Daughter of Deceit

Desiree

I often wonder how different my life might have been if Lisa Fennell had not made her dramatic entry into it; and I marvel that if people had not been in a certain place at the same moment they might never have been aware of each other’s existence and their lives would have taken an entirely different course.

I cannot believe that there was another household like ours in the whole of London—or England, for that matter. I only knew that I was lucky to be part of it because it was dominated by the light-hearted, wildly unconventional, inimitable and altogether adorable Desiree.

At that time social status was held to be of the greatest importance in all classes of society and protocol in the servants’ quarters was as rigidly adhered to as it ever was in higher circles. Not so by Desiree. Carrie, the tweeny, was given the same treatment as Mrs. Crimp, the housekeeper. Not always with Mrs. Crimp’s approval. But Desiree ignored that.

“Hello, Carrie, how goes it with you today, love?” she would ask when she met Carrie about the house. Everyone was “love” or “dear” to Desiree. Carrie would squirm with delight.

“I’m all right, Miss Daisy Ray,” she would say. “And how’s yourself?”

“Bearing up. Bearing up,” Desiree would say with a grin; and if she was aware of Mrs. Crimp’s disapproving look, she gave no sign.

Everyone in the household loved Desiree—apart from two of the governesses who had come when I was five years old to teach me the rudiments of education. One left after a few months, because there were always late-night comings and goings to and from the house and she needed her rest; the other went off to teach an earl’s daughter, which was more suited to what she had been brought up to expect.

But most people, once they had accepted that this household was like no other, succumbed to Desiree’s charm—Martha Gee with a sort of exasperated tenderness; Mrs. Crimp with a few tut-tuts and a certain twist of the lips and a muttered “What next? I wonder”; Jane, the parlourmaid, with the utmost eagerness, because in her dreams she hoped to be another Desiree; and Carrie with unadulterated delight, because she had never known anyone who made her feel important before; while Thomas, the coachman, was loyally devoted, in the belief that anyone as famous as Desiree might act a little strangely if she felt like it.

As for myself, she was the very centre of my life.

I remember one occasion when I was about four years old. It was night and I awoke, probably aroused by the sounds of laughter coming from below. I sat up in bed listening. The door which connected my room with the nanny’s was kept open. I crept to it, saw that she was sleeping deeply, put on my dressing gown and slippers, and descended the staircase. The laughter was coming from the drawing room. I reached it and stood outside listening.

Then I turned the handle and looked in.

Desiree, in a long flowing gown of lavender-coloured silk, was seated on the sofa; her golden hair was piled high on her head; there was a black velvet band round it in which stones glittered. Every time I saw her I was struck by her beauty. She was like the heroine of one of the fairy stories which I loved, but chiefly I thought of her as Cinderella after she had gone to the ball and found her prince—only Desiree had found several.

A man sat on either side of her and another was standing up, leaning over her, laughing. Their black jackets and white shirt-fronts made a pleasant contrast to the lavender silk. They were silent as I entered and they all looked at me. It was like a tableau.

“Is this a party?” I asked, implying that if it was I wanted to be part of it.

Desiree held out her arms and I ran into her sweet-smelling embrace.

She presented me to the company. I had become aware by this time that there were others in the room besides the three men and herself.

She said: “This is my treasure, Noelle, because she was born on Christmas Day—the best Christmas present I ever had.”

I had already heard it. She had told me: “You were born on Christmas Day, so you were called Noelle, which means birthday … Christmas birthday.” She added that I was specially honoured because I shared my birthday with Jesus.

What concerned me at the moment was that it was a party and I had joined it.

I remember sitting on Desiree’s lap while she, with mock seriousness, introduced me to certain members of the company.

“This is Charlie Claverham, and this is Monsieur Robert Bouchere … and this is Dolly.”

They were the three I had noticed gathered about her when I entered the room. I studied them—in particular Dolly, because it seemed such a strange name for a man to have. He was rather square in shape, with fair whiskers—slightly gingerish—and a strong aroma which, when I became experienced in such matters, I recognized as a mingling of expensive cigars and whisky. I also learned that he was Donald Dollington, actor-manager, known irreverently in theatrical circles as Dolly.

They all made much of me, asking questions and seeming amused at the answers, which made me feel that it was a wonderful party until I fell asleep and was vaguely aware that Desiree was carrying me back to my bed. I remember being disappointed when I woke up next morning to find that the party was over.

The house was near Drury Lane, handy for the theatre, which was essential. It seemed enormous to me when I was very young—an exciting place with stairs leading down to the basement and then from the ground floor up to the fourth. There was always something exciting to be seen from the nursery windows, over which Desiree had had bars put, lest I fall out.

There were people selling things from wheelbarrows or from trays on straps round their necks—hot pies, lavender, fruit, flowers, pins and ribbons; then there were carriages and hackney cabs taking people to and from the theatres. I loved to watch them.

When I was six years old, Miss Mathilda Grey came to teach me. This was after the other two governesses had left to find more suitable employment. She must have been a little bewildered when she first came, and might have gone the way of the other two but for the fact that she wanted to become an actress. “Not like your mother,” she pointed out. “Not just singing and dancing in light comedies, but a real actress.”

I studied Mathilda Grey. She had scarcely the physique for a dancer. My mother was rather tall and she had what they called an hourglass figure. Miss Grey was short and dumpy and all she could manage to do was warble a little out of tune. But Lady Macbeth and Portia were not called upon to sing and dance. However, her ambitions, misguided though they might have been, prompted her to stay in a post which brought her a little nearer to the theatrical world than she could otherwise have hoped for.

But after a while she became reconciled and, I think, enjoyed being part of the household.

The most important one was Martha Gee, my mother’s dresser —but more than that; and she took charge of us all as well as of my mother. She was a large woman with keen dark eyes which missed little and brown hair drawn severely back into a large knob; she was always dressed in black. She was fond of reminding us that, having been born within the sound of Bow Bells, she was without doubt a cockney. She was sharp, shrewd, taking, as she said, “nothing from nobody” and always “giving as good as she got … and a little bit more.”

She had known my mother when she had been a member of the chorus, and if Martha Gee could not spot talent when she saw it, she did not know who could. She had decided to take my mother under her wing and guide her where she should go; and it seemed that this was exactly what she had done. Martha was about forty years of age. She knew her way around and had seen a bit of life. She told us often that she belonged to the theatre and knew all the tricks that some of them got up to, which offers to be wary of and which you seized with both hands. She bullied my mother as she did all of us, but she made us feel that it was for our own good and that Martha knew best. She treated my mother as though she were a wayward child. My mother liked it and used to say, “What would I do without Martha?”

Another one she could not have done without was Dolly. He was a frequent visitor to our house.

It was a very extraordinary childhood. There was nothing normal about it. There was always something exciting going on, and I was never shut out of it. When I saw other children walking sedately in the park with their nannies, I felt very sorry for them. Their lives were very different from mine. They were just children to be seen and not heard. I was a member of the most exciting family that ever was. My mother was the famous Desiree, whom people looked at when we went out together; and some came up and said how much they had enjoyed her in some play, and they produced programmes for her to sign. She always smiled and chatted with them and they were overcome with wonder, while I would stand by, smirking with pride because I shared her glory.

I used to keep awake so that I could hear her come in. If she and Martha were alone I used to go down and join them. They would sit in the kitchen and eat sandwiches, or drink ale or hot milk as the fancy took them, and there was a lot of laughter about some mishap on the stage, or the old gentleman in the audience who, as Martha would say, “took a shine to your ladyship!”

Mathilda Grey did not approve of my joining them but shrugged her shoulders and accepted it; it was one of the millestones on the road to becoming Lady Macbeth.

Sometimes my mother would be very late, and then I knew it was no use waiting. She would be having supper with Charlie Claverham or Monsieur Robert Bouchere or some other admirer. I was disappointed at such times, because that would mean she would sleep late the next morning and I would have very little time with her before she left for the theatre.

Dolly was a frequent visitor to the house and there would be long conferences. He and my mother quarrelled a lot, which used to frighten me at first, until I learned that they were not serious quarrels.

They called each other abusive names, which might have been alarming if I had not heard it all before. Sometimes Dolly marched out of the drawing room, slamming the door and striding out of the house.

We would be in the kitchen, listening. We could hardly help hearing had we wanted not to—which, of course, we did not.

“Sounds bad this time,” Mrs. Crimp would say. “But he’ll be back, mark my words.”

And she was always right. He would come back. There would be a reconciliation and we would hear my mother’s strong clear voice trying out some song in the new musical comedy he had found for her. There would be frequent visits, more songs to be sung, perhaps a few arguments on the way, but nothing vital. Then there would be rehearsals and more arguments and finally the dress rehearsal and the first night.

Mrs. Crimp revelled in it. She was highly critical of much, but then one of her greatest pleasures was criticizing everyone who did not conform to her ways. There was my mother’s name, for instance. “Desiree!” she announced derisively. “What a name to go to bed with!” Jane said she reckoned there were some … and more than one … who didn’t mind going to bed with such a name.

“That’s not the sort of talk I’ll have in my kitchen,” said Mrs. Crimp severely. “And particularly …” followed by a significant nod in my direction.

I knew, of course, to what they referred. I did not mind. Everything my mother did was perfect in my eyes, and it was not her fault that so many people fell in love with her.

Mrs. Crimp had a way with names. She pronounced them as, in her opinion, they ought to be pronounced. My mother was “Daisy Ray,” and Robert Bouchere, the elegant Frenchman who was such a frequent visitor, was “Monsewer Robber.”

I myself was a little puzzled about my mother’s name until I asked her and she explained it to me.

“Desiree is my stage name,” she said. “It wasn’t given to me in church or anything like that. I gave it to myself. People have a right to a name of their choice, and if they don’t get the one they like to start off with, why shouldn’t they change it? Don’t you agree, pet?”

I nodded vigorously. I always agreed with everything she said.

“Well, you’ve got to know one day … seeing you’re a part of it all … so listen, love, and I’ll tell you how it all came about.”

We were lying on her bed. She was wearing a pale blue negligee. I was fully dressed, for it was half past ten in the morning. I had been up for several hours; she had not yet risen. It was at this time of day when she was most communicative. I think it was because she was not entirely awake.

“What’s your real name?” I asked.

“Can you keep a secret?”

“Oh yes,” I assured her with delight. “I love secrets.”

“Well, it was Daisy. Mrs. Crimp hit on the right one as far as the Daisy is concerned. I didn’t think it suited me, love. Do I look like a Daisy?”

“Well, you could. It’s a nice flower.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Daisy Tremaston.”

“I think it sounds rather nice, and when people knew it was yours, it would sound even better.”

She kissed the tip of my nose. “You say nice things, love. And what’s particularly nice about them is that you mean them. No. I thought for the stage I’d need a special name … a name that would stick in people’s memories. That’s important. It’s the package that’s important. Always remember that. You could be a real genius on the stage … you could be a knockout … but if the package isn’t right, well then, it’s going to be a lot harder. I can tell you, love, to get on in my business, you need all you can lay your hands on … talent … staying power … a push here and there in the right direction at the right time by the right people.”

“And package?” I reminded her.

“That’s it.” She laughed with appreciation. That was another of her gifts: she made people feel that their most ordinary remarks were very clever.

“Desiree. It’s got something, hasn’t it, love? It means ‘Desired.’ It’s a hint to everyone who hears it. Here, this lady is special. Tell them you’re desired and they’ll, be halfway to believing it, and with a bit of talent you’re halfway there, and with a bit of luck you can clinch it. So I was Desiree for the stage and I kept to it. Well, you have to go all out for it. Otherwise there’s a muddle!”

“So you’re not Daisy anymore.”

“It’s all shut away in the realms of yesterday. That was the title of one of my first songs. Rather good, eh?” She started to sing. I loved to hear her sing.

When the song about memories being shut away in the realms of yesterday was over, I guided the conversation to where I wanted it to go.

“Did Dolly help you choose Desir6e?”

“Dolly! Not him! He’d be against it. He thinks it’s not quite good class. That’s Dolly all over. I don’t always go along with him, though I must say he has a good eye for spotting the winner. No. This was before Dolly’s day. This was in my struggling days. I could tell you some stories.”

I nestled down to hear them, but there were none forthcoming. It was just a figure of speech. Something happened to her when she talked of the past. I could feel the shutters coming down in her mind. She did tell me once that she had begun life in a Cornish village.

“Tell me about Cornwall,” I had demanded.

I waited breathlessly, for when I broached the subject she seemed inclined to talk of something else.

“Oh,” she said in rather a dreaming voice. “It wasn’t right for me. I used to dream of coming to London even when I was a little one. I liked it when people came to the inn in the village. It was an out-of-the-way place, but now and then someone would come down from the big cities. There was one man from London. I used to get him to talk about the theatres. I knew then that one day I was going to London. I was going to be in the theatre.”

She was silent, and I was afraid that she would start to talk of something else.

“It was all shut in,” she said slowly. “That’s how I felt … shut in. All Sunday-go-to-meetings … if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, yes, I know.”

“Too many gossiping old women … men, too. There was nothing else to do but look for sin. It was the only excitement they had. You wouldn’t believe how much sin they found in that little old village by the moor.”

“The moor must have been lovely.”

“It was bleak and you should have heard how the wind could blow across those moors. It was lonely … no people about. I was tired of all that by the time I was six. And then when I started to know what I wanted, there was no holding me back. I hated the cottage … cramped and dark. Prayers morning, noon and night, and church twice on a Sunday. I liked the singing, though. Specially the carols. ‘Away in a Manger,’ ‘Hark! the Herald Angels Sing.’ I discovered I had a voice. Gran’fer said I’d have to watch. I was vainglorious. I had to remember all gifts came from God. They were to tempt you to vanity … and look out for yourself when Judgement Day came if you gave way to it. It was no credit to you.”

It was the first time I had heard of Gran’fer and I wanted to hear more.

“Did he live with you?”

“He’d say I lived with him. They looked after me when my mother died.”

I said rather tentatively: “And your father, too?”

