Long Acre Read online

  Martha rasied her brows at that. ‘I am insulting nobody!’ she said quietly. ‘I have simply said I do not wish to talk more on a tedious matter. Now, Oliver —’

  ‘Oh, Oliver, Oliver!’ Amy mocked her cool voice with cruel accuracy. ‘I know what it is! You are jealous! Thoroughly jealous! Lilith Lucas was a great actress, the greatest draw upon the London stage for years and years and years! And there you are with your silly Supper Rooms and your tinkling little shows — you are jealous and that is all about it!’

  And she turned and ran to the door and snatched up her bonnet and tried to wrench the door open, but Felix was there beside her at once, his hand over hers, gendy but firmly making her stand still.

  ‘There is no need for all this high temper, Amy. You are upset, I know, and I can enter into your feelings. But you really must not fly off like this! It would be sad indeed if we were to part so, my family and you, for there could be much difficulty in healing the breach. And it is important to me that there be no breach. Amy?’

  His voice was quiet but very firm, and she looked up at him and he looked back very directly and then, slowly, smiled. ‘Come, my dear. All this is a little exaggerated, don’t you agree? A storm in a teacup? You have heard about someone who may or may not be a connection of yours from long ago. This is not something that should cause a break between you and your friends of the present, is it?’

  It was at this moment, in the middle of all the confused feelings that filled her, that Amy knew she was in love. She looked at the square face so near her own, felt the warmth of his hand over hers and knew with complete certainty that this man was all her future. That without him there could be no real happiness, ever. And that he was tied to the two people who stood, shadowy but none the less real, behind them. If she behaved wrongly at this moment she could do irreparable damage to her own new-found love and to the feeling that she knew with equal certainty lay deep in him.

  She closed her eyes and took a long breath and then, very slowly took her hand from the door knob.

  ‘I am sorry, Miss Lackland, Mr Lackland,’ she said in a small flat voice. ‘I allowed my feelings to have the better of me. I will not behave so again.’

  ‘Of course, my dear,’ Martha said at once with great cordiality in her voice. ‘Of course. One is sometimes distressed and does not know what one is saying.’ But behind her cordiality Amy felt a chill and looked at her, and saw the way her glance moved away from her own face to rest on Felix, and there was a deep sadness in her that Amy felt, and which, curiously, seemed to fill her with fear.

  Again she shook her head. All seemed to be confusion and doubt, and she needed time to think, to decide what she would do. That she had found news of her grandmother she was certain; that she loved the man now standing close beside her was equally certain. But where she went from this point was shadowy, unimaginable.

  ‘I think perhaps I had better return to Long Acre,’ she said after a moment. ‘No, thank you Felix, I think — I will be better for the walk, alone. Yes, I know — it is a long way. But I need time to think

  Again she turned and this time opened the door; and Felix stood back, allowing her to go.

  She hesitated in the doorway, and turned to look back at Martha.

  ‘May I ask one more question before I go?’

  There was a pause and dien Oliver said unexpectedly, ‘Of course. If I can help you in any way I am glad to.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She stopped then and looked at them consideringly and then said a little awkwardly, ‘Is there anything else — any news you could give me that would be of help to me in finding my family? You see, if it is true, and I — this lady we spoke of is my grandmother, then I suppose I must be a connection of yours, must I not? I need time to think about that. But there must be others, too — other cousins? Perhaps aunts or uncles? I do not wish to distress you, Miss Lackland, but I do so need to know!’

  There was a silence and then Martha said flatly, ‘I can tell you of nothing more that will be of value to you, Miss Lucas. Nothing at all.’

  Amy nodded. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Then I must rely upon the man at the stage door of the Haymarket for any further information. He said he would try. I will go now. And I thank you for — I mean, good-bye.’

  ‘I shall see you to the door, if you will not allow me to accompany you further,’ Felix said, and she opened her mouth to argue, but he ignored that and held the door wide for her and she bobbed her head at Martha and Oliver and went away down the stairs.

