The Healing Season Page 8

  Since his return to England, Ian had tried to acquaint his colleagues with all he’d learned both through surgery on the battlefield and at the great Parisian hospitals. But change was resisted by the very boards—the Royal College of Physicians and the Royal College of Surgeons—whose purpose it was to maintain the highest standards among the medical community.

  With his limbs aching from weariness, Ian left the hospital. Some days felt more draining than others. The surgeries had gone well, but the next few days would be critical. So many of the patients developed erysipelas, and then it remained to be seen whether gangrene would set in.

  He exited the hospital and turned up his collar. September was almost over and the evening had a distinct chill to it. He picked up his pace, looking forward to a warm fire and a pot of tea in his rooms.

  “Get your copy of The Times. Two pence. Latest news,” a newsboy shouted, holding a paper aloft. Ian slowed his steps as he fished in his pocket for a coin and handed it to the boy. While he waited to receive a folded copy of the paper, his eyes strayed to the playbills glued to the wall behind the boy.

  The Parson’s Peccadillo. Under it was a list of names and characters, but the name that stood out in bold, black letters was Mrs. Eleanor Neville as Marianna. The piece was described as a burletta in three acts. Printed at the bottom of the poster was the name of the theater and time of the show. The Royal Circus—Surrey Theatre.

  He felt something thrust at him. “What—” The boy handed him his newspaper. “Oh—thank you.” He automatically felt in his pocket for his watch as he turned away, wondering what time it was. It had been close to seven when he’d left the hospital.

  The show would be starting soon.

  He tried to ignore that fact, but as he continued down the street, it persisted. He pictured Mrs. Neville standing on a stage. What would she sound like up there above the crowds? He remembered her uncanny ability at mimicry and didn’t doubt she had some talent. Still, he viewed with distaste a woman exhibiting herself onstage.

  He had almost reached Marshelsea Prison when he stopped at the corner of Union Street. Ignoring the warnings in his head, he found himself turning away from the road that led home and crossing the street. He headed down Union, a street that would cut across to Southwark.

  With each passing step, the voice in his head diminished, until he reached New Surrey. As he drew closer to the Thames, the well-lit street revealed the imposing arched front of the theater. Small groups of people loitered at its shallow steps. Many of the women he recognized clearly as streetwalkers, their dresses only to mid-calf, their looks provocative. Carriages drew up to deposit their better dressed occupants at the front entrance.

  Ian slowed down as he reached the steps, acutely aware he was about to enter Mrs. Neville’s world. Although her world and his were only a short distance apart geographically, a vast gulf existed between them. He’d never been to any type of musical comedy. His family had brought him up to believe the theater was evil. During his apprenticeship, his uncle had taken him to see a Shakespeare play a few times at the Drury.

  “You’re an ’andsome gent-cove,” a female voice said, as the woman sidled up to him. “Whad’ya say to a little entertainment tonight?”

  He pushed himself gently aside. “No, thanks.”

  She gave him a sly smile. “A quid to a’a’penny I can entertain you better’n what’s inside there.” She jerked her head toward the theater. “Come on, duck, whad’ya say?”

  He stepped away from her toward the lobby doors. “I say you’re wasting your time with me.”

  “Oh, you’re one o’them highty-tighty gents.” Her voice turned scornful. He heard no more as he entered the lobby and headed to the ticket window.

  He purchased his ticket and headed across the lobby toward the red-carpeted saloon. Here again, many prostitutes loitered. One or two eyed him boldly but left him alone. He could see they were interested in more lucrative quarry—the well-dressed youngbloods and dandies milling about, parleying innuendos.

  He could hear muffled sounds from beyond the saloon, so he knew the play had already started. He opened one of the doors leading to the lower tier of boxes.

  The interior of the theater was well lit and he had no trouble locating his box, which was toward the rear. The theater was only half full.

  He recognized Eleanor’s voice before he saw her on the stage. Though she spoke in a theatrical tone, his heartbeat quickened at the mere sound of it.