I waited uneasily. I sensed that the subject of fathers was one I had to approach cautiously. I had never been able to discover anything about mine except that he was a fine man—a father I could be proud of.

“Oh, he wasn’t around,” she said lightly. “You should have seen that cottage—windows that let in hardly any light—cob walls —that’s a sort of clay. If you’ve seen one you’ve seen the lot. Two rooms up, two down. You’re lucky, Noelle, to live in a house like this in the heart of London. What wouldn’t I have given for that when I was your age!”

“But you got it later.”

“Ah yes. I got it, didn’t I? And you, my angel, I got you.”

“This is better than Gran’fer’s old cottage. Why did you call him Gran’fer?”

“It’s their way of talking down there. He was always Gran’fer, like all the other grandfathers. That way of talking was no good for the London stage. I can tell you, I had to get away, love. If you’d been there you would have seen why.”

It was as though she were making excuses for herself.

“I used to go out to the moor. There were a lot of old stones there … prehistoric, they said they were. I used to dance round them and sing at the top of my voice. It sounded wonderful, and there was a lovely feeling of freedom. What I loved at school was singing. It was all hymns and carols. But there were other songs I picked up as well. ‘Come to the Fair,’ ‘Early One Morning’ and ‘Barbara Allen.’ If I heard a new song I had to sing it. How I loved to dance, too! I had to be careful about that. Singing—if it was psalms and carols—was all right, but dancing was wicked … unless it was country dancing. When they danced the furry dance, which is an old Cornish dance—a custom, so they couldn’t say that was sinful—I’d be in the town dancing all through the day. I loved to dance on the moors, though. Particularly round the stones. In some lights they looked like young girls. The story was they’d been turned to stone. Someone like my Gran’fer must have seen to that. Dancing on the Sabbath, most likely. They had Sabbaths in those days. Yes, I was always dancing. People said I was pisky-mazed.”

“What’s that?”

“Piskies are the little people. They get up to all sorts of tricks in that part of the country. They’re a sort of fairy … not very good ones. They drive people mad and make them do all sorts of odd things. That’s what they call being pisky-mazed. I went to the old witch in the woods once. People down there are very superstitious. They believe things you’d never hear of in London. They were always looking out for white hares, which mean something disastrous, of course, and knackers in the mines who did evil deeds to warn those who had offended of worse to come.”

“It sounds a fascinating place. I’d love to see it.”

“Some places are fascinating to talk of but uncomfortable to be in. There was one thing I had to do. To get away from it.”

“Tell me about the witch in the woods.”

“She came from a Pillar family. People of Pillar families have special gifts because one of their ancestors once helped a mermaid who was stranded ashore to get back into the sea, and for ever after members of the family had the power to see into the future. There are lots of other wise people down there. There are seventh sons of seventh sons. They can see what’s coming. Then there are footlings, which means they were born feet first. And all these people are supposed to pass the gifts bestowed on them down through the family. So there are no shortage of these wiseacres.”

“It does sound exciting.”

She shrugged that off. “My Pillar told me that I could have a brilliant future. It would be my choice. There were two paths. How it comes back! I can hear her now. ‘There be two paths open to ‘ee, me dear. Take one and it leads to fame and fortune. Take the other and you’ll have a good quiet life … but if you do you’ll never be at peace. You’ll always be telling yourself, that’s what I should have done.’ “

“And you took the road to fame and fortune. Wasn’t that marvellous, and how clever of the Pillar to know it.”

“Well, love, it wasn’t all that profound. There was I, singing and dancing all over the place. Everyone knows what everybody else is doing down there. You can’t keep secrets. I expect I talked. ‘I’m going to London. I’m going to sing and dance on the stage.’

That sort of thing gets round. But that is what she said, and then I knew it had to be.”

“What did Gran’fer say when you went away?”

“I wasn’t there to hear, love.” She laughed. “I just have to imagine. Gone to Satan, I reckon, who was heating up the fires to make my arrival in hell especially hot.”

“You’re not frightened, are you?”

She burst out laughing. “What, me? Don’t you believe it! I reckon we’re out here to enjoy ourselves. We’re the ones who’ll get to heaven, you see … not those who go around making people’s lives a misery.”

“How did you get to London?”

“I got lifts. I worked on the way … mostly in inns. I got together a bit of money … and there I was, on to the next part of the journey. I was working in a coffee shop not far from here. People used to come in from the theatre. There was one man … a regular … who took an interest in me. I told him I wanted to go on the stage. He said he would see what he could do. I used to walk round in my spare time and look at the theatres … seeing the people’s names up there and saying, ‘I’ll be up there one day.’ “

“And you were.”

“And I was. Took a bit of time, though. This man introduced me to an agent, who didn’t look all that excited to see me and was only obliging a friend. I sang for him, and although he pretended not to be impressed, I could see the change in him. Then he looked at my legs and I did a few dances. He said he’d let me know. The result was a place at the back of the chorus. I remember it well. Mary, Quite Contrary. Awful show, but a start. I was told to get dancing lessons. I did. It wasn’t much but it was a start.”

“And that was when you met Martha.”

“That was a good day. She said, ‘You can do better than that.’ Didn’t I know it! They didn’t like my name. Too much of a mouthful, Daisy Tremaston. The agent suggested Daisy Ray. It always makes me laugh when Mrs. Crimp and the girls call me that. See how close it is, Daisy Ray? Well, it’s all right. It sort of slips off the tongue. But is it a name people remember? Then it came in a flash.

Daisy Ray … Desiree. Just that. You can get away with things like that in the profession. So I became Desiree.” “And you took the road to fame and fortune.” “Here! What are you doing, keeping me here talking? It is time I was up! Dolly will be here in a minute.”

I was regretful. The session was over, but I learned a little more from each one, although I was aware that a curtain could come down if I was too curious; and what I wanted most was to hear about my father.

I was sixteen and quite mature for my age. I had learned a good deal about theatrical life and a little of the world. There were always people coming in and out of the house; they talked continuously and if I was there I listened. Charlie Claverham and Robert Bouchere were constant visitors. They both had houses in London, and Charlie had a home in Kent, Robert one in France. They came to London on business and were devoted to my mother. She had other admirers who came and went but those two remained.

There came a day when Dolly called at the house in that certain frame of mind which I now knew meant that he had found what he called an excellent “vehicle” for Desiree. It often happened that what he considered excellent was in her opinion plain rubbish, and then we were prepared for trouble. It came.

I sat on the stairs near the drawing room, listening. Not that that presented any strain. Their raised voices reached most parts of the house.

“The lyrics are awful.” That was my mother. “I’d be ashamed to sing them.”

“They’re delightful and will please your public.” “Then you must have a poor opinion of my public.” “I know all there is to know about your public.” “And in your opinion they are only worth rubbish.” “You must get this notion right out of your little head.” “If your opinion of me is as low as that, then I think we have come to the parting of the ways.”

“My opinion of you is that you are a good musical comedy actress and many like you have come to grief by fancying themselves too good for their public.”

“Dolly, I hate you.”

“Desiree, I love you, but you are an idiot and I can tell you this. You’d still be in the back row of the chorus if you had not had me to look after you. Now, be a good girl and have another look at Maud.”

“I hate Maud, and those lyrics embarrass me.”

“You, embarrassed! You’ve never been embarrassed in your life! Why, Maud is grand opera compared with Follow Your Leader!”

“I don’t agree.”

“A good title, too. Countess Maud. They’ll love it. They’ll all want to see the Countess.”

“I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.”

“Well then, there’s only one thing for me to do. I shall get Lottie Langdon to do it. You’ll be green with envy when you see what she makes of it.”

“Lottie Langdon!”

“Why not? She’d fit the part well.”

“Her top notes are shaky.”

“That has a special appeal to some people. They’ll love the story. The shopgirl who is really the daughter of the Earl of Somewhere. It’s just what they like. Well, I’ll be off … to see Lottie.”

There was silence.

“All right,” said Dolly at length. “I’ll give you till tomorrow morning. Then I want a straight answer. Yes or no.”

He came out of the room. I watched him go and then I went up to my room. I felt certain that soon my mother would be plunging into rehearsals for Countess Maud.

I was right. Dolly was paying frequent visits to the house. George Garland, the pianist who always worked with my mother, was in constant attendance, and the household was humming tunes from Countess Maud.

Dolly appeared every day with new ideas which had to be fought out; Martha was dashing round finding patterns and buying what would be needed. It was that period with which we were all familiar, and we should all be relieved when the alarms that flared up during it were over and the first night’s misgivings were proved to have no foundations and we were settled for a long run.

We were getting near opening night and my mother was in a state of nervous tension. She had always been uneasy about Countess Maud, she declared; she wasn’t sure of the lyrics and she thought she should be wearing blue, not pink, for the opening scene. She was sure her gown would clash with the costumes of the chorus; she was getting a little husky. What if she should have a sore throat on the opening night?

I said to her: “You are thinking of every calamity which could befall you. You always do and they never have. The audience will love you and Countess Maud is going to be one of your greatest successes.”

“Thank you, pet. You are a comfort to me. There’s something I’ve just remembered. I can’t possibly dine with Charlie tonight.”

“Is he in London?”

“He will be. He’s coming up today. I’ve got a rehearsal this afternoon and I’m not satisfied with the dance routine with Sir Garnet in the last scene, when he sings: ‘I’d love you if you were a shopgirl still.’ “

“What’s wrong with it?”

“I think he ought to come on from the other side … and I’ve got to make sure I don’t drop my feather boa when I do that quick twirl at the end. But the point is, I’ve got to let Charlie know. Take a note to him for me, will you, darling?”

“Of course. Where is he?”

It suddenly struck me as odd that, close friends as we were with Charlie, I did not know his London address. When he was in London he was constantly visiting us. In fact, sometimes it seemed. as though he lived with us. My mother might have visited him, but I never had. The same applied to Robert Bouchere … though, of course, his home was really in France.

All the same, there was a vague mystery about these two men.

They came and went. I often wondered what they were doing when they were not with us.

However, this was an opportunity to see where Charlie had his London residence, and I seized upon it.

I found the house. It was close to Hyde Park. It was small but typically eighteenth century in origin, with an Adam doorway and spiderweb fanlight.

I rang the bell and a neatly dressed parlourmaid opened the door. I asked if I might see Mr. Claverham.

“Would that be Mr. Charles Claverham, miss, or Mr. Roderick?”

“Oh, Mr. Charles, please.”

She took me into a drawing room where the furnishings matched the house. The heavy velvet curtains at the window toned with the delicate green of the carpet and I could not help comparing the simple elegance with our more solid contemporary style.

The parlourmaid did not return. Instead, a young man entered the room. He was tall and slim with dark hair and friendly brown eyes.

He said: “You wanted to see my father. I’m afraid he’s not here just now. He won’t be in until the afternoon. I wonder if I can help?”

“I have a letter for him. Perhaps I could leave it with you?”

“But of course.”

“It’s from my mother. Desiree, you know.”

“Desiree. Isn’t that the actress?”

I thought how strange it was that Charlie, who was one of my mother’s greatest friends, should not have mentioned her to his son.

“Yes,” I said, and gave him the letter.

“I’ll see that he gets it as soon as he comes in. Won’t you sit down?”

I have always been of an enquiring nature and, because there seemed to be something mysterious in my own background, I suspected there might be in others’. I had always wanted to discover as much as I could about the people I met and I was especially interested now. So I accepted with alacrity.

I said: “I wonder we have not met before. My mother and your father are such great friends. I remember your father from the days when I was very small.”

“Well, I don’t come to London much, you know. I have just finished at university and now I expect I shall be a great deal in the country.”

“I have heard of the country house—in Kent, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s right. Do you know Kent?”

“I just know it is down in the corner of the map … right on the edge.”

He laughed. “That’s not really knowing Kent. It’s more than a brown blob on a map.”

“Well then, I don’t know Kent.”

“You should. It’s a most interesting county. But then I suppose all places are when you start investigating them.”

“Like people.”

He smiled at me. I could see he wanted to detain me as much as I wanted to stay, and he was trying to think of some subject which would interest me.

I said: “We’re in London all the time. My mother’s profession keeps her there. She’s either getting ready for a play or acting in one. She has to do a lot of rehearsals and that sort of thing. And then she has those times when she’s resting. That’s what they call it when they are waiting for something to turn up.”

“It must be very interesting.”

“It’s fascinating. The house is always full of people. She has so many friends.”

“I suppose she would have.”

“There’s to be a first night soon. At the moment we are at that stage when she is getting anxious as to how it is going to turn out.”

“It must be quite alarming.”

“Oh, it is. She has something to do this afternoon and doesn’t know when she’ll be finished. That is why she has to cancel …”

He nodded.

“Well, I’m having the pleasure of meeting you.”

“Your father must have told you a lot about her. He’s always so interested in the plays. He’s always at first nights.”

He looked a little vague, and I went on: “So you are staying in the country when you leave here?”

“Oh yes. I shall help with the estate.”

“Estate? What does that mean?”

“It’s quite a lot of land … with farms and that sort of thing. We have to manage it. The family has been doing it for centuries. Family tradition and all that.”

“Oh, I see.”

“My grandfather did it … my father did it … and I shall do it.”

“Have you any brothers and sisters?”

“No. I’m the only one. So, you see, it falls on me.”

“I suppose it is what you want.”

“Of course. I love the estate. It’s my home, and now this new discovery … that makes it very exciting.”

“New discovery?”

“Hasn’t my father mentioned it?”

“I don’t remember his ever mentioning anything about the estate. Perhaps he does to my mother.”

“I am sure he must have told her about what has been found there.”

“I haven’t heard. Is it a secret? If it is, I won’t ask about it.”

“It’s no secret. It was in the press. It’s most exciting. They were ploughing up one of the fields near the river. The sea used to come right up to our land a thousand years ago. It has receded over the centuries and we’re now about a mile and a half away. It happens gradually, you know. But what makes it so exciting is that the Romans used the place as a sort of port where they landed supplies, and of course all around was like a settlement. We’ve unearthed one of their villas. It’s a fantastic discovery.”