  The silence they left behind thickened and lengthened and then Oliver said, ‘Perhaps you should have told her of what happened in Constantinople.’

  Martha shook her head, wearily. ‘What would be the point? It would confuse it all still further. Oh, this is a wretched business! If we could ever have guessed that she and her brother were those Lucases, I tell you frankly, I would have consigned them both to perdition before raising a finger to aid them. But I did not think of it. I never think of the past if I can help it — Abby is right — that Lucas woman and her connections have brought us nothing but distress — oh, I am sorry, Oliver. I forget always that you and Phoebe — you see what happens? Whenever Lilith Lucas is ever mentioned, we have troubles! I can only pray we have no more!’

  ‘I think we will,’ Oliver said. ‘I think we will.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘You cannot know, Mr Wyndham, how grateful I am,’ Amy said fervently and drank the rest of her chocolate, and put the cup down with a clatter. ‘I swear it was guidance from above that I should seek you out in this affair — and that you have helped us so much. Really, you have been an angel, Mr Wyndham!’

  ‘I wish you would call me Charles — and as for being angelic — my dear, a very fallen angel am I! There is little in me of such icy virtue as you are likely to find on the other side of those Pearly Gates! Believe me, it was my pleasure to help you. I’m just delighted the management were so receptive, shall we say, to my suggestions!’

  They were sitting in a coffee-house in Dean Street, just across the road from the Royalty Theatre; a raffish little place full of noisily chattering foreigners, some rather dingy men in shiny old coats who sat in a far corner with their heads together, whispering mysteriously, and some dubious-looking ladies whose complexions plainly owed more to artifice than nature. Not that Amy was at all put out by her surroundings; much as she enjoyed the finer things in life and revelled in rich clothes and elegant houses, she could be phlegmatic about tolerating lesser splendour when the need was there. And today it was there.

  She had spent a wretched night in her little room in Long Acre, tossing from side to side and staring out of the small panes of the window at the scudding night sky above. The small hours had brought some fitful sleep and she had woken heavy and unrefreshed, but, at last, with her resolve firmly fixed.

  She would have to find some other employment. It was inconceivable that she could, after all that had been said in Martha’s drawing-room, continue to appear at Oliver Lackland’s Supper Rooms. Somehow she had to find other work, and she lay staring at the early light creeping up the ceiling and listening to the dawn chorus of the sparrows outside her window, trying to work out a plan.

  And then, suddenly remembering Charles Wyndham, had positively leapt from her bed and washed and dressed with great speed. She knew where his lodgings were, and if she could but get to him before he left for the hospital, surely he would be able to advise her where to find a part!

  She left the house just after seven o’clock, holding her skirts high above the gutters left muddy and slippery by the previous day’s showers. All round her was bustle and busyness as the manufactories opened their great doors and the workmen came trudging in to start their labours over the carcases of half-built carriages. She could smell the vinegary tang of new wood and the thick turpentine and paint reek of the yards as she hurried by them, and her spirits lifted as some of the workmen called cheerfully after her, and whistled and teased.

&nb
sp; Yesterday had been a difficult day full of confusion and swooping feelings — and about her new-found feelings for Felix she steadfastly refused to think at all — and she needed action to help her climb above it all. She could and she would find a way to make her life fall out as she wished it; she would find her lost relations, and she would find her much wanted career — ‘and I shall find a way to love Felix too —’ a secret little voice deep inside her whispered. But she would not listen to it, and hurried on through the morning streets, certain that all would be well and that Charles Wyndham would be able to help her.

  She had been right. Once he was over the surprise of being called from his bed at so early an hour by such a caller and had heard her out he bubbled over with helpfulness and pleasure in being able to do so.