  Ian turned his gaze stageward and fumbled in his pocket for his spectacles. Since he’d returned to London, he’d begun having to wear spectacles to see at a distance. Too many years of book study were undoubtedly taking their toll on his eyesight.

  He stared at the stage, which now came into sharp focus. The backdrop was a painted scene of a country landscape with rolling hills and blue sky and plumy clouds.

  Eleanor wore a pretty frock full of frills and lace, her hair dressed in ringlets. Her voice came across strong and clear as she began to sing.

  The plot soon became clear to him. It featured a lecherous old man who played the part of a country parson. Mrs. Neville played the innocent young maid. The audience burst into laughter at the words sung by each.

  Ian knew he shouldn’t have come. The mockery and disrespectful allusions to the “Evangelicals” was patently clear. While the parson preached hellfire and brimstone from a field, the people swarmed to him, crying in repentance. No sooner had his preaching ended than he went in search of the young maid.

  The play ended with the young maid at his mercy. At the last minute she was rescued by the young hero, a poor man who had been ridiculed by the parson and exorcised from the community.

  True love triumphed, and the young man’s integrity was restored, as the old parson was run out of town.

  As the actors took their bows, the audience yelled their approval.

  The actors exited by the side doors at each end of the stage. The painted backdrops were lowered through the floor as the stagehands prepared for the next performance, a short pantomime.

  Ian had looked down at his program, deciding he wouldn’t stay for it, when an attendant opened the door to the box and handed him a folded note.

  Ian opened it and read,

  Mr. Russell,

  I’m so glad you found time for the theater this evening. Please join me in the greenroom backstage after the performance.

  Respectfully,

  Eleanor Neville

  He wrestled with himself. It would do no good to see her again. Tonight had clearly shown how far apart their worlds were. But still he sat, unable to forget the young woman who had stood so close to him he could breathe in her soft perfume as the angry crowds rioted all around them. The same young woman who had labored tirelessly at his side afterward, seeming to anticipate his every need before he voiced it.

  Who was the real Eleanor Neville?

  Something in him yearned to discover the answer.

  So he sat back, waiting impatiently through the pantomime. Mrs. Neville wasn’t in it, and he cared nothing for the ludicrous antics of the players.

  As soon as it was over he exited the box and asked directions to the greenroom from an attendant busy trimming the wicks of the candles in the wall sconces. Ian walked down the corridor and through a door leading backstage. Laughter came through the doorway as he followed a pair of men entering the same room. It resembled a comfortable sitting room.

  He regretted coming as soon as he saw the crowd.

  Well-dressed dandies young and old flocked around the pretty young actresses and dancers. Disgust flooded him as he contemplated the scene. Vultures circling their prey, he thought. The young women hadn’t heeded the message of the play very well. They ridiculed a man of God, but didn’t see the lecherous intentions of the wealthy men of the city right in front of them.

  Before he could make a move, Mrs. Neville spotted him. Leaving the men surrounding her, she came toward him with a smile.

  “
Mr. Russell, what a nice surprise to see you here this evening.”

  He bowed over her hand. She still wore the heavy white makeup and rouge she’d had onstage. Close up it looked thick and unnatural.

  “Come and sit here.” She took him to the group of gentlemen, who eyed him with scarcely disguised scorn.

  One of the young bucks snickered.

  “May I present Mr. Russell, a surgeon from St. Thomas’s? He saved our poor dear Betsy’s life when she was very nearly off the hooks.”

  One of the young men rose and offered his hand. “Well, ’pon my honor, why didn’t you say so in the first place? We thought you were one of those dull Methodist coves.”

  The other young gentlemen burst into rude laughter.

  The young man let his hand go. “We’re much obliged to you, Doctor. We miss Betsy sorely. When will she be back on the boards?”

  “Not for a while,” he answered curtly. Was this perhaps the young man responsible for Miss Simms’s plight? Or perhaps one of the others? His gaze traveled over the lot.