“Roman remains,” I said.

“Yes, indeed. We’re in Roman country. Naturally we would be. They landed first in Kent, didn’t they? I know the spot in Deal … only a few miles from us. There’s a plaque there which says: ‘Julius Caesar landed here 55 B.C.’ “

“How interesting!”

“You can stand there and imagine all those Romans coming ashore to the astonishment of the Ancient Britons in their woad. Poor things! But it was good in the end. They did so much for Britain. Just imagine how excited we were to find evidence of their being on our land!”

“You are very excited about it, aren’t you?”

“Of course. Particularly as I had studied a little archaeology. Just as a hobby, really. I did feel at one time that I should have liked to make a profession of it, but I knew what I had to do. Noblesse oblige and all that.”

“But you would rather have made archaeology your career?”

“I used to think so. Then I reminded myself that it is fraught with disappointments. One dreams of making miraculous discoveries … but most of it is digging and hoping. For one triumph there are a thousand disappointments. I have been on digs with students. We did not find anything but a few pieces of earthenware which we hoped had come from some Roman or Saxon home of centuries ago, but they turned out to have been thrown out by some housewife a few months before!”

I laughed. “Well, that is typical of life.”

“You are right. And I have been talking about myself all this time, which is an appalling lack of social grace, I believe.”

“Not if the other member of the party is interested, and I have been very much so. Tell me about your own house.”

“It’s ancient.”

“I gathered that … with all those centuries of Claverhams doing their duty to the estate.”

“I sometimes think that houses can dominate families.”

“Presenting a duty to its members who are not sure whether they wouldn’t rather be digging up the past?”

“I see I shall have to be careful what I say to you. You have too good a memory.”

I was rather pleased. There was a suggestion here that he believed this first meeting of ours would not be the only one.

“But it must be wonderful to trace your family back all that time,” I said, remembering that I could not go back farther than my mother.

“Some of the parts of the house are really very old—Saxon in parts, but of course that has been lost in the necessary restorations which have been going on over the years.”

“Is it haunted?”

“Well, there are always legends attached to houses which have been in existence for so long. So naturally we have gathered a few spectres on the way.”

“I’d love to see it.”

“You must. I should like to show you the Roman finds.”

“We never have visited …”I began.

“No? How odd. We have people quite frequently. My mother likes to entertain.”

I was surprised. I had not imagined there was a Mrs. Claverham.

I said: “Mrs. Claverham doesn’t come to London much, I suppose?”

“Actually, she’s known as Lady Constance. Her father was an earl and she keeps the title.”

“Lady Constance Claverham,” I murmured.

“That’s right. Actually, she’s not very fond of London. She might make the occasional trip … buying clothes and things like that.”

“I don’t think she has ever been to see us. I should have known if she had. I’m always there.”

I could see that he thought there was something rather odd— even mysterious—about the situation.

“There are so many people coming in and out of the house,” I went on. “Particularly at times like this when a new show is about to be put on.”

“How exciting it must be to have a famous mother.”

“Yes, it is. And she is the most wonderful person I have ever known. Everybody loves her.”

I told him what it was like when a play was being put on. I told him of the sounds of singing and rehearsals, because there were always some scenes which my mother wanted to go over with certain people, and she would be inclined to summon them to the house for that.

“When she is playing a part she somehow becomes that part and we all have to get used to it. At the moment she is Countess Maud.”

“And what is Countess Maud like?”

“She’s a shopgirl who is really a countess and she can’t make the simplest statement without bursting into song.”

He laughed. “It’s a musical play then?”

“That is my mother’s forte. She does very little else. It’s perfect for her. It is dancing and singing mostly, which she does to perfection. I shall be glad when Maud gets going. She’s always in a state of tension beforehand, though she knows, and we all know, that she is going to be marvellous on the night. Afterwards, it settles down and in due course she will become a little bored. Then it comes off and the whole business starts again. I like the resting times. Then we are more together and have lots of fun until she gets restless and Dolly turns up with a new play.”

“Dolly?”

“Donald Dollington. You must have heard of him.”

“The actor?”

“Yes, actor-manager. I think he goes in for producing more than acting now.”

The clock on the mantelpiece started to chime.

I said: “I have been here nearly an hour. And I only came to deliver a letter.”

“It’s been a most agreeable time.”

“They will be wondering what has happened to me. I must go.”

He took my hand and held it for a few moments.

“I have enjoyed meeting you,” he said. “I’m glad you came to deliver that letter.”

“I expect your father will bring you over to see us now that you are in London.”

“I shall look forward to that.”

“You must come to the first night of Countess Maud.”

“I shall.”

“I’ll see you later then.”

“I’m going to take you home.”

“Oh, it’s not very far.”

“I shall certainly come.”

He insisted and, as I was enjoying his company, I did not protest.

When we reached the house I asked him to come in.

“I look forward to meeting your mother,” he said. “She sounds delightful.”

“She is,” I assured him.

As we went into the hall, I heard voices coming from the drawing room.

“She’s home,” I said. “Someone’s with her. But come up.”

My mother had heard my arrival. She called out. “Is that you, darling? Come and see who’s here.”

“Shall … ?” murmured Roderick Claverham.

“Of course. There are always people here.”

I opened the door.

“Your journey wasn’t really necessary,” began my mother.

Charlie was sitting beside her on the sofa. He stared at my companion and I could see at once that he was deeply embarrassed.

“I was just telling Charlie that I had written him a note and you had gone to deliver it,” said my mother.

She was smiling at Roderick, waiting for an introduction.

Charlie said: “Desiree, this is my son, Roderick.”

She was on her feet taking his hand, smiling at him, telling him how delighted she was to meet him.

But I could see it was an awkward situation and I had made it so by bringing Charlie’s son face to face with him in my mother’s house.

My mother was very good at gliding over awkward situations. I felt this was like a scene in a play. Conversation seemed rather stilted and for some time Charlie himself seemed unable to speak at all.

My mother was saying, “How nice it is to meet you. Are you staying long in London? The weather is rather lovely now. I do enjoy the spring, don’t you?”

I fancied she was rather enjoying the situation, slipping with natural ease into the part she was called upon to play.

I said to Charlie: “I have been hearing about the wonderful discoveries on your land.”

“Oh yes, yes,” said Charlie. “Very, very interesting.”

My mother had to hear about them. She said how absolutely fantastic and how proud they must be and how wonderful to think of finding something that had been there all that time.

Then she asked Roderick if he would like a glass of sherry or something. He declined and said he really had to leave and how much he had enjoyed meeting us both.

“It makes me laugh,” said my mother. “There was I, sending a note to your father, when all the time he was on his way here.”

Charlie left with his son soon after that.

When they had gone, my mother lay back on the sofa and grimaced at me.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” she said. “What have we done?”

“What is this all about?” I asked.

“Let’s pray it never comes to the ears of the formidable Lady Constance.”

“I’ve learned this morning that that is Charlie’s wife. I never thought of Charlie’s having a wife.”

“Most men do have … tucked away somewhere.”

“And Lady Constance is tucked away in this wonderful old mansion with the Roman remains.”

“I should imagine she is rather like an old Roman matron herself.”

“What are they like?”

“Oh—those women who know everything, can do everything, never put a foot wrong, obey all the rules and expect everyone else to do the same … and very likely make ordinary people’s lives miserable.”

“Charlie must have told you about her.”

“I knew there was a Lady Constance and that’s about all. The boy’s nice. He takes after Charlie, I reckon.”

“Charlie is one of your best friends, and he has never told you much about his wife!”

She looked at me and laughed.

“Well, it’s a little awkward. Lady Constance would never allow her husband to have a friendship with a flighty actress, now would she? That’s why she’s never heard of me and we don’t talk of her!”

“But when Charlie comes to London so often …”

“Business, my darling. So many men have business which takes them from their homes. Well, I’m just a bit of Charlie’s business.”

“You mean she would object to his coming here if she knew?”

“You can safely bet on that.”

“And now the son knows.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have asked you to take that letter. I realized it as soon as you’d gone. I thought you would just drop it in.”

“I was going to, but the maid took me into the drawing room. I thought Charlie would be there and then Roderick came. I’m afraid it was my fault.”

“Of course it wasn’t. Mine if anyone’s, for sending you. Come. Don’t let’s worry about it. Charlie’s not a child. Nor is this Roderick. He’ll understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Oh … he’ll be discreet, that young man. He’ll sum up the situation. I liked him.”

“I liked him, too,” I said.

“Trust Charlie to have a nice son. Nice man, Charlie. Pity he had to get hitched up to the high-and-mighty Lady C. Well, perhaps that’s why …”

“Why?”

“Why he comes here, love. However, it’s a storm in a teacup. Don’t worry. Roderick will keep his mouth shut and Charlie will get over the shock of seeing his two lives touching each other for a minute or two. And then all will be as it was before.”

I was beginning to understand, and I was wondering whether it would be as it had been before.

Roderick Claverham’s visit to the house and the effect it would have on Charlie was soon forgotten, for the first night of Countess Maud was almost upon us. The house was in chaos. There were feverish misgivings, momentous last decisions about changing this and that; there were fierce refusals from Desiree, impassioned appeals from Dolly and noisy reprimands from Martha. Well, we had had it all before.

And then the night itself. The day that preceded it had been one of especially high tension, when my mother had to be left alone and then suddenly demanded our presence. She was worried. Should she change the bit of business at the end of the first act? Could she try something else at that stage? It was too late, of course. Oh, what a fool she had been not to think of it before. Was the dress she was wearing in the first act too tight, too loose, too revealing or simply plain drab? This was going to be the end of her. Who would want to see her after the flop this was going to be? It was a ridiculous play. Whoever heard of a countess serving behind a counter in a linen draper’s shop!

“It’s because no one has that it makes a play,” screamed Martha. “It’s a fair play and you are going to make it a great one— that’s if you can put a stop to your tantrums.”

Dolly strode around striking dramatic poses, his hand to his head appealing to God to spare him from ever working with this woman again.

“Almighty God,” he cried. “Why did You not let me take Lottie Langdon?”

“Yes, God, why didn’t You?” said my mother. “This silly Countess Maud would just have suited her.”

Then Dolly put on one of his Garrick poses and, with the resignation of a Pontius Pilate, cried out: “I wash my hands of this affair.” And with an appropriate gesture he turned to the door.

He did not mean it, of course, but carried away by the drama, my mother pleaded: “Don’t go. I’ll do everything … everything you want of me … even Maud.”

And so it went on. In earlier days I might have believed it was all coming to disaster, but now I knew they were all too professional to allow that. They did not mean what they said. They were placating Fate. Theatrical people, I had discovered, were the most superstitious on earth. They did not say beforehand: “This is going to be a great success,” because if they did, Fate, being the perverse creature it was, would make sure that it wasn’t. You had been arrogant to think it was your decision. So if you said it would be a failure, Fate would jeer: “Well, it won’t be—it will be a success.”

At last I was there in the theatre with Charlie and Robert Bouchere in a box looking down on the stage. The curtain went up on the linen draper’s shop. There was singing and dancing and suddenly the line of girls parted and there was Desiree behind the counter, looking delightful in the dress, which was neither too tight, too loose, too revealing nor plain drab.

The audience burst into that loud applause which always greeted her when she appeared, and soon she was into “Can I help you, madam?” before she came out to dance round the stage in her inimitable way.

Dolly came into the box in the interval. He said the audience seemed to like it and with Desiree it could not fail. She had the audience where she wanted them from the moment she appeared.

“So you are not sorry you did not get Lottie Langdon after all,” I could not help saying.

He gave me that quizzical look, as much as to say, you should know by now what that was all about.

He disappeared and we settled down to enjoy the last act.

Before the lights went down I saw that someone below in the stalls was trying to catch my attention. I felt a sudden spurt of laughter rising in me. It was Roderick Claverham. I lifted my hand and, acknowledging my recognition of him, I smiled. He returned the smile. I looked at Charlie. He was discussing the show with Robert Bouchere and had clearly not seen his son. I did not inform him that Roderick was in the theatre. I had learned a lesson. I wondered whether Roderick understood.

Then the curtain went up and we watched Desiree through the final scene with the aristocratic bridegroom declaring: “I’d love you if you were a shopgirl still,” while Desiree responded with some of her most skilful top notes.

It was over. The audience was wildly enthusiastic. There was Desiree, led onto the stage by the man who would love her if she were a shopgirl still. He kissed her hand and then, to the delight of the audience, her cheek. The flowers were brought and Desiree made a curtain speech.

“Dear, dear people … you are too kind to me. I don’t deserve it!”

“You do. You do,” from the audience.

Holding up her hand in mock modesty, she told them that the greatest joy she could know was to play for them. “I knew you would love Maud. I did from the first moment I met her.”

Echoes came back to me. “This stupid creature, why do I have to play such an idiot?”

It was all part of the playacting which was her life.

People were making for the exits. I caught one more glimpse of Roderick in the crowd. He turned to look at me and smiled. I looked towards Charlie. He had still not seen his son.

I went to Desir6e’s dressing room with Charlie and Robert after that. Martha was rapidly helping her to change. Champagne was drunk.

Desiree kissed Dolly and said: “There, I did it.”

Dolly said: “You were magnificent, darling. Didn’t I tell you you would be?”

“I could feel how much the audience loved it.”

“It was you they loved.”

“The darlings!”

“Well, you are rather wonderful, you know.”

“Thanks, sweetheart. Say it again. I love to hear it. And there’s my Noelle. What did you think of your mother, pet?”

“You were absolutely splendid.”

“Bless you, sweet.”

Robert said in his amusing French accent: “Is she … Noelle … old enough to drink the champagne, eh?”

“Tonight she is,” said my mother. “Come, darlings. Let’s drink to a nice run … not too long. I don’t think I could stand Maud for too long. But enough to make it a success and full houses to the end. And may she know when it is the right time to leave us.”

We drank to Maud. It was about half an hour later when we drove back to the house. Thomas had the carriage waiting for us.

There had been a good deal of kissing and more congratulations before we parted, and in the carriage there were just Martha, my mother and myself. The streets were not very busy, for the crowds were fast dispersing.