  ‘This is uncommon fortuitous, Miss Lucas!’ he had cried. ‘Uncommonly so, for on Saturday — only the day before yesterday, I do assure you, I was offered a part in a new play to open at the Royalty in Dean Street! Not precisely a great drama, I cannot deny. In fact, it is a burlesque — by Burnand, you know. It is called ‘Black-Ey’d Susan,’ and is a merry romp indeed! I am to play Hackett, the leading man, and must dance. Indeed yes, dance! I, a legitimate actor! But I care not — I am so heartily sick of the reek of that hospital and I wish never to set eyes on another pill or potion or clyster. I have had my fill of the sick — from now on, it is the theatre and only the theatre for me! I feel it in my bones! And I feel it almost as strong that I can obtain an audition for you! The management was very obliging to me — very. I daresay if I present you as worthy of a part they will listen to me! Now, you wait here, and I shall dress with all speed, and arrange a little breakfast for us, and as soon as the theatre shows any sign of stirring, we shall be there!’

  And so it had turned out. It was almost as though it had all been ordained by some higher power. Mr Rourke, the manager, middling of age but very curly of hair, very long of cigar and excessively decorated of waistcoat, had greeted Wyndham as though he were his oldest friend — despite the fact that they had set eyes on each other for the very first time the previous Saturday — and agreed cheerfully to consider Miss Lucas for a part. Fortunately for Amy’s peace of mind she did not see the leer with which Mr Rourke treated Wyndham behind her back, for she had not thought of the possibility that anyone would assume his helpfulness was based on a less than respectable liaison between them; but then she had so much on her mind at the time that it was remarkable she was able to think logically at all.

  The part, a small but showy one offering many opportunities to a clever actress — which Amy recognized and seized immediately — fell into her hands like a ripe plum. When she had completed her sketchy reading from a tattered script, Rourke beamed up at her from the front row of the stalls as she stood between the rather patched and shabby gold-coloured tableau curtains, chewing his cigar ferociously and nodding happily.

  ‘A nice little performer, my dear, you’re a very nice little performer! A bit of help with the pointing of the lines, a bit of attention to costume and I tell you, we’re on to a winner. Glad to do you a favour any time, Wyndham, any time, but when it turns out I’m doin’ m’self a favour into the bargain, then I’m your man, every time, I’m your man!’

  Emboldened by her own success and flushing prettily Amy opened her eyes wide at the beaming Rourke and with her most beguiling smile asked if there were, by the remotest chance, a part for a most handsome and capable actor who could sing very well into the bargain. Anxiety about Fenton and how he would take her defection from the Supper Rooms had been haunting the back of her mind throughout and her delight when Rourke told her expansively that they were in the very early days of casting, and he’d gladly see anyone at all, and if her brother was half what she was, why, no question but he’d get a part, was huge.

  And now she sat opposite Wyndham in a coffee-house drinking chocolate and bursting with all that had happened in the past couple of days. It seemed impossible that only last week she had been living so quiet a life with nightly performances at the Supper Rooms as her only occupation and weekly visits to the theatre with Felix as her only entertainment. Now, she was on the track of her lost relations, had a part in a real play in a real theatre, and the future seemed to shine with a different light.

  Resolutely she pushed away the vision of Felix’s face which was persistently trying to drift up into her consciousness, and leaned forwards with her elbows on the table.

  ‘Mr Wyndham, do you recall you told me the best way to find my Papa’s relations was to talk to the stage doorkeepers at the theatres?’

  Wyndham looked down at her eager little face with its wide eyes and thick lashes and smiled indulgently. It was a damned shame that Laurence had made it so abundantly clear to him that this lady was to be regarded as very much his friend, he thought. She is so very delicious a morsel that any man could be forgiven for finding her appetizing. But he remembered the steely glint in Felix’s eyes when he had spoken to him of the high value he set on his friendship with Miss Lucas, of the faintly expressed but unmistakable warning that had been in his apparently casual words, and said in as avuncular a tone as he could, ‘Indeed I do! Have you met with any success?’

  ‘You cannot imagine!’ Amy said, and plunged into an account of her conversation with the Haymarket stage doorkeeper with great relish, and Wyndham listened, enthralled. He was a man of the theatre through and through, and this story Amy was pouring out bore all the hallmarks of a great melodrama, and as he listened to her he clothed her words in his mind with images of long-dead people until he was as entranced with it all as though it had been his own family for whom he was searching.