  “You must excuse me a moment, Mr. Russell, while I change.”

  “I can’t stay,” he told Mrs. Neville. “I merely wanted to pay my respects.”

  “How did you like the show?” she asked eagerly.

  “The show itself was a piece of rubbish, but your individual talent rises above it. You have a very nice singing voice.”

  From dismay at his first remark to pleasure at his compliment at the end, her face underwent a variety of expressions. He felt pleased that he could somehow put together some kind of compliment from something he had been thoroughly disgusted with.

  “I hope the piece didn’t offend you.”

  “You should rather hope it didn’t offend your Maker.”

  She looked askance. “It was all in good fun. That’s what burlettas are—they poke fun at everyone and everything.” She shrugged. “At any rate, it’s an old piece. I don’t know why Mr. Dibdin decided to revive it. Wait until you hear what we will be doing next.” Her eyes shone. “It will be a brand-new piece.”

  He looked down at his folded hands. It was a mistake to have come. “I really must be off.”

  She looked crestfallen. “So soon? I wanted to invite you to dinner. Not only to share my good news.” She lowered her voice. “I wanted to thank you for all you’ve done for Betsy. You truly saved her life.”

  He felt his resolve weakening at the softness in her tone.

  “Besides, if you don’t take me, I’m at the Duke d’Alvergny’s mercy, and I find him quite tiresome tonight.”

  Ian followed the direction of her gaze to the gentleman who sat eyeing them. Ian judged him to be about a decade older than himself, at least in his forties. He was dressed in black evening clothes, making Ian’s black frock coat look shabby. Pomade darkened his blond hair. His neck cloth held a diamond stud pin and his face had a ruddy, well-fed look where his shirt points met his clean-shaven jaw. He’d probably suffer from gout or a bilious liver in another ten years.

  The man sat back in the chair, resting one ankle on his knee. He studied Ian coolly as he dangled his quizzing glass from its silk ribbon from one hand. It swung back and forth, tapping against the shiny black half boot. Something in the expression of his eyes challenged Ian.

  “Very well,” Ian replied, turning his attention back to Mrs. Neville. “I’ll wait here while you change.”

  “You are a dear.” She gave him a sweet smile. At the protest of the lounging dandies, she blew them a kiss and exited the room.

  Ian walked away from the group and stood near the entrance. He watched the antics of the other actresses with the wealthy young men. One by one he could see arrangements being made. D’Alvergny ignored the other young women. After a moment he unfolded himself from his chair and stood, and Ian could appreciate what a large man he was. He exited through the door Mrs. Neville had taken. Ian tensed, tempted to follow him out.

  He stopped himself. What business was it of his? Mrs. Neville was an actress, he reminded himself. She’d doubtless had many liaisons with these society men.

  Disgusted at his own weakness for accepting Mrs. Neville’s invitation, he turned his back on the company and studied a playbill on the wall. He was no better than any of those men present, he told himself. Why had he come tonight?

  When Mrs. Neville returned, Ian looked at her closely, to determine if d’Alvergny had addressed her. He could discern nothing from her features, but he was relieved to find she had washed all the makeup from her face. The ringlets were gone, and her hair was gathered simply beneath her bonnet.

  “Come, my carriage is at the rear.” She put her hand in the crook of his arm and directed him out the back. They walked down a shadowy corridor directly behind the stage. Discarded scenery lay stacked against the wall, and stagehands were busy putting things away.

  “Good night, Eleanor,” said several workers, and she bade each one good-night.

  “Have you ever been on a stage?” she asked him.

  He shook his head.

  Before he knew what she was about, she led him through an arch and he found himself at the rear of the stage. She walked forward with him.

  “Watch your step. There are trapdoors and grooves for the scene flats.”

  He looked down and saw what she meant. There were large slits in the floor where scene backdrops were raised and lowered.