“You must be exhausted,” I said to my mother.

“Oh, my dear, I am. I shall sleep right through until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Knowing that Maud was a great success,” I said. “It was a success, wasn’t it?”

“Of course. I knew it would be, darling,” said my mother.

Martha looked at me and raised her eyebrows.

“Oh, one’s always jittery just before,” said my mother defensively. “You have to be. If you weren’t, you’d go onstage flat. It’s the life, darling.”

As we were pulling up at the house, I noticed the girl. She was standing near a lamppost, but I could see her face. She looked rather dejected and I wondered what she was doing standing about at this time of night.

My mother was saying: “Oh, I’m so weary, and ‘Can I help you, madam?’ keeps going round and round in my head.”

Thomas had jumped down from the driver’s seat and was holding the door open. My mother alighted. I saw the girl take a step forward. Her face was still tense. Before I could alight from the carriage she was hastily walking away.

I said: “Did you see that girl?”

“Which girl?”

“The one who was standing over there. She looked as though she was watching you.”

“Came to take a look at Countess Maud, I reckon,” said Martha.

“Yes. But she seemed different somehow.”

“Another of the stagestruck crowd,” said Martha. “Thinks she’s another Desiree, I don’t doubt. Most of them do.”

“Come in,” said my mother. “I’m half asleep, if you’re not.”

I knew that we should all find it difficult to sleep. It was like this on first nights … but this night seemed different. There were two things to make it so: the presence of Roderick in the theatre, which set me wondering again about Charlie, Lady Constance and the relationship he must have with my mother; and then the girl in the street. Why had she made such an impression on me? People often stood about to get a glimpse of my mother … outside the theatre and occasionally outside our home, for the press had betrayed where Desiree lived. The girl must have been, as Martha had said, stagestruck: she had wanted to see Desiree at close quarters.

I should be at peace. The first night was over. Now there would be a long run and my mother and I would have more time together.

The Accident

Countess Maud had settled in— another success for Desiree.

It was about three weeks after the opening night—a Thursday and a matinee. My mother had left for the theatre and I had said I wanted to do some shopping and I would come to the theatre so that I could join her after the performance and Thomas could drive us home together. He often did this. It gave us a little time together before she dashed off for the evening performance.

As I came out of the house I saw Roderick Claverham coming down the street.

“Hello,” he said, and for a few seconds we stood smiling at each other.

I spoke first. “You are still in London, then?”

“I have been home and came back again.”

“How are the remains?”

“No further discoveries. It would be surprising if there were. I was hoping I might see you. I’ve been here once or twice before with the same object in view. This time I’ve struck lucky.”

I felt pleased because he had admitted that he was looking for me.

“Were you going to call on us?” I asked.

“I thought in the circumstances that might not be quite acceptable, would it?”

“Perhaps not.”

“Whereas meeting by accident …”

“Would be quite another matter, of course.”

“Were you going somewhere?”

“Only shopping.”

“May I come?”

“You wouldn’t be interested.”

“I think I should.”

“It is not necessary shopping. I was really going to finish up at the theatre and come home with my mother.”

“Perhaps I could escort you to the theatre.”

“It will be two hours before the show finishes.”

“Well, we could walk round a bit. You could show me this part of London. Perhaps we could have a cup of tea somewhere? Does that seem like a bore to you?”

“Quite the contrary.” , “Then shall we start?”

“Of course, you are attracted to the past,” I said as we walked along. “I don’t think we have anything here as ancient as your Roman remains. My governess is very interested in this area. You see, it is very much associated with the theatre and she is devoted to all that.”

“Perhaps that’s because she is with a theatrical family.”

“There is my mother, of course, but to tell the truth Matty rather despises her achievements. People do when they find someone who has reached the top of what they consider to be a lower grade than they themselves aspire to—particularly if they haven’t made even the first steps towards their goal. You see, Matty fancies herself as a great actress and thinks that she is wasting her time teaching.”

“I should have thought she should have been very proud of her present pupil.”

“We get along quite well. But it is acting she is really interested in. I think in her heart she knows all that is right out of reach. But don’t you agree that people get pleasure out of daydreams?”

“Very likely.”

“It’s an easy way. Matty can live in her dreams—those moments when she is on the stage giving the finest performance of Lady Macbeth, winning the acclaim of the audience, receiving the bouquets, reading about her genius in the next morning’s papers. She doesn’t have to go through all the nerve-racking tensions, the hideous doubts, the nightmare of the opening performance as my mother does.”

“I should have thought your mother was absolutely sure of success.”

“It is because she isn’t that she is successful … if you understand what I mean. She tells me that unless you are in a state of tension you don’t give your best performance. In any case, I can tell you that being a successful actress is not easy and I am beginning to think that Matty’s dreams are more enjoyable than the reality. She gets lyrical about this place and she loves being in the theatrical environment. She thoroughly enjoys our walks round here.”

“As I am doing.”

“We always talk a lot about the old days. It must have been exciting when the theatres were reinstated. Matty goes on at length about the Puritans under Cromwell, who closed the theatres. They thought they were sinful. Matty rails against them.”

“I agree with her. I have a dislike for the sanctimonious who enjoy taking away people’s pleasures with the excuse that it is good for them to be without it while all the time they are indulging their pleasure in contemplating their own virtue.”

“I feel the same. But it was wonderful when the theatre came back. Almost worth having been without it! Matty is very interested in the Restoration playwrights. She has made it a subject for us to study. She says it will be good for me. I am glad she did.”

“I daresay she is teaching herself as well as you.”

“I am sure she is. We went to libraries and unearthed all sorts of information. You will understand how exciting it was. You have your Roman relics.”

“I certainly do. And when you walk these streets you picture them as they were years ago.”

“Yes … with the men in their magnificent wigs and feathered hats—and Nell Gwyn was, of course, at Drury Lane selling oranges and then becoming an actress and fascinating King Charles. It’s all so romantic.”

“And you do not wish to go on the stage and share in the limelight with your mother?”

“I have too much respect for her talents to imagine I share them. I can’t sing and my mother has a beautiful voice. She is also a wonderful dancer.”

“And, unlike Matty, she does not sigh for the classical roles.”

“Countess Maud and suchlike are good enough for her.”

“And very good she is with them.”

“I saw you at the play.”

“Yes, I saw you.”

“You didn’t stay. You must have hurried off.”

“I was unsure. Better to take no action when you are wondering which is the right one.”

“I suppose so. By the way, this is Vere Street. We discovered an interesting story about a theatre which was once here. It was opened by Killigrew and Davenant, who were two well-known theatrical men. They were so anxious to get the theatres started again that they opened one here only a few months after the Restoration. Matty said their enthusiasm must have been marvellous. They brought out a patent that women could play on the stage. Before that their parts were taken by boys. Can you imagine that! Women have been very badly treated through the ages. I think it is time we did something about it. Don’t you agree?”

“I fear that if I don’t I shall lose any regard you have for me, so I will say at once that I do.”

I laughed. “I should not want you to agree with me for that reason.”

“Forget that I said it. It was a foolish remark to make in a serious conversation. Yes, I do agree, but I am sure that with people like you around that situation will soon be remedied.”

“The story I was going to tell you was of a wronged woman.

She was one of the first women to play on the stage. She was in the theatre which was in Vere Street and she was playing Roxana in The Siege of Rhodes. The Earl of Oxford, Aubrey de Vere, came to see the play and conceived a passion for her. A de Vere could not marry an actress, but she would not submit without marriage. The villain then produced a bogus clergyman who arranged a sham marriage, and she did not learn how she had been tricked until it was too late.”

“Not the first, I believe, to have suffered in that way.”

“Matty loves to collect stories about these people. She can tell you about the arrogance of Colley Cibber and the virtue of Anne Bracegirdle.”

“Tell me about the virtuous one.”

“She was an actress who died in the middle of the eighteenth century, which was a time when a lot of interesting people seem to have lived. She had very high moral standards, which was rare in an actress. She used to go round helping the poor. She reminds me of my mother. She has hundreds of begging letters. People are always waiting outside the theatre with some pitiable story.”

“Your mother has a lovely face. There is a softness … a gentleness about her. She is beautiful, of course, but she has a sort of inner beauty. I believe that when people have faces like that they are really good.”

“What a nice thing to say. I want to tell her that. She will be amused. She doesn’t think she’s good at all. She thinks she’s a sinner. But you’re right. She is good. I often think how lucky I am to be her daughter.”

He pressed my arm and we were silent for a moment, then he said: “What happened to Roxana?”

“We did discover that there was a child named Aubrey de Vere, and he called himself the Earl of Oxford. He was the son of an actress and it was said that the earl had gone through a form of mock marriage with his mother.”

“That must have been the one, unless he made a habit of going through mock marriages.”

“I could imagine he might. That’s the maddening thing about these stories. One often doesn’t know how it turned out in the end.”

“One has to imagine it. I hope Roxana became a great actress and nemesis overtook the Earl of Oxford.”

“Matty discovered that he was notoriously immoral, but he was witty and popular at court, so I suppose he didn’t suffer for his misdeeds.”

“What a shame! Look. Here is a tea shop. Would you like to sit down for a while and then we can go to the theatre in time for the end of the play?”

“I should enjoy that.”

The tea shop was small and cosy; we found a place for two in a corner.

As I poured the tea, he talked about the holiday he planned in Egypt.

“An archaeologist’s dream,” he said. “The Valley of the Kings! The pyramids! So many relics of the ancient world. Imagine it all.”

“That is just what I am doing. It must be one of the most thrilling experiences possible to get into one of those tombs of the kings … though frightening in a way.”

“Exactly. I think the robbers of tombs had a lot of courage. When you think of all the myths and legends, you realize how amazing it is what people will do for gain.”

“How exciting it will be for you!”

“You’d enjoy it, I know.”

“I am sure I should.”

He looked at me intently and then stirred his tea slowly, as though deep in thought.

Then he said: “My father and your mother have been really great friends for years, haven’t they?”

“Oh yes. My mother has often said that she relies on him more than anyone else. Robert Bouchere is another of her friends of long standing. He is a banker in Paris and is often in London. I think your father comes first with her.”

He nodded thoughtfully.

“Tell me about your home,” I said.

“It’s called Leverson Manor. Leverson was an ancestor but the name got lost somewhere when one of the daughters inherited and married a Claverham.”

“And your mother?”

“She, of course, is a Claverham only by marriage. Her family have estates in the North. They are a very old family and trace their origins back right through the centuries. They rank themselves with the Nevilles and the Percys who guarded the North against the Scots. They have portraits of warriors who fought in the Wars of the Roses and farther back than that when they were fighting the Picts and the Scots. My father, as you know, is a gentle and kind man. He is very popular on the estate. They are all in awe of my mother and she likes to keep it that way. She gives the impression of being conscious that she married beneath her, which I suppose, strictly socially speaking, she did. Actually, she cares deeply about my father and me, her only son.”

“I can picture her so well. A rather terrifying lady.”

“She wants the best for us. The point is that we don’t always agree as to the best and that is when the conflict begins. If only she could rid herself of the belief that her blood is slightly more blue than my father’s, if only she could understand that some of us must do what we want and not what she decides is best for us … she would be a wonderful person.”

“I can see you are fond of her and of course you would have a portion of the bluer blood to mingle with the baser sort.”

“Well, I understand her. She is really a grand person and the fact is that she really is very often right.”

I believed I was getting a good picture of Lady Constance and life at Leverson Manor.

How I should love to see it! Not that I ever should. Of one thing I was certain: Lady Constance would never approve of her husband’s friendship with an actress, even a famous one. It was therefore wrong to expect this encounter to be other than one between casual acquaintances.

We could not linger indefinitely over the tea table, although he gave me the impression that he would have liked to.

I looked at my watch and said: “The play will be approaching the end.”

We came into the street and walked the short distance to the theatre. Before we parted at the door, he took my hand and looked at me earnestly.

“We must do this again,” he said. “I’ve enjoyed it thoroughly. I have so much to learn of the history attached to the theatrical world.”

“And I should like to hear more of the Roman remains.”

“We must arrange it. Shall we?”

“Yes.”

“When is the next matinee?”

“On Saturday.”

“Then shall it be then?”

“I should like that.”

I was lighthearted as I went up to the dressing room. Martha was there.

“Not such a good house,” she said. “I was never fond of matinees. They never seem the same as night. And we weren’t fully booked. She won’t like that. If there’s anything she hates, it’s playing to half-empty houses.”

“Was it half empty?”

“No … just not full. She’ll notice it. Trained eye and all that. She’s more audience-conscious than most.”

Contrary to Martha’s expectations, my mother was in a good mood.

“Jeffry slipped when he put his arm round me in ‘I’d love you if you were a shopgirl still.’ He grabbed me and pulled a button off my dress at the back, Martha.”

“He’s a clumsy beggar, that Jeffry,” said Martha. “I reckon he looked right down silly.”

“Not him. They love him … all that golden hair and the jaunty moustache. Half the audience are in love with him. What’s a little slip? It only makes him human. They come to see him as much as me.”

“Nonsense. You’re the bright light of the show and don’t you forget it. I haven’t worked my fingers to the bone to get you taking second place to Jeffry Collins.”

“Jeffry thinks he’s the one who pulls them in.”

“Well, let him. No one else does. Let’s have a look at that button. Oh, that’ll soon be put right for tonight.”

“Oh, tonight … it starts all over again tonight. I hate matinees.”

“Well, Noelle’s here to go home with us.”

“That’s nice, darling. Had a good afternoon?”

“Oh yes … very good.”

“Lovely to have you here.”

“And,” said Martha, “we’d better get a move on. Don’t forget there’s a show tonight.”

“Don’t remind me,” sighed my mother.

There were one or two people at the stage door, waiting for a glimpse of Desiree. She was all smiles and exchanged a few words with her admirers.

Thomas helped her into the carriage and Martha and I climbed in beside her. She waved gaily to the little crowd and, when we had left them behind, leaned back with half-closed eyes.

