Midnight at Mallyncourt Read Online Free Page A

slut, Sally. She hasn’t long to last, I don’t mind telling you! When we leave for Chester, we’ll be short one blond ingenue, mark my words! Thinks she can sass me —”
    I gave a weary sigh. “I’d better go change, Gerry.”
    â€œTonight is very important!” he continued. “A number of influential men from London’ll be in the audience. I understand Richard Mansfield’s being difficult again—” he added, rage abating. “They may want to replace him. That could be the reason they’re here, Jenny. Mansfield’s a pedestrian actor. I’d be superb in that role he’s doing at the Drury Lane. More than superb—I’d be magnificent!”
    Poor Gerry, I thought. He still clung to his illusions, still believed this touring company was merely a stop-gap in-between grander things. Although his fame had once surpassed even Mansfield’s, that eloquent actor currently the darling of London, Gerry would never be asked to replace him. He would never be asked to replace anyone, but he had to believe, he had to posture, he had to bolster up that incredible ego that was still as towering as his talent once had been.
    â€œI really must get to my dressing room—” I began.
    â€œHold on a minute,” he said. His handsome, aging face was petulant, dark eyes glowering, mouth curling at one corner. “I want to know about that chap who came around last night, Jenny.”
    â€œWhat chap?”
    â€œThe one who came backstage, after you’d gone. He collared everyone in sight, asked the most impertinent questions about you. Took Laverne off to a restaurant—God knows what she told him! Who is he, Jenny?”
    â€œI haven’t the faintest idea,” I lied.
    â€œI didn’t like his looks, didn’t like ’em at all. What’s he want to ask all those questions for? What’s he got in mind? He comes ’round again tonight, I intend to have the stage manager throw him off the premises.” He was watching me closely, his eyes full of suspicion.
    â€œDo that,” I said, totally indifferent. “The curtain is about to go up, Gerry. I’d best hurry—”
    I left him standing there with his legs spread wide, fists resting on his thighs, a majestic figure in his Borgia costume and short golden goatee. Moving down the narrow stairs to the basement, passing the damp brown walls, I stepped into my dressing room. The sofa, dressing table, wardrobe and tall screen took up almost all the floor space, and the room smelled of greasepaint and stale powder, of dampness and soiled, dusty velvet. Gowns hung on pegs. A feather boa was draped across the screen. The roses Edward Baker had sent set on the dressing table in a tall silver vase, their rich red petals already beginning to wilt.
    Stepping behind the screen, I took off my street clothes, slipped into a wrap and sat down at the dressing table. I felt unusually low tonight, weary, depressed. Ordinarily I was immune to the tensions backstage, but tonight they seemed to have affected me deeply. The squabbling, the flaring tempers, the confusion: All had taken their toll. Or was I merely deceiving myself? Were they the cause of my mood, or was it something else? I gazed at the roses, touched one of the blooms. Petals shattered and fell on the table like crimson scraps. After leaving him there in the park across the street from the pavilion, I had determined to put all thought of Edward Baker out of my mind. I had gone to my dreary hotel room, and I had taken dinner in the even drearier dining room downstairs, but I hadn’t been able to forget him, no matter how I tried.
    I remembered his words, the fate he had predicted in such vivid terms. Everything he had said was true. I couldn’t deny that. If anything happened and I lost this job, I would indeed be in dire straits. Other ages might admire actors and heap them with honors, but in our own age,