor?” Ann asks.

He shakes his head. “Composer. Well, hope to be. For the present I’m the accompanist.” The smile is back, broad and warm. “Nervous?”

Ann nods.

“Don’t be. Here. I’ll show you around. Welcome to the Taj Mahal,” he jokes, gesturing to the modest room. In one corner is a piano. Several chairs have been placed facing the piano. Curtains hang to suggest a stage. It’s a bit dark, the only source of light being one small window that affords us a view of the horses’ legs and the carriage wheels in the street. Dust motes dance in the weak light, making me sneeze.

“Gesundheit!” a wiry man with a thin mustache says as he barrels into the room. He wears a simple black suit, and his pocket watch is in his hand. “Charlie? Where the devil’s that note from George?”

“Mr. Shaw, sir? On your desk.”

“Right. Swell.”

Charlie clears his throat. “Young lady to see you, sir. Miss Nan Washbrad.”

The clock strikes two, and Mr. Katz puts away his watch. “Terrific. Right on the nose. Great to meet you, Miss Washbrad. Lily said you were a looker. Let’s see if she’s right about your talent, too.” Mr.

Katz shakes my hand till my whole arm vibrates. “And who are these charming ladies?”

“Her sisters,” I say, breaking free.

“Sisters, my foot. They’re her school chums, Marcus. And I’d keep an eye on my wallet, if I were you.”

Lily Trimble sweeps into the room in an emerald green dress that hugs her every substantial curve. A fur-trimmed capelet hangs fetchingly about her shoulders. She drops into what looks like the most comfortable chair in the room. “Don’t get too nervous, Nannie. This isn’t Henry Irving.”

“Henry Irving,” Mr. Katz grumbles at the mention of the great actor-manager of the Lyceum. For there is no person of the theater more esteemed; Queen Victoria even knighted him. “That old snob may have helped to change the profession, but I’ll take it where it’s headed. Vaudeville. Dancing girls and popular entertainment—that’s what the people want, and I’m the man who’s gonna give it to ’em.”

“Could we save the speeches for later, Marcus?” Lily says, taking a small mirror from her handbag.

“Right. Charlie?” Mr. Katz bellows.

Charlie takes a seat at the piano. “What’re you singing, Miss Washbrad?”

“Um, ah…” I fear that Ann’s nerves will play havoc with her illusion and her singing.

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Go on,
I mouth. I give her a big smile, and she smiles back, rather maniacally.

Felicity leaps up. “She’ll be singing ‘After the Ball’!”

Lily Trimble looks into her mirror, powders her nose. “See what I mean, Marcus? Miss Washbrad may not need your services as manager—not with these two at her heel.”

“Ladies, you’re going to have to pipe down if you want to stay in this room,” Mr. Katz says.

“How vulgar,” Felicity whispers, but she sits.

“‘After the Ball’?” Charlie asks Ann, who nods. “What key, then?”

“Em, I—I…C?” Ann manages to say.

I feel I might faint from nerves. I have to bite my handkerchief to keep from making a sound.

Charlie plucks the waltzing tune from the keys. He plays four bars and looks to Ann. She’s too terrified to jump in, so he gives her another measure as a help, but still she hesitates.

“No time like the present, Miss Washbrad,” Mr. Katz calls out.

“Marcus,” Lily Trimble says, shushing him.

Ann is as rigid as Big Ben. Her chest rises and falls with each shallow breath.
Come on, Annie. Show
them what you can do.
It’s too much. I can’t even look. Just when I think I shall die from this torture, Ann’s voice floats above the jangling keys and the cigar smoke. It’s delicate at first, but then it begins to build. Felicity and I sit forward, watching her. Soon, her voice fills the room, sweet and clear and enchanting. This is no trick of magic; this is Ann’s magnificence, her soul married to sound, and we are under its spell.

She holds the last note for all she’s worth, and when she finishes, Mr. Katz stands and puts his hat on.

Does he mean to leave? Did he like it? Hate it? His meaty hands come together in a clear, loud clap.

“That was terrific! Just terrific!” he shouts.

Lily Trimble raises an eyebrow. “The kid’s not half bad, is she?”

“Well done,” Charlie says.

“You’re too kind.” Ann demurs, blushing.

Charlie puts his hand to his heart. “On my life, you were terrific. Like an angel! When I compose my musical, I’ll have to write you a song.” Charlie plinks about on the keys, and a merry tune starts to come to life.

“All right, Charlie, all right. Flirt on your own time. I need Miss Washbrad to read for me.”

Ann is given a passage from
The Shop Girl,
and she is every bit as good as Miss Ellaline Terriss. Better, in fact. It is obvious that everyone in the room is impressed by Ann’s talents, and I feel a mix of fierce pride and envy at her success here.

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“I will write that musical,” Charlie whispers to Ann. “And you’ll be in it. That’s the voice I want.”

Mr. Katz extends his hand and helps Ann from her spot beside the piano. “Miss Washbrad, how would you like to become the newest star in the Katz and Trimble Repertory Company?”

“I…Nothing could make me happier, Mr. Katz!” Ann exclaims. I’ve never seen her so full of joy. Not even in the realms. “If you’re certain you wish to take me on.”

Mr. Katz laughs. “My dear, I’d be a fool not to. You’re a very pretty girl.”

Ann’s smile fades. “But that isn’t everything….”

Mr. Katz chuckles. “Well, it certainly doesn’t hurt. People like to hear a nice voice, my dear, but they like to see where that voice comes from, too. And when it comes from a beauty, they’ll pay more for a ticket. Right, Lily?”

“I don’t rouge my cheeks for nothing,” Lily Trimble says on a sigh.

“But—what about my talent?” Ann bites her lip, and it only enhances her loveliness.

“Of course, of course,” Mr. Katz says, but he hasn’t stopped gazing at her. “Now, let’s see to your contract.”

When we emerge from the darkened hole of Mr. Katz’s office, the world seems a different place, full of excitement and hope. The mud and dirt flecking the hems of our dresses is
our
mud and dirt—proof that we’ve been here and done what we set out to do.

“We should toast your success! I knew you’d do it,” Felicity squeals.

“You didn’t even want her to audition,” I remind her. I shouldn’t, but her smugness compels me.

“I believe that Charlie Smalls is smitten with you,” Felicity singsongs.

Ann keeps her eyes trained on the ground. “Smitten with Nan Washbrad, you mean.”

“You mustn’t say that. It’s a glorious day.” Felicity turns to a hapless shopkeeper sweeping his walk.

“Excuse me, sir, did you know you are in the presence of the new Mrs. Kendal?” she says, mentioning the name of the celebrated actress. The man regards her as he would an escaped lunatic.

“Felicity!” Ann says, laughing. She pulls Fee away, but the man gives Ann a little bow, and it makes her smile.