“Did you buy anything nice?” she asked me.

“No … nothing at all.”

I was about to tell her of the meeting with Roderick Claverham when I restrained myself. I was not quite sure how she had felt about my bringing him to the house. She had laughed it off, but I fancied she had found the situation embarrassing.

She had lived her life free of conventions and she had given so much to others. She had chosen to live as she pleased, and I had heard her say that if you don’t hurt anyone, what harm can you do?

As long as Lady Constance did not know of the rather special friendship between her husband and the famous actress, did it matter? To moralists, yes, it did; but Desiree was never one of those. “Live and let live,” she used to say. “That’s my motto.” But when Charlie’s secret life and his conventional one touched, perhaps that was time to pause and consider.

I was unsure, so I said nothing of the meeting with Roderick.

I led her to talk of the afternoon’s performance, which she was always ready to do; and finally we turned into the road and the horse pricked up his ears as, to our amusement, he always did, and would have broken into a gallop at this juncture if Thomas had not restrained him.

My mother said: “The darling knows he’s home. Isn’t that sweet?”

We were about to draw up when it happened. The girl must have run right in front of the horse. I wasn’t sure what happened exactly. I think Thomas swerved to avoid her and then she was lying stretched out on the road.

Thomas had pulled up sharply and jumped out. With my mother and Martha, I followed.

“Good heavens,” cried my mother. “She’s hurt.”

“She dashed right under Ranger’s feet,” said Thomas.

He picked her up.

“Is she very badly hurt?” asked my mother anxiously.

“Don’t know, madam. But I don’t think so.”

“Better bring her in,” said my mother. “Then we’ll get the doctor.”

Thomas carried the young woman into the house and laid her on the bed in one of the two spare bedrooms.

Mrs. Crimp and Carrie came running up.

“What is it?” gasped Mrs. Crimp. “An accident? My goodness, gracious me! What it the world coming to?”

“Mrs. Crimp, we need a doctor,” said my mother. “Thomas, you’d better go. Take the carriage and you can bring Dr. Green back with you. Poor girl. She looks so pale.”

“You could knock her down with a feather by the looks of her, let alone a horse and carriage,” commented Mrs. Crimp.

“Poor girl,” said my mother again.

She put her hand on the girl’s forehead and stroked her hair back from her face.

“So young,” she added.

“I think a hot drink would do her good,” I suggested. “With plenty of sugar in it.”

The girl opened her eyes and looked at Desiree. I saw that expression which I had seen so many times before, and I felt proud that even at such a time she could be aware of my mother.

Then I recognized her. She was the girl I had seen standing outside the house when we had come home from the theatre after the first night.

So … she had come to see Desiree. She was another of those stagestruck girls very likely—one of those who adored the famous actress and dreamed of being like her.

I said to Desiree: “I think she is one of your admirers. I’ve seen her before … outside the house … waiting for a glimpse of you.”

Even at such a time she could be pleased at public appreciation.

The hot tea was brought and my mother held the cup while the girl drank.

“There,” she said. “That’s better. The doctor will soon be here. He’ll see if there is any harm done.”

The girl half raised herself and my mother said soothingly: “Lie down. You’re going to rest here until it is all right for you to go. You’ll be very shaken, you know.”

“I … I’m all right,” said the girl.

“No, you are not … at least not for going off. You are going to stay here until we say you may go. Is there anyone you would like a message sent to … someone who will be anxious about you?”

She shook her head and in a blank voice which betrayed a good deal said: “No … there is no one.”

Her lips quivered and I saw the deep sympathy in my mother’s eyes.

“What is your name?” asked my mother.

“It’s Lisa Fennell.”

“Well, Lisa Fennell, you are going to stay here for the night at least,” replied my mother. “But first we have to wait for the doctor.”

“I don’t think she has been hurt much,” said Martha. “It’s shock. That’s what it is. And you have a show tonight. You know how rushed these matinee days always are. Matinees ought to be abolished, if you ask my opinion.”

“Nobody is asking your opinion, Martha, and you know how necessary it is to squeeze every penny out of the public if we are to carry on.”

“I reckon we could do without matinees,” persisted Martha.

“Think of all the people who can only get away one half day a week.”

“I’m thinking of us, ducks.”

“Our duty in life is to think of others … particularly in the theatre.”

“Can’t say I’ve noticed it.”

The girl on the bed was listening avidly. I had come to the conclusion that she was not badly hurt.

When the doctor came he confirmed this.

“She only has a few bruises,” he told us afterwards. “She’s shocked, of course. She’ll be all right in a day or so.”

“I propose to keep her here for the night,” said my mother.

“That’s a good idea. What about her family?”

“She doesn’t appear to have any.”

“Well, in that case it would certainly be best for her to stay. I’ll give her a mild sedative, which will ensure a good night’s sleep. Give it to her when she’s ready to settle down for the night. Just let her rest till then.”

“And now,” said Martha, “we’d better be getting ourselves ready or we’ll be disappointing our audience. They’ve come to see Madame Desiree, not understudy Janet Dare.”

“Poor Janet,” said my mother. “She’d love a chance to show what she could do.”

“We all know what she can do and it would not be good enough.”

After my mother had left for the theatre, I went to our guest and stood by her bed.

She said: “You have been so good to me.”

“It was the least we could do. How did it happen?”

“It was my fault. I was careless. I was so eager. I didn’t realize the carriage was still moving. I admired D6siree so much. I’ve seen Countess Maud three times … up in the gallery, of course. I couldn’t afford anything more. It is so maddening when someone big and broad gets in front of you. She is wonderful.”

“Lots of people think so.”

“I know. She is at the top, isn’t she? And you are her daughter. How marvellous for you.”

“Tell me about yourself. What do you do?”

“Nothing at the moment.”

“You want to be an actress?” I suggested.

“You guessed.”

“Well, there are so many. You know, lots of people see my mother on the stage and think it is a wonderful life. Actually it is tremendously hard work. It is not easy, you know.”

“I am aware of that. I’m different from those people. I’ve always wanted to go on the stage.”

I looked at her sadly.

“I can act, I can sing, I can dance,” she said earnestly. “I tell you, I can do it.”

“What have you done in that line?”

“I have been on a stage. I have sung and danced.”

“Where?”

“Amateur dramatics. I was the leading actress in our company.”

“It isn’t the same,” I said gently. “It doesn’t count all that much with the professionals. How old are you? I’m sorry. I should not have asked. I am acting like an agent.”

“I want you to be like an agent. I realize you know a good deal about it because of your mother. I’m just seventeen. I felt I couldn’t wait any longer.”

“How long have you been in London?”

“Three months.”

“And what have you been doing?”

“Trying to find an agent.”

“And no luck?”

“They weren’t interested. It was always no experience. They wouldn’t even let me show them what L could do.”

“Where do you come from?”

“From a place called Waddington. It’s only a little village. Nobody’s ever heard of it except those who live there. It’s not far from Hereford. I hadn’t a chance there, of course. All I could do was sing in the church choir and at concerts I was the star turn.”

“I understand.”

“And when I saw your mother in Countess Maud, I wanted to be just like her. She’s wonderful. You can feel that the audience is with her all the way.”

“So you left this place near Hereford. What about your family?”

“I haven’t any family now … nor any home. My father rented a small farm and we lived fairly comfortably until he died. My mother had died when I was five years old, so I don’t remember much of her. I kept house and did a bit on the farm.”

“I see, and all this time you wanted to be an actress. Did your father know?”

“Oh yes, but he thought it was just a dream. He was very proud of me when I sang in the concerts. He used to sit in the front row, his eyes on me all the time. He understood, but he was the sort of man who would say it can’t be done and be resigned. I’m not like that. I have to try to make it come true.”

“It’s the only way of course. My mother had a hard struggle.”

“I guessed she had. She would not come to that perfection easily. When my father died I decided I would try my luck. I would never forgive myself if I did not. My father had a stroke. I looked after him for six weeks before he died. Then I sold up everything I had and came to London.”

“And you have been here for three months and are just where you were when you arrived.”

“Only much poorer.”

“I’m afraid your story is not unusual. So many people are ambitious and so few succeed.”

“I know. But I am going to try. How did your mother get on? Fighting her way. And that is what I am going to do.”

I said: “I know how you feel, but just now you ought to be resting. I think you should take the sedative the doctor left and sleep. But have something to eat first. I am sure that’s what you need. Then perhaps you will feel sleepy.”

“You are so kind.”

I left her and went down to the kitchen. They wanted to hear all that had happened and listened avidly.

“Miss Daisy Ray’s so kind,” said Mrs. Crimp. “She seemed to be in quite a state herself to think that her carriage had run down the poor girl.”

“You can rest assured she will do everything she can to help her,” I said. “Could you send something up for her to eat?”

“A leg of chicken or something like that? Perhaps some soup?”

“That sounds just right, Mrs. Crimp.”

“Leave it to me.”

Jane said: “I’ll take it up.”

I went back to Lisa Fennell and told her that some food was coming shortly. Jane brought it. She studied Lisa Fennell with interest. She wanted to chat. They had something in common: they both aspired to attain that fame which was Desiree’s.

“Everyone is so kind here,” said Lisa Fennell.

“That’s Miss Daisy Ray all over,” said Jane. “She’s always like that.”

Jane went, and Lisa Fennell ate the food with relish. I wondered whether she had enough to eat. I pictured her trying to eke out her money—for I was sure there was not much. She would be wondering all the time how long it was going to last—hopeful, despairing in turn. Poor girl!

I gave her the sedative. “This will make you sleepy,” I said. “It is what you need, the doctor said. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

I sat with her for a little while until I saw that she was becoming drowsy. It was not long before she was asleep. Then I crept out of the room.

I was waiting up for my mother when she returned from the theatre, because I knew she would want to know what had happened to Lisa Fennell.

She always went into the drawing room for about half an hour, as she said, to settle after the evening’s performance. Martha often went to the kitchen to get a drink of some sort. A glass of hot milk or perhaps a glass of ale—whatever she fancied. She said it helped her to relax.

I could always tell from her mood how the performance had gone. That night I saw that it had gone well.

“What about this girl?” she asked. “What did she say her name was?”

“Lisa Fennell. She’s sleeping now. She had a nice supper and then I gave her the sedative. She was soon asleep after that. I looked in at her about an hour ago. She was not aware of me. She’s going to be all right.”

“I do hope she’s not badly hurt.”

“Of course she’s not,” said Martha.

“You never know. These things are not always obvious at the start. They can show up later. And it was our carriage.”

“She ran into it,” insisted Martha.

“Thank goodness we were not going at any pace.”

“I’ve talked to her,” I said. “She wants to be an actress.”

Martha clicked her tongue and raised her eyes to the ceiling.

“Poor girl,” said my mother. “Has she done anything?”

“Amateur dramatics,” I said.

“God preserve us!” murmured Martha. “And she thinks because of that she’s another Desiree.”

“Not exactly … she thinks Desiree is wonderful. She just wants a chance to do something like it.”

I told them what she had told me.

“The best thing she can do,” said Martha, “is pack her bags and go back, find some farmer to marry her and set about milking the cows.”

“How do you know?” demanded my mother. “She might have talent. At least she had the determination to come to London.”

“Determination is not talent, as you should know.”

“It’s one of the necessary ingredients to success.”

“It’s bread without yeast. You never get it to rise.”

“Since when have you been the culinary expert?”

“I’ve been in the theatre long enough to know about the theatre. And for every one who gets to the top there are ten thousand trying to.”

“Some of us manage it. Why not this girl? I think she ought to have a chance at least. She’s done something in her village.”

“Village audiences are not London audiences.”

“Of course they’re not. But I don’t think the girl should be dismissed as no good before she’s had a chance to show what she can do.”

“So you are going to see if you can give her a chance, are you? Like the others you’ve tried to help. And what thanks did you get, eh? Some of them had the nerve to blame you because they thought you were going to hand them success on a plate, and when they didn’t get it, they thought you’d stopped them. They said you were jealous. The Lord spare us from any more of that nonsense.”

“I think everyone should have a chance,” persisted my mother.

“She did come to London,” I put in. “She’s got the right spirit, and I’ve heard you say that that plays a big part in getting there in the end.”

“We could at least see what she could do,” said my mother.

“Don’t forget you’ve got six shows a week, plus two matinees, before you start setting up the Good Samaritan act.”

“I’ll remember,” said my mother. “But I do think everyone should have a chance.” She yawned. “Good show tonight. I thought they were going to keep us there till morning with all those curtain calls. It’s good when they stand up and cheer. It looks as though Maud is here for a very long time.”

“And it looks as though it’s time for your bed,” said Martha tersely.

“I know,” replied my mother. “I’ll never get up in the morning.”

I kissed her suddenly. I thought how good she was, how kind. She really cared about that girl. In the midst of all her success, her first thought had been of her, and I knew she would do everything she could to help her.

The ultimate virtue, I thought, is caring for others. On impulse I went to her and kissed her.

Lisa Fennell had been with us for a little more than a week. My mother had heard her sing. She thought she had quite a good voice. There was nothing that a few lessons would not put right. Her dancing was not bad either. It was arranged that she should go to a singing teacher whom Desiree knew.

Desiree could be wildly enthusiastic about a project. She was, according to Martha, a natural Samaritan and more often than not a bit of a fool over her lame ducks. It was her carriage which had been involved in the accident, she insisted, and it was only right that she should try to make up to that poor girl, who had been terribly upset. She was impecunious; she was struggling; and to my mother it seemed only natural that she should take her under her wing.

Lisa was to stay with us for the time being, until she could be satisfactorily “fixed up.”

Her few possessions had been collected from her lodgings, the poverty of which had shocked both myself and my mother. I shared my mother’s feelings regarding her and was as eager to help as she was. We were both tremendously sorry for Lisa.

After three lessons with the singing teacher, my mother said to Martha and me; “I can’t see why Dolly couldn’t give her a place in the chorus. It’s rather thin, I’ve always thought.”

“Thin!” screamed Martha. “What are you talking about?”

