Leading Lady (Tales of London Book #3) , livre ebook

Baker Publishing Group - Lawana Blackwell

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209 pages

English

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Description

Book 3 of Tales of London is set in the fascinating world of the London theatre at the close of the nineteenth century. Wardrobe mistress Bethia Rayborn incites the wrath of Muriel Pearce Holt, the new leading lady at London's Royal Court Theatre. Muriel plots revenge, but in scheming to steal Bethia's true love, she may lose the truest love she has ever known.

Sujets

Historical romance

Informations

Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	01 mars 2004
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781441270979
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	3 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0202€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Title Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
© 2004 by Lawana Blackwell
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a Division of Baker Book House Company, Grand Rapids, Michigan. www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2011
Ebook corrections 09.14.2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
ISBN 978-1-4412-7097-9
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
Cover illustration by Paul Casale Cover design by Danielle White
Dedication

This book is dedicated to
my editor and friend,
Ann Parrish
who encourages me every step of the way.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
About the Author
Books by Lawana Blackwell
Back Cover
One

“See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek . . .”
The fine-toned male voice coming from the stage was reduced to murmurs when Jewel McGuire closed the wardrobe room door. “Now, that’s what I call good acting,” she said on her way to the drafting table. “We both know what he’d really like to do to that cheek.”
Bethia Rayborn raised her eyes from the costume sketches spread out upon the table’s surface, to give her a warning smile. “Funny thing about sounds, cousin. They travel out of a room as well as in.”
Jewel winced. One never knew who could be passing by, and gossip raced through backstage passageways like sharp scissors through silk. Everyone even remotely connected with the Royal Court Theatre was aware of the enmity between its leading actor and actress. But as co-manager with her husband, Jewel was supposed to be more discreet.
Lighted by skylights, the wardrobe room was situated upon the top floor of the honeycomb of rooms to the right of the stage. Rolls of cloth formed a colorful pyramid in one corner; hats queued across shelves; strings of paste pearls and jewels cascaded from the branches of a coat tree; and stockings and belts, gloves and lace collars spilled from cupboard drawers.
The two sewing machines sat idle because seamstresses Mrs. Hamby and Miss Lidstone were at lunch. Noon was far too early for the actors and stage director to be thinking of their stomachs, for their breakfasts would still be digesting. During the run of a play they rarely left the theatre before midnight, which meant daytime schedules lagged accordingly.
As it was impossible to snatch back her words, Jewel wasted no time fretting over them. She picked up a sketch of a man wearing a Renaissance flatcap, an embroidered doublet over a long pleated undershirt, and silk tights. One-inch squares of fabric were glued along the bottom of the page. “Is this Romeo?”
“Count Paris,” Bethia corrected, and picked up another sketch. “Here’s Romeo. This green velvet will be his cloak for the street-brawl scene, and we’ll line it with this black satin for the Capulet ball.”
“Reversible? How clever.” And only because it was her duty, not because she doubted her younger cousin’s competency, Jewel asked, “Everything will be ready in time?”
She did not have to specify at which date, for the revival of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet was scheduled to open on the twenty-eighth of December. Afternoon rehearsals were taking place, now that evening productions of Sydney Grundy’s Over the Garden Wall had been running smoothly since the end of August. But Bethia would be returning to Girton College tomorrow.
“In plenty of time,” Bethia assured her. “The patterns are drafted, and the sewing will be completed well before the eleventh, when I’ll be here for final fittings.”
“That’s a comfort. But I must say I’ll be glad when you’re finished with schooling.”
“Not as glad as I’ll be.” Bethia hesitated. “I hope you don’t feel obligated to keep me on because we’re family, Jewel. I would understand perfectly if you’d rather have someone here every day.”
“Nonsense. You’ve less than a year left. I’m not about to lose the best wardrobe mistress in London.”
Her cousin rolled her eyes. “Now you’re just being silly.”
“Only a matter of time,” Jewel said, patting her arm. “And you’re the best we’ve ever had.”