  ‘And now what will you do?’ he asked eagerly when she had come to the end of the story — having with some prudence only touched upon the disagreement that there had been the day before in Bedford Row; there was no need to tell Wyndham everything, she told herself — and she shook her head.

  ‘To tell you the truth, I am not sure there is much more I can do at present. The man said he would talk to me more, but —’

  ‘Then let us waste no time!’ Wyndham got to his feet and dropped a coin on the table with which to pay for their chocolate. ‘Let us go and see him at once! I must know the end of this story — and you are in need of a companion to help you, I am sure. Not that I seek to — ah — replace Dr Laurence as your guide, Miss Lucas. But he of course is at the hospital, and I am not —’

  Amy stood up too, pulling her mantle about her with some speed. ‘Oh, yes, do let us! I thought I would have to wait for Felix, but as you say, he is busy — and anyway, now I am not certain that he will wish — oh, yes, please, Mr Wyndham, will you come with me? I am not shy, you know, nor am I incapable of prosecuting my own affairs, but it does help to have the company of a gentleman when one is dealing with such people —’

  They sat in his little cubbyhole of a room, just behind the passageway which led from Orange Street through to the remoter fastnesses of the Haymarket Theatre stage, and let him talk. Amy was aching to hurry him, to make him concentrate on Lilith Lucas and such memories as he might have of her, but Wyndham had put his hand warningly upon her arm and shaken his head slightly, and she had subsided. And the old man chattered away, talking of people long since dead and plays long since forgotten, painting a picture of the almost fifty years he had spent backstage in this great building in a way that slowly gripped Amy’s imagination, until she listened as eagerly as though he had indeed been talking of her own people.

  He spoke of the days when the lights had been created by burning naked lime, so that the threat of fire had stalked the dusty corridors and crowded green-rooms as an ever-present fear; he told of the great pageants and pantomimes, the ballets that had seemed to make the whole building flutter with light-footed dancers and the wail of violins, when greedy audiences had demanded, and got, five or six hours of continuous spectacle in exchange for the few pennies they paid for their seats in the pit; of the great actors whose
very names were enough to fill the house to capacity; of the delectable actresses whose entourages of adoring men had constantly hung about the stage door and the green-room.

  At which point Amy sat up a little straighter and said breathlessly, ‘Tell me of one of them — tell me of Lilith Lucas —’

  The old man blinked at her in the dim light of the cubbyhole, his pale blue eyes with the milky rims around the pupils seeming to look far, far beyond her, down the receding corridors of the years.

  ‘Lilith Lucas?’ he said, and laughed, a surprisingly shrill little laugh that made Amy rear back in distaste. ‘I told you about ’er yesterday, di’n’t I? Can’t remember much more ’bout ’er, not wiv me whistle that dry as I can’t ’ardly let me tongue lay down to rest itself —’

  ‘We shall send for some porter,’ Wyndham said firmly, and put his hand in his pocket. ‘You have a boy, I imagine?’

  The old man laughed his shrill little cackle again, and whistled between his broken front teeth and after a moment a boy of some twelve years put his dirty face round the door and seized the money Wyndham gave him and bobbed his head at the old man’s instructions and disappeared. And when he came back ten minutes later with a white jug brimming with froth the old man swallowed most of its contents in one long pull, and cocked his head at Amy and grinned and said in his thin old voice, ‘Lilith Lucas, is it then? An’ what does yer want to know about ’er?’

  ‘All you can remember,’ Amy said at once. ‘Everything. Her plays, her successes — and her own life. Did she have any children? What happened to her? Where is she now?’

  The old man drank again and grimaced above the hand he used to wipe his mouth.

  ‘Lilith Lucas,’ he said again, and now there was a reminiscent tone in his voice. ‘I’ll tell yer about Lilith Lucas. She was beyond any shadder o’ any doubt the ’ardest, nastiest, cruellest ol’ bat as ever set foot on any stage —’