“The girls should be closer in that number when they put their hands on each other’s shoulders and do the high kicks. Some of them have a little difficulty in reaching and it spoils the effect.”

“Nonsense,” said Martha. “It’s one of the best of the dances.”

“It could be better. Don’t you think so, Noelle?”

I hadn’t noticed the girls were having difficulty in stretching, but I had to agree with my mother.

“Yes,” I said. “They could do with one more girl.”

“I’ll speak to Dolly,” said my mother.

“He’ll go mad,” retorted Martha.

When she spoke to Dolly, I was present. She said: “I don’t want Martha there. She’ll side with him. But you be there, Noelle. He’s got a soft spot for you and a respect for youth. He won’t fly off the handle so profanely if you’re there.”

So I was present.

“Dolly,” she said. “I think the chorus line is a little too thin.”

“Thin?” cried Dolly.

“I fancy it is.”

“As long as it’s only one of your fancies.”

“There’s this girl,” she went on. “She’s good. It would be a wonderful start for her and it was my carriage. I thought, if we could squeeze her into the chorus it would be a good turn for me and just what she needs.”

“I’m not in this business to squeeze people into the chorus just because they run under your horse’s feet.”

“This is a poor girl, Dolly. Do listen.”

“Not if you’re going to talk about squeezing one of your protegees into my chorus.”

“Your chorus! Who made the show what it is? / did.”

“With a little help from me and some others. Actors and actresses always have inflated ideas of their importance.”

“Dolly, you’re not such a fool as you like me to think. We could do with another girl in the chorus. You know we could.”

“No,” said Dolly firmly.

“Dolly, I’m asking you.”

“I’m fully aware of that. You get these crackpot ideas about helping people who come along to you with a mournful tale. It’s just like you. It’s not the first time. Give this girl a job and you’ll have thousands tracking to your door. You’ll have them under your carriage wheels by the thousand. We’ll have a stage full of chorus girls. There won’t be any room for the principals.”

“Dolly, I am only asking for one.”

“Look here. I’ve just about had enough of your charities. Have them, if you must, but keep them out of my business.”

“I hate you, Dolly, sometimes. You’re so smug. Can’t you see you’re upsetting me? You’re going to spoil my performance tonight.”

Dolly struck one of his theatrical poses, pressing his hand to his forehead, his face set in lines of despair.

“What I suffer, Almighty God, who has seen fit to punish me. What have I done to suffer this woman? How can I endure this torment? She is determined to ruin me. She plans my destruction. She wants to ruin the play to which I have given all I possess. She wants to fill my stage with hundreds of simpering idiotic chorus girls.”

“Shut up!” said my mother. “Who said anything about hundreds? I keep telling you, it is only one. And if you are ruined, Mr. Dollington, it will be by your own hand. Now you are making me ill … too ill to go on tonight. You’ll have to use Janet Dare. See how the audience likes that. She won’t mind playing with a chorus that’s miserably thin because Mr. Dollington, who fancies himself as Garrick and Kean all rolled in one, is afraid of spending a few more pence on a show others are working themselves into the grave to keep going. Come on, Noelle, I need you to put one of those eau de cologne presses on my forehead. I can feel a splitting headache coming on.”

She had taken my hand and started towards the door.

Dolly said: “All right. I don’t promise anything, mind, but I’ll have a look at the girl.”

My mother was all smiles. The headache had evaporated.

“Dolly darling,” she said. “I knew you would.”

The result was that Lisa Fennell sang for Dolly while George Garland, my mother’s pianist, accompanied her on the piano. I was there with Martha.

“It’s good to have an audience,” my mother had said.

Lisa sang “Can I help you, madam?” and it was a good imitation of my mother.

Dolly grunted and asked her to go through one of the dances, which she did.

Dolly grunted again, but he would not give a verdict immediately.

“Just saving face,” my mother whispered to me. “Well, let him. It’s going to be all right.”

Later that day Dolly sent word that Lisa Fennell could start in the chorus the following Monday. He wanted her to get a little practice in dancing in the meantime.

Lisa was in a state of bliss.

“I can’t believe it. I really can’t,” she kept saying. “To think that I am in a show with the great Desiree.”

She was not more delighted than my mother, who said: “I know you are going to succeed. You’ve got the urge. That’s what it takes.”

“And to think that if I had not been run over and nearly killed …”

“That’s life, dear,” said my mother. “Something awful happens and it turns out to be good in the end.”

Lisa settled into the chorus and it was clear that she adored my mother.

I said: “She imitates your voice … she walks as you walk, with that special swing. You’re her model … her ideal.”

“She’s stagestruck, that’s all. I’m there and she’s making her way up.”

“She’s so grateful to you. You’ve given her her chance.”

“Well, they won’t be able to say she is inexperienced after this.”

Lisa said to me one day: “I’ve been looking at lodgings. I want to get somewhere near the theatre. It’s hopeless otherwise. Everything’s so terribly expensive. But I suppose I can just about manage. Your mother has been wonderful. I feel I just can’t encroach on her hospitality anymore.”

I told my mother what she had said.

“I expect she wants her independence. People like places of their own. Dolly’s a bit of an old skinflint. He says he can’t pay fancy salaries to chorus girls. If they don’t like what they get they can always go elsewhere.”

“She did say something about lodgings being expensive.”

“She’s no trouble here, is she?”

“I don’t think so. She’s quiet and helpful and gets on well with them all.”

“Well, sound her. Tell her she can stay if she likes. There’s that room at the top … if she has any qualms. That’s never used and she could be on her own up there.”

When I told her, I saw the joy in her face.

“It’s not only having to take something I couldn’t really afford, it’s being here … near your mother … right at the heart of things …”

“My mother said you could be on your own up there.”

“I don’t know what to say. No one has ever been so good to me before. Desiree is an angel.”

“She’s a wonderful person. I believe many people have discovered that.”

When she thanked Desiree, she was told: “You’ll find a way of paying me back if you want to. Not that I want paying. I tell you, dear, it’s as much pleasure for me as it is to you to see you doing the work you’re set on. You’ll get on and I’ll be the first to congratulate you.”

“And to know that but for you it could never have happened.”

“Oh, there are always ways, dear.”

We slipped into a routine. I did not see so much of Lisa Fennell. I think she was afraid of intruding. She had the big attic room, the ceiling of which sloped on either side; and there she lived in quiet contentment. She used to sing songs from Countess Maud and often I thought it was my mother singing.

It was three months since the first night of Countess Maud, and the audiences were still flocking to see it. Some people came more than once. That was a sign of success.

Lisa used to come home from the theatre with my mother and Martha. I did not think Martha was very pleased with the arrangement. She was very possessive towards my mother and I was sure that she resented her interest in Lisa.

Lisa was aware of this and tried hard not to offend. In fact, it seemed to me that Lisa was aware of a good deal and was treading warily, terrified of alienating anyone.

I mentioned this to my mother and she said: “Yes, it’s possible. The poor girl is very anxious to hold her job. She doesn’t want to upset anyone. I know exactly how she feels. We must try to make things easy for her.”

Then something happened which was significant. Janet Dare had an accident. She had gone shopping in Regent Street one afternoon, had slipped on the pavement and broken her leg in two places. It was going to be a long time before Janet was back at work.

Janet was in the chorus as well as being understudy, and the chorus line would now be as it was before Lisa came. They could get by with those, but an understudy, although fortunately rarely needed, was a necessity.

I could see the dreams in Lisa’s eyes.

She approached my mother first. “I know the songs. I know the dances … and I’ve watched every one of your performances.”

“I know,” said my mother. “You’d be right for the job. I can’t answer for Dolly. If I suggest you, he’s bound to raise objections.”

“But I do know it so well. I’d practice … I’d rehearse …”

“I know, dear. You are the one for it. Leave it to me. I’ll see what I can do.”

Dolly was surprisingly acquiescent. I think he must have realized that Lisa Fennell was the best choice. She had modelled herself on my mother. She knew the songs.

He raised no objections and it was settled.

Lisa Fennell, in addition to her role in the chorus, was to understudy Desiree.

The Understudy

I had seen Roderick Claverham on one or two occasions. The meetings were never planned. They took place on matinee days.

I would stroll out shortly after my mother had left and he would be waiting for me in the street. There was always an element of excitement because I would be wondering whether he would be there.

I was almost sure that he would be all the same.

I think we liked it that way because both of us had a feeling that the meetings should be something of a secret, in view of the relationship between our parents.

However, I enjoyed the meetings very much. We walked a good deal: we had tea in our little tea shop, and then he took me to the theatre, where I would join my mother, and we would come home in the carriage with Martha and Lisa.

We sometimes walked down Piccadilly to Green Park. There we would sit and watch people as they strolled by, and the children feeding the ducks.

I had learned a certain amount about his home—enough to give me a fairly clear picture of it. I heard about the interesting people who had visited Leverson Manor since the discovery of the Roman remains. And, of course, I talked about myself.

I knew this was an intermediary period. We could not go on meeting like this. In a way it seemed almost furtive, for I said nothing to my mother of our acquaintance, which was extremely odd, for up to this time I had always been completely open with her. And I guessed he had said nothing to his father.

I was right when I told myself that it could not last like that. I wanted him to come and meet my mother; he wanted me to visit his home in Kent. I had a longing to do so, and a burning curiosity to see Lady Constance even more than the Roman remains.

It was Tuesday and my mother was spending the afternoon with her dressmaker. She wanted some new clothes for the show. She thought it needed brightening up a little.

I had told Roderick that I should be free on that particular day and he had immediately said we must meet.

We made our way to Green Park and as we were sitting there Roderick suddenly said: “What are we going to do, Noelle?”

“Do?”

“I mean … how much longer are we going on meeting like this? You haven’t told your mother, have you? I haven’t mentioned our meetings to my father. It seems odd. Why do we do it?”

“I think we both feel it might be a little embarrassing for them.”

“Yes. I think it would be for my father.”

“I suppose my mother is not so easily embarrassed. She would think it was quite normal. I really don’t know what to say about it.”

“Well, we have avoided mentioning it. It’s absurd really. It is not our affair.”

“It is just that your mother knows nothing about this … friendship between your father and my mother, and if she did, of course, she would not approve.”

“I am sure she would not, and my father would not wish her to know.”

“And because of that, you and I are caught up in this secrecy.”

“I should like to call openly at your house. I want you to visit Leverson. After all, we are very good friends. At least I hope we are.”

“I hope so, too.”

“Well, with two of us hoping, it must be. What are we going to do about it, Noelle?”

“I really don’t know.”

“You see … you and I … well …”

“Why … Noelle!”

I was startled … Lisa Fennell was coming towards us. I felt myself flushing. Her bright curious eyes were on Roderick.

I said: “Let me introduce you. This is Mr. Roderick Claverham, Mr. Charlie Claverham’s son.”

“Oh! How nice to meet you.”

“And this is Lisa Fennell. She is in the show … Countess Maud . . . you know.”

“I was taking the air,” she said. “Trying to get relaxed for the evening’s show. It’s a lovely day, isn’t it? I love the parks in London. May I sit down with you?”

“Please do,” said Roderick.

She took her place on the other side of him.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you at the house,” said Lisa.

“No,” replied Roderick. “I did come once. That was a little time ago.”

“I think it was before you joined us, Lisa,” I said.

“Has Noelle told you how I came?”

“Yes. She did mention it.”

“Wasn’t it wonderful? Like a fairy story. I was almost killed, you know.”

“The carriage wasn’t going very fast,” I said.

“And it all started from that. Desiree … the famous actress … has been so good to me.” Her voice shook a little. “She is the most wonderful person in the world.”

“Yes. I have heard that she is very kind.”

“Do you live in London?”

“My home is in the country, but we have a small house in London. It’s very useful for my father, who needs to be here quite often on business. It’s very convenient.”

“I’m sure it must be. I love London. So ancient … and modern at the same time. What a combination! Don’t you think that is fascinating?”

Roderick said he did.

“Mr. Claverham has something very ancient in his own home,” I told Lisa. “They have found remains of a Roman settlement on the land.”

“How wonderful!” cried Lisa. She turned to Roderick. “Do tell me about it.”

I listened, vaguely thinking of what Roderick was saying when she interrupted us. It had seemed important. What a pity she had had to come along at that moment.

She was listening to him, urging him to tell her more—completely unaware that her intrusion had spoilt our tete-a-tete. Roderick was too polite to show the disappointment I felt sure he shared with me.

Eventually I said: “Well, I must go back.”

“And so must I,” echoed Lisa. “I had no idea it was so late.”

“Let’s go, then,” I said.

We went back to the house together. Roderick said goodbye and left us.

“What a charming young man!” said Lisa as we went in. Her eyes shone with pleasure. “Fancy Charlie’s having a son like that and keeping him hidden!”

My mother returned soon afterwards. She had had a rewarding session with the dressmaker and wanted to tell me about it. She was changing the blue dress in the first act to one of deep mauve and the one in the last act was to be red.

“Those colours stand out more. Besides, it will give the show a new look. And it will be good for us all. We’re getting a bit rusty. What do you think? I called on Janet Dare. Poor dear! She’s going out of her wits. She is just longing to be back. If it has anything to do with her, she won’t be off much longer.”

I thought I should tell my mother that I had met Roderick. Lisa might mention that she had seen him and it would appear strange that I had not talked of it.

When we were alone I said, trying to appear casual: “By the way, do you remember Roderick Claverham … Charlie’s son? He came here once.”

“Oh yes, of course. What a nice young man!”

“I’ve seen him … once or twice. I happened to run into him.”

“Did you? How interesting.”

“As a matter of fact, I was with him today. Lisa was with us.”

“Oh, Lisa … I was just thinking of her … having been with Janet Dare of course. She is so thrilled to have that job in the chorus … and the understudy.”

“She’s eternally grateful to you. After all, you fixed it for her, didn’t you?”

“I couldn’t have done anything if she hadn’t had the talent.”

“She tries to be exactly like you.”

“She’s thinking of playing Countess Maud, that’s why. God forbid, she might have to one day. My goodness, her nose is going to be put a little out of joint when Janet comes back. The poor child fancies herself as understudy.”