It was quite by accident, or then again, by providential design, that Bethia fell into her position. Her talent with a needle became evident when she was only ten and started asking the housekeeper for scraps from which to fashion clothes for her dolls. She learned sketching from a parlourmaid. And she had inherited her father’s passion for history, the subject she was reading at Girton. The three interests merged when Bethia, home for Lent vacation in her second year, stopped by to watch dress rehearsals for R. Cowrie’s playscript of Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe.
“I’m afraid Rowena wouldn’t have worn padded undersleeves,” she had whispered after drawing Jewel aside. “They appeared about three hundred years later.”
But when Jewel, only seven months into her position and still quite intimidated by the staff, brought Bethia’s observation to the wardrobe mistress’s attention, Mrs. Wood’s injured reply was, “I was costuming actors when you were still in nappies, Mrs. McGuire. I don’t expect there’ll be anybody in the audience from the twelfth century, so who’s to know the difference?”
The drama critic for the Times happened to be one who knew the difference, writing with scathing pen, The costuming was slipshod, apparently left over from an earlier production of Henry VIII.
When Jewel steeled herself to inform Mrs. Wood that she would have to send all future costume sketches up to Girton so that Bethia could check them for authenticity, the wardrobe mistress resigned in a huff. No suitable replacement had been procured when the time came to plan costuming for Bulwer-Lytton’s The Lady of Lyons, and as Bethia happened to be home for summer vacation, she agreed to step in.
The Times critic was much appeased, writing, The settings and costumes were so authentic that at times I almost fancied I could hear the bells of Saint Jean’s Cathedral in the background.
****
“I just wonder how long you can burn the candle at both ends,” Jewel continued.
“I like keeping busy.”
Jewel smiled understanding. “It makes the time pass more quickly, yes?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Bethia said, but with a spark in her blue eyes. On both their minds was the absence of Bethia’s longtime beau, Guy Russell, off in Italy studying violin at the University of Bologna.
“Well, at least you’ll both be home for good, come summer.”
“That will be lovely.” Bethia’s wistful smile made her seem younger than her twenty years. She was petite like her mother, with wide blue eyes and freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose. With neither the time nor the inclination to primp, she simply tied her honey-brown hair with a ribbon or a bit of lace at her collar. The plain style suited her oval face. Her even temper and good humor prompted the two seamstresses to work twice as hard as they had under Mrs. Wood with her authoritative ways.
When the seamstresses returned from lunch, Jewel and Bethia chatted with them of patterns and suitable trimmings until three o’clock, when Bethia packed what pages remained of her sketch pad into her satchel. She would be boarding the train tomorrow morning for college and planned to spend the rest of the afternoon with her family.
“I’ll walk you downstairs,” Jewel said, accompanying her out into the corridor. “Grady will want to say good-bye.”
They wrinkled noses at each other at the odors wafting out of the open doorway to the scenic artists’ studio. Paints were the culprits, from the filled jam pots on the long tables to the large framed canvases drying against the walls, waiting to be lowered by winches to the back of the stage. Bethia took the lead on the staircase, with one hand on the railing and the other holding up her sea-green skirt. On the ground floor they went to the office Jewel shared with her husband. Grady McGuire, in shirt-sleeves and waistcoat, and wiping ink from his fingers with a handkerchief, rose from his desk.
“Back to the books, is it now?” he said in his soft Irish brogue.
“She’s never away from the books,” Jewel said. “You should come up and have a look at the sketches.”
She knew, of course, that he wouldn’t, for he cared so little about costume that, if she did not choose his clothing, he would shrug his thick short body into whatever in his wardrobe first caught his color-blind eyes. But he made up in kindness for what he lacked in style, and Jewel was grateful for his confidence in her judgment in that department.
“I’ll wait and be surprised at dress rehearsal,” he said. He stuffed the spotted handkerchief into his waistcoat pocket and came around the desk to engulf Bethia’s small hand with his two. “Do take care up at Cambridge. We’ll miss your sunny face about here.”
“Thank you, Grady,” she said. “I’ll see you in December.”
He escorted them out into the corridor. Mr. Birch, head attendant, was limping their way. Tall, white-haired, and stoop-shouldered, he could h