  She took him to the forestage where the actors habitually stood. It thrust out with columned doors at either side. In front of it lay the orchestra pit, with the galleries and boxes surrounding them at either side.

  Although the seats were empty, he felt the sensation of being exposed to many eyes.

  “What does it feel like addressing a crowd?” he asked.

  “Tonight was nothing. We’re almost at the end of our run. But when the theater is full, as on an opening night, it is quite heady.” She let his arm go and took a step forward, facing the nonexistent audience. Clearing her throat, she began:

  This Comic Story, or this Tragic jest,

  May make you laugh, or cry, as you like best;

  May exercise your good, or your ill-nature,

  Move with distress, or tickle you with satire.

  Her voice was rich and carried easily across the auditorium. With a flourish, she turned to him and smiled.

  He couldn’t help smiling back, beginning to understand the draw she held for the audience. “What was that from?”

  “Gay’s The What D’ye Call It, an early burlesque comedy.”

  “Is that what you were doing this evening—making the audience laugh?”

  “Or moving them to distress,” she added significantly. “I’m sorry if you were displeased.”

  He shook aside the apology, preferring to forget the play. “Shall we go and dine?”

  “Yes, I’m famished!” she replied with another captivating smile.

  He followed her out, amazed at how easily his scruples disappeared when he was in her company. All it took was one smile from her, and he was willing to be led anywhere.

  They sat in a noisy oyster house on the Strand. “I so adore oysters, don’t you?” she asked after they had placed their order and the waiter left them.

  He smiled at her enthusiasm. “If they are fresh, and the place is a reputable one.”

  “Oh, these are very fresh. And this eatery has been here as long as I can remember. You shall see, they make the best oyster pie in puff pastry.”

  They sat at a window side table overlooking the busy street. Many late-night theatergoers sat at the surrounding tables.

  “I haven’t received your bills yet for Betsy’s care,” she said after a moment. “Please send them to Ten Bedford Place, right off Bloomsbury Square.”

  He shrugged. “I hadn’t planned on billing Miss Simms, since she won’t be able to earn her living for some time.”

  Her eyes widened in astonishment. “You saved her life, she owes you a great deal.”

  “I simply did what
I was called to do. The Lord saved her life.”

  “I shall not refine too much upon the matter, but I do insist on paying her medical bills. It’s the least I can do after all you did for her.”

  Ian made no reply as the hot pastries and tankards of porter were set before them. As soon as the waiter left them again, he bowed his head to ask a silent blessing over the food.

  “You are a pious man,” Mrs. Neville remarked as he was unfolding his napkin.

  “I was raised by some very pious people and I work with others at the mission. As for myself…” He shrugged. “I don’t think of myself as pious, only as God-fearing.”

  “I have little time for piety.” She lifted her tankard. “Tonight is a night of celebration for me.”

  “So you mentioned,” he said, going along with her change of topic. “What is the occasion?”

  “I have been offered the part of Leporello in Dibdin’s new burletta of Don Giovanni, or The Spectre on Horseback.”

  “Don Giovanni, isn’t that an Italian opera?”

  Her laughter tinkled over the sound of cutlery. “A travesty of the opera. In this play, Don Giovanni kills Donna Anna’s father and must escape to London. He ends up falling into the Thames and is rescued by some fishermen, at which point he immediately tries to woo their wives, whose names are Shrimperina and Lobsteretta.”

  Her laughter died when she noticed he hadn’t joined in her amusement. “Don’t you think that’s funny?”

  “It sounds ridiculous.”

  “It is. Don’t you see? The humor is found in the rhymed couplets we sing. The story itself is a silly version of the Don Giovanni story, but it’s Dibdin’s libretto and our rendition of the lines that bring amusement to the audience.

  “The Don pursues every woman he meets before being caught in the end. It’s all quite droll. I read a bit of the script earlier today, when the manager told me about the piece. In this version, Donna Anna is bent on revenge, but another part of her wants Don Giovanni for herself even though she is engaged to another.”