I was thinking I need not have any qualms about seeing Roderick. My mother was not greatly interested, nor was she in the least perturbed about her relationship with Charlie.

A few days later Jane came to my room and told me that my mother wanted to see me and would I go to her at once.

“Is anything wrong, Jane?” I asked.

“She don’t look too well, Miss Noelle.”

I hurried to her room, and was immediately filled with alarm. She looked most unlike her usual self.

“I’ve been so ill,” she said. “It could have been the fish I had last night. But it was immediately after lunch that it started. I feel dizzy as well as sick.”

“Why don’t you lie down?”

“I’ve been lying down. What’s so awful is that I don’t think I can go on tonight.”

“You certainly can’t if you are like you are now. I think I ought to call Dr. Green.”

“Oh no. That’s not necessary. It’s just something I’ve eaten. It will pass in time. I think you’d better get a message to Dolly, though … just in case it’s necessary … which it may not be … but we must be prepared.”

“Thomas can go right away,” I said.

In half an hour Dolly was at the house in a state of great agitation.

“What’s happened? Eaten something? Oh, Almighty God, what have I done to deserve this?”

“I should cut out the dramatics, Dolly. It’s not the time for them. If I can’t go on tonight we’ve got to do the obvious … and we ought to be busy with it right away … just in case it’s necessary … which it may not be, but we have to be ready. Lisa will have to take my place.”

“That amateur!”

“She’s not an amateur. She’s not bad, actually. You yourself have said so, though it was like getting blood out of a stone to make you admit it.”

“You talk as though this is of no importance. Let me tell you, it’s a disaster … a calamity. I’ve got to placate all those people who have paid to see Desiree, not some little amateur from the country.”

“Anyone would think it was the first time you’d had to put in an understudy. It’s nothing. Shut off the histrionics and bring out the common sense. You’ve got to get busy, Dolly. Of course, I might be all right. There are a few hours to go. But at the moment …”

“Is that girl here?” asked Dolly.

“Yes,” I told him. “Shall I tell her to come down?”

“Right away.”

I went to Lisa’s room. She looked up expectantly.

“My mother’s not well,” I said. “She’s been terribly sick and she’s giddy. Dolly’s here. She thinks she might not be able to go on tonight.”

She stared at me. She was trying to hide the elation, but I could see it there. Naturally it would be. I understood.

“Is she … very bad?”

“No. It’s only a bilious attack. She’s lying down. She feels dizzy when she stands up. I can’t believe she’ll be fit to go on tonight. You’re to come down at once. Dolly’s pacing up and down like an animal in a cage, and my mother is trying to soothe him.”

“He’ll be furious.”

“Well, you know Dolly.”

“He won’t trust me to do it.”

“He must,” I answered her. “He wouldn’t have given you the job in the first place if he didn’t believe you could do it in an emergency.”

“And your poor mother. How awful!”

“I don’t think it is anything much. She says she’s probably eaten something which did not agree with her. You’d better hurry. The longer you keep Dolly waiting, the more incensed he’ll be.”

She hurried down and I went to my room.

This could be Lisa’s chance. It was only natural that that thought should be uppermost in her mind.

My mother was feeling a little better but not well enough to go on that night. I wanted to stay with her but she said I ought to go to the theatre to cheer Lisa on.

“Poor girl. I know what she is going through. She’s got strong nerves, though. I will say that for her. And she’ll need them tonight.”

“She’s very earnest about it all.”

“Quite right. You need earnestness, and all you’ve got, to succeed in this profession, I can assure you. She shouldn’t be too confident, though, and I don’t think she is. She’s got to have that awful feeling that she’s going to lose her top notes and fall flat on her face instead of into her bridegroom’s arms. It’s got to be a mixture of fear and confidence … and that’s not easy to come by. Don’t I know it! But this is a chance for her. If she does well, she’ll be in Dolly’s good books. If she fails … it could be the chorus for the rest of her life. Let’s wish her well. She knows the songs, she knows the dances. The tricky bit is that twist at the end of the first act. Once or twice I’ve nearly bungled it.”

So I went to the theatre and I sat, trembling for her.

The curtain was about to go up. I surveyed the audience from the box I was sharing with Robert Bouchere. Just for those few minutes we were the only ones in the audience who knew what was to come.

Dolly lifted the curtain and stood before us.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is with great regret that I have to tell you that Desiree is indisposed and cannot be with you tonight.”

There was a gasp which rippled through the stalls, to the upper circle and gallery. I looked about me apprehensively. These people had paid to see Desiree.

“I have been in Desiree’s company just before coming to the theatre,” went on Dolly. “She is desolate because she has to disappoint you. She begged me to ask you to forgive her and she particularly asks you, her dear public, to give Lisa Fennell a chance to show you what she can do. Desiree has absolute faith in Lisa and I am sure that, after tonight’s performance, you will share that faith. I know how you all love Desiree, but you would not want her here when she should be in bed. She sends her love to you all. She is missing you as you are missing her. But she fervently knows that you will give Lisa a chance and that you will not be disappointed.”

The curtain was up. The opening chorus had begun and there was Lisa giving a fair imitation of Desiree in “Can I help you, madam?”

It was a good performance. I followed her every movement, watching for pitfalls, like the twirl at the end of the first act. The audience applauded. Some of them must have realized what an ordeal the poor girl was going through, and they had set aside their disappointment in not seeing Desiree and were giving encouragement to the beginner.

I said to Robert: “It’s going to be all right, isn’t it?”

“She is so like …” he said. “She copy, yes? It is like seeing a shadow of Desiree, you understand?”

“I see what you mean,” I replied. “But I think the audience is not displeased.”

“Oh no, no. But they do not forget they pay to see Desiree. It is a pity for Lisa that it is Desiree she must follow. If it were some other … someone not so … how shall we say? … so much herself … so distinguished … it would be better. She is good, this girl, but she is not Desiree.”

I saw what he meant. She had modelled herself too closely on Desiree, submerging her own personality into achieving it. If she had tried to present herself and not a pale shadow of Desiree she would have made more impact. As it was, she was Desiree without that inimitable charm, that overpowering charisma.

I drove home in the carriage with Martha and Lisa. Lisa was exhausted yet elated.

The audience had applauded loudly at the end and someone in the stalls shouted: “Well done!”

“The press was there,” said Lisa. “Oh, I wonder what they will say.”

I felt protective towards her. I thought she was attaching too much importance to this. There might be a few lines in the press, but there would be more interest in Desiree’s indisposition than in Lisa’s interpretation of Countess Maud.

Lisa evidently believed that stepping into the breach and hearing someone in the stalls saying “Well done!” was going to shake the theatrical world.

My mother was waiting for us. She looked considerably better and wanted to hear all about it. How did the audience react? How had Lisa managed that tricky bit at the end of the first act? Had she got right to the top notes of “I’d love you if you were a shopgirl still”? And how had her steps fitted in with those of the bridegroom?

It had all gone better than she had dared hope, Lisa assured her.

“Now I shall sleep easily,” replied my mother. “My dear child, I am sure you were wonderful. And Dolly … what did he say?”

“He grunted,” said Lisa.

“What sort of grunt was it? We always know his mood by the nature of his grunts.”

“Grunts of relief,” I said.

“Thank goodness for that. He must have been pleased or he would have been stamping round here by now.”

I said: “We must go to bed. Lisa’s exhausted.” I turned to my mother. “And you are an invalid. Good night, dearest mother.”

“Good night, my angel.”

We kissed while Lisa stood watching us; then Lisa herself went to my mother and put her arms round her.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you. I owe everything to you.”

“You owe tonight to some beastly bad fish, my dear, not to me,” said my mother.

We all laughed and my mother went on: “I’m glad for you, my dear. It was a chance and you were ready to take it. That’s the way to do it.”

Lisa looked remorseful. “I am sorry it was because you were ill.”

“Oh, come. Take your opportunities and be thankful from wherever they come.”

And on that note we went to our respective rooms.

There was not a great deal in the papers next morning—just a report of Desiree’s illness and that a newcomer, Lisa Fennell, had taken her place. There was no comment on how she had performed.

Dolly came round and I was eager to hear what his verdict was.

“She went through all the motions,” he said. “But she’s no Desiree, I can tell you that.”

“The audience applauded,” I said.

“They always do when it’s a newcomer. Even audiences have their sentimental moments.”

“So you think that’s all it was.”

He nodded and turned to my mother. “As for you, madam, you be careful what you eat in future. Don’t let it happen again. The audience wouldn’t stand for it. Maud would be off in a week if we had any more of that.”

So, I thought, this is the end of Lisa’s little triumph.

I was sitting in the park with Roderick. It was a week after Lisa Fennell had taken my mother’s place in Countess Maud. I was telling Roderick about it.

He said: “I suppose that sort of thing happens often in the theatre?”

“Oh yes. It’s quite a common occurrence. There is great consternation all the same when the leading player is unable to be there.”

“That girl has courage to face an audience who would obviously have preferred someone else.”

“Lisa was overjoyed. She did her best to show concern about my mother—and of course she was concerned—but she couldn’t hide her joy. After all, it was only a bilious attack … uncomfortable at the time, but it soon passed. As you can imagine, there was tremendous drama at the time. Dolly—that’s Donald Dollington—made sure of that. I think at heart he enjoys a crisis. It gives him a chance to display his dramatic talents.”

“How did the play go?”

“Quite well. I think Lisa is clever to have done it. Of course, there is something very special about my mother. It’s more than being able to sing and dance. It’s personality.”

“The girl seems to have a pleasant personality.”

“It’s not the same. It was a pity Lisa had to follow someone like my mother.”

“We were talking the other day … do you remember? … when she joined us.”

“I remember.”

“About this … situation. What are we going to do, Noelle?”

“You’d be very welcome at our house, you know. I mentioned to my mother that we had met and she did not seem to think there was anything extraordinary about it.”

“It’s a ridiculous situation. Just because your mother and my father had a sort of romantic friendship, you and I are uneasy about meeting.”

“But we do meet. Perhaps it is just our feeling and we are imagining something which isn’t there.”

“My father was uneasy when I appeared at your house. He has never mentioned it, actually, which is odd. I sense that he wants to keep his friendship with your mother apart from his home life.”

“That implies, of course, that it was rather a special friendship.”

“What of your father? He must have died a long time ago?”

“I’m not sure. My mother doesn’t talk about him very much. She makes it clear that she doesn’t want to. All that she will say is that he was a very fine man, someone for me to be proud of.”

“She never mentions when he died, or how?”

“No. Desiree can be very firm when she wants to, although mostly she is so easygoing. She’s made it clear that she doesn’t want to talk about him. I sometimes wonder if they parted. You see, she had this burning ambition to succeed on the stage. It might have been something to do with that. I often wonder whether he is still alive and one day I shall see him. But she has certainly made it clear that she does not want to speak of him.”

He nodded. “And then … of course … she just has friends … like my father.”

“There’s a Frenchman, too. He comes and goes just as your father does. Those two have always been coming and going, for as long as I can remember. I have always known that they were her special friends.”

“Of course, she is a very attractive person and she doesn’t live exactly conventionally in any way.”

“Oh yes. She doesn’t conform to the rules of society. I am sure she understands that your mother and Robert’s wife … I presume he has a wife … most men have … I’m sure she understands they would not approve of her friendship with them. She would say, well, it is better they do not know. She would respect their views and wouldn’t want to upset them in any way. She never makes any demands on her friends. She’s fond of them … you see, it is her way of life.”

“I do understand all that, but I am thinking of how it affects us.”

“Well, no one has suggested we should not meet. We shall have to see what happens.”

Roderick was not very satisfied, and I was thinking that this conversation was an indication of the way in which our friendship was progressing. We were no longer merely acquaintances.

We chatted of other things, but I knew that at the back of his mind was the thought that because of the relationship between our parents we were in a situation which he would like to change.

When I arrived home I was met by consternation.

My mother was laid low with another attack similar to that which she had had before.

Dolly was already there. He was in my mother’s bedroom. She was prostrate and looked very pale.

She said: “Oh, here’s Noelle. Thank God you’re here, darling. I feel better when you’re around. It’s another of those silly attacks. Something I’ve eaten again.”

I looked at her in dismay. It could not be. It must be something else … something serious. I felt a terrible anxiety creeping over me. She had always seemed so young … so full of vitality.

“I think we should get a doctor,” said Martha.

“No, no,” cried my mother. “It’s my stupid digestion. I ate too much at lunch. Well, I’ve learned my lesson.”

Lisa was there … anxious, on tenterhooks. She seemed as though she was trying to calm herself.

“If I’m no better tomorrow, I’ll see the doctor,” said my mother. “The important thing is the show tonight.”

Dolly gave a repeat of his previous performance, reproaching the Almighty, demanding to know what he had done to deserve this. Countess Maud was set for a record run. Why should the powers that be want to ruin that? Desiree was Countess Maud, and here he was, in such a short time, having to use the understudy again. What was Heaven thinking of? It hadn’t even been a decent interval, and here it was again.

Martha said: “Let’s get down to what’s what, eh? Let’s see what we’ve got to do. “

It was the same as before. Lisa went on. I was not there, but I heard she had improved her performance. It was not such a blatant replica of Desiree’s. But the audience was lukewarm. What could one expect? They had come to see Desiree and had been fobbed off with Lisa Fennell.

I saw her after the show. She was exhausted and less elated than on the previous occasion.

“I could do it,” she said almost angrily. “But one needs practice. If I had a week’s run I’d be all right.”

“You’re fine and you took it on at such short notice, and you haven’t really had a lot of practice on the professional stage. It was really remarkable. They realize that. They don’t tell you so, but they do. You know what Dolly is. He scoffs at my mother sometimes.”

I was sorry for Lisa. She had tried so hard and she had done very well. It was merely that she could not compare with Desiree.

I doubted there was an actress in London who could have done that.

The next morning, in spite of my mother’s protests, we called in the doctor.

Martha said it was too much of a coincidence that she should have eaten tainted food on two occasions so close together. No one else had suffered. It was better for the doctor to come.

My mother was completely restored and apologized to Dr. Green when he arrived.

“Your visit is not really necessary,” she said. “It’s these people who insisted on your coming. The trouble was that I had eaten something which didn’t agree with me and I was a little bilious and dizzy with it, so that I could not get to the theatre last night.”

“And,” said Martha, “it happened just a few weeks ago.”

I thought the doctor looked a little grave then. I was hustled out of the room, but Martha remained.

It was not long before the doctor came out. I heard Martha talking to him as he left.

I rushed into my mother’s room. She looked at me triumphantly.

“I told you so,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with me. It was something I ate.”

“What … twice?”

“Yes, twice. It can happen, you know. It’s not so difficult to understand.”

“But … are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I am sound in every limb.”

“Well, it wasn’t your limbs which were in question.”

“No … really, there’s nothing. It’s natural to feel a bit dizzy with a bilious attack. I think I had better have one of those food tasters … the sort kings and queens used to have in the old days. Don’t mention it to Dolly or he’ll make one of the chorus girls taster-in-chief. The fact is that there is nothing wrong with me. But I must always watch what I eat in future.”

Martha came into the room. She looked immensely relieved.

“I was right,” said my mother. “You wouldn’t believe me, would you?”

“Well, let’s thank our lucky stars that it is all right. Dolly will be here soon.”

“Yes. He’ll be furious with me for upsetting his show twice for nothing much.”

“He’ll be jolly grateful that it was nothing much. My goodness, you had me scared.”

“You scare too easily, Martha.”

“It did seem as though there was something to be scared about. If anything went wrong with you …”

“It would be the end of Countess Maud, it seems.”

“It would be the end of more than that. I don’t know where we’d be without you.”

Lisa joined us in the park. She just happened to come across us, she said. I wondered if she had followed me. She had been very interested in Roderick.

I was sorry for Lisa. I could understand her need for company. She was hovering between euphoria and despair.

It was the day after her appearance as Maud. The papers had mentioned it. “Another disappointment for all those who had gathered together to see the incomparable Desiree to find that once again she was unable to appear. We are told it was a bilious attack which had forced Desiree to take to her bed instead of the boards. In her place was her understudy, Miss Lisa Fennell, a young dancer usually seen in the chorus. Miss Fennell tried hard. She fought her way through, faltering on some of the intricate dances, but on the whole was adequate. A talented amateur. She needs more practise in the role. Poor Maud can only totter along at this rate. It’s a thin show and needs a personality like Desiree’s to hold it up. If she is going to make a practice of taking nights off, Countess Maud will not last another month.”

It was a wretched review, damning poor Lisa with faint praise.

Desiree said: “It’s not bad, dear, not bad at all. You should see some of the stuff that came my way in the early days! You’d have thought the best thing I could have done was pack up and go home. They’re like that, dear, all these critics. They couldn’t do it themselves and they don’t like anyone else to. You just don’t take any notice of them. Most of them would give their ears to be on the stage. They can’t do it, so they take it out on those who can. That’s what I’ve always said, and if anyone ought to know, I did.”

Lisa let herself be persuaded. Someone outside the stage door as she left had asked for her autograph and that had raised her spirits considerably.

As before, the press was more concerned with Desiree’s absence than Lisa’s presence. One bilious attack would have been passed over as something that could happen to anyone; but two aroused suspicion. There were hints. Could it be that Desiree’s indisposition might be due to an inclination to take just a little too much of her favourite beverage?

This set my mother and Dolly seething with rage and resentment—even threatening to take action against the offending journalist. After a while, though, they grew calmer.

“What can you do?” said my mother. “You’ve just got to take what they hand out to you.”

Apart from that it seemed that the press had decided that an understudy’s taking over from a well-known actress for a night— or two—was no great news.

Because it had happened so recently, on this occasion in the park, Lisa’s taking over the part during my mother’s enforced absence was the main topic of conversation.

Roderick listened politely as Lisa went over it all.

Poor Lisa, I thought. I supposed talking about it gave some balm to her wounded spirit. She was explaining to him the feeling of numbed terror as the curtain rose.

“I know all the numbers … all the steps. I’ve watched them from the chorus whenever I was onstage, and the chorus is used nearly all the time in Countess Maud … and yet I keep asking myself, ‘Can I remember this? What’s the first line after that?’ Your knees knock together. You’re sure the words won’t come.”

I put in: “My mother always says it is necessary to feel nervous if you are going to give a good performance, and you obviously did that, Lisa.”

“I do hope so. But nobody noticed …”

“Dolly did. He was pleased with you, really. I could tell that.”

“He said the show would close if Desiree had any more bilious attacks.”

“Of course it wouldn’t and she won’t. Missing a night or two only makes the people more eager to see her.”

I turned to Roderick. “Do forgive our going on about this. It was so important to Lisa.”

“I can understand that,” he said. He turned to her. “I wish I had been there.”

“I’m glad you weren’t. I’d rather you saw me when I had had a little more practice.”

“I hope no more practice with Maud, ” I said quickly. “You can only have that if my mother has more attacks and we should all be very worried if she did.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that. Of course I didn’t. I agree. / was really worried when she had that second one … but of course it was just a coincidence … as the doctor said. It can happen.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Roderick, “you could get the leading part in another play … after what you have done in this one. It must be very difficult to be called upon at a moment’s notice. Everyone will know that.”

“It’s part of an understudy’s job. I have to be grateful that I got a start at all. It is so hard to get going without friends.”

“Well, you have friends now,” said Roderick.

She seemed to realize that we had been talking too much about her affairs and she said quickly: “Do tell us more about those wonderful discoveries on your land. How I should love to see them!”

And so we talked, and I felt faintly resentful because once again she had interrupted my session with Roderick.

I went with my mother to visit Janet Dare. She lived in a small house in Islington which she shared with a friend. She was delighted to see us.

The first thing she said was: “Look! No crutches.”

“Wonderful!” cried my mother. “When are you coming back?”

“I have to do some exercises first. It’s the dancing, you see. That’s going to take a little time. If it weren’t for that, I should be back in a week or so. I hope everything’s going all right and Mr. Dollington understands.”

“Of course he does.”

“It was wonderful of him to go on paying my salary. I don’t know what I should have done otherwise.”

I knew why that was. I had heard my mother arguing with him about it. Dolly had said the company could not afford to pay a girl who wasn’t working, particularly in that he had had to top up Lisa Fennell’s salary on account of her taking on understudy.

“Don’t be mean, Dolly,” my mother had said. “What’s the poor girl going to live on if you don’t pay her salary?”

“What she lives on when she’s out of work, I suppose,” answered Dolly.

“You’re a hard one, Dolly.”

“Desiree, I’m in business. I’ve got to make the show pay or we’ll all be out of work.”

Finally they had come to an arrangement. The company would put Janet on half pay and my mother would make up the rest. Only Janet wasn’t to know, because she’d feel awkward if she did.

I wanted to blurt this out, for I always wanted people to know how good my mother was. She, who knew me well, understood and flashed a warning glance at me.

Janet was saying: “They tell me it will be two more weeks before I should attempt to practise. I reckon it will be a month before I’m back. My legs will be stiff at first.”

“You don’t want to strain yourself. Lisa Fennell’s quite good.”

“That new girl! What a chance for her! To go on twice!”

“Due to my silly digestion.”

“I read the papers. It wasn’t exactly fame overnight, was it?” she added with a faint hint of satisfaction.

“That’s mostly a romantic dream, you know.”

“It has happened. But not to Lisa.”

“She hasn’t been long on the stage,” I said, defending her. “She really did quite well.”

“Quite well is a polite way of saying not quite well enough,” said Janet. “I reckon I could have made them sit up.”

“I can see that I have been a little remiss,” said my mother with a laugh. “I should have had more bilious attacks.”

“Oh no … no,” cried Janet. “I didn’t mean that! I was horrified when I heard.”

“That’s all right, dear, I understand. It’s all very natural. One man’s meat is another man’s poison, as they say. Well, it certainly was poison in this case. However, I shall be careful in future. And don’t you worry. You’ll have a name one day. It’s a name you want. It’s funny what a name does. People have a way of thinking you’re good if they’ve been told so. And the more they’re told, the better they believe you to be. The idea is planted in their heads before they’re aware of it.”

When we left, my mother said: “Poor girl! It’s dreadful for her. I hope she’ll soon be dancing again.”

Lisa was very interested when she heard we had been to see Janet Dare.

“It will be some time before she dances again,” I told her.

“It must be awful for her. I know just how she must be feeling.”

“She thinks it will be a month. My mother thinks it will be quite six” weeks. If it were just singing she would be all right. It’s the dancing that’s difficult.”

“Roderick Claverham doesn’t often come to the theatre, does he?”

“No. He’s in town only for spells. He’s looking after the family estate.”

“I suppose it is huge.”

“I have never seen it, but from what he says, I gather it must be large.”

“That must be wonderful. Charlie … his father … is such a nice man. What’s his mother like?”

“I’ve never met her.”

Lisa smiled secretively. “No. I suppose the families wouldn’t meet. What I mean is … Charlie’s here when he’s in London … and he’s in London quite often … when you consider there’s this estate in the country.”

Of course, Lisa Fennell was sufficiently worldly-wise to understand the situation. Charlie was so obviously devoted to my mother. They were like a married couple … not in the first flush of passion, but having reached that happy state of understanding and deep affection, as though they had settled down to a sober and rewarding friendship, undemanding and contented.

Lisa continued to talk of the Claverhams and I found myself telling her what I knew of the Kent mansion and Lady Constance.

She listened avidly.

“And you,” she said. “You are really very friendly with Roderick Claverham.”

“We’ve met a few times.”

“Even though he doesn’t come to the house.”

“Well, he could. My mother would be pleased to see him.”

“Yet he doesn’t come. He just arranges to meet you outside.”

“Oh well … we just meet.”

“I know.” She looked amused.

“He comes to London a good deal now, doesn’t he?”

“People do, don’t they? They like the country, but it’s nice to get away from it now and then.”

“He’s like his father.” She was smiling to herself. “How long is he staying in London?”

“I don’t know.”

“I thought he said something about being here till the end of the week.”

“Oh yes, I remember. You are very interested in him.”

“I am interested in everyone and he is very interesting. So is his father … and Desiree and you … I’ve always been interested in people around me, haven’t you?”

“I suppose so.”

But I felt she was particularly concerned with Roderick Claverham.

Then it happened again. It was about three o’clock in the afternoon. My mother was resting, as she often did, in readiness for the evening’s performance. I went in to see her.

She was lying on her bed, and the moment I entered the room, I could see that something was wrong.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I’ve got that silly queasy feeling coming on.”

“Oh no!” I cried, alarm creeping over me.

“It’ll pass. When something like that has happened you imagine it’s going to repeat itself. That’s all it is. Imagination.”

“Lie still, then, and perhaps it will pass.”

“I hope so, darling. I think it might just be nerves. This maddening countess has been part of my life for too long.”

“Oh, it hasn’t been all that much of a long run yet.”

“I get like this after a while … unsettled… I keep thinking of something new. I’m restless by nature. I’ll be all right. Did you want something? Was that why you came in?”

“No, nothing special. I just wanted to see whether you were asleep. Do you feel any better now?”

“Not really, dear. I’m becoming afraid there’s no doubt that it is that silly old thing again.”

“Shall I send for the doctor?”

“No, no. He’ll only say it’s something I’ve eaten.”

“What have you eaten?”

“Nothing much since the dinner last night and the milk I had after the show. I just had coffee and toast for breakfast and a little fish for lunch.”

“Fish again?”

“I often have fish.”

“It’s very strange. I’m worried about you.”

“Oh, my darling, you mustn’t be. I’ll be all right. Strong as a horse, that’s me.”

“What about those attacks? They are getting too frequent.”

“Darling, I think there’s no help for it. Dolly will have to be told.”

I was really worried now. This was the third time over a fairly short period. Something would have to be done.

Dolly was in despair. He had got away with it twice, and now here it was again. It looked as though it were becoming a habit.

At five o’clock that afternoon my mother was certain she could not go on that night. By this time Dolly was really frantic. What was the audience going to say this time? People would think it was no use booking. You never knew what you were going to see. The press would have a field day. They were already hinting that Desiree’s troubles were due to intoxication. That sort of thing did an actress no good with the public. Who was going to believe in these bilious attacks?

That was the trouble. I did not believe in them either. I was terribly afraid that there was some reason for them other than that they were due to something she had eaten.

Martha felt the same. She averted her eyes and muttered something to herself.

“Tomorrow,” she said, “I’m going to get another opinion. No more of that dithering old Green.”

The immediate concern was the night’s show.

Lisa was in a nervous state. Like all actresses in a similar position, she had hoped for fame overnight. She had scarcely had that. I was not sure whether her performances had done her more harm than good. But she was always hopeful. This would be her third attempt and I knew she was practising the leading role all the time.

My mother said to me: “Do go tonight. I think it helps Lisa to know you’re there. Robert is in town. He’ll go with you.”

I did not want her to know how anxious I was about her, so I agreed. The next day Martha and I would put our heads together and decide what should be done. We would call in a specialist and try to find out if there was anything seriously wrong.

Just before Lisa left for the theatre I had a word with her.

She was pale and tense.

“I’ve done a bold thing,” she said. “I don’t know what made me. I wrote a note to Roderick Claverham and asked him to come to the theatre tonight as I’m playing the lead.”

I was astounded.

“What will he think?” she went on. “He probably won’t come.”

“Why did you?” I asked.

“I just had a feeling that I needed in the audience all the friends I could muster.”

“You’ll be all right,” I said. “I wonder if he’ll come.”

“He did say he was sorry he missed my performance before.”

I really could not give my attention to much except what was wrong with my mother. I wished I could talk to Martha about it. Charlie wasn’t in London at the time. He would have been very understanding and would have helped us to find the right specialist. For to a specialist we were going. Martha had made up her mind about that … and so had I.

I was glad of Robert that night. It was his custom to take a box for as long as the play should run for all my mother’s shows, so we were able to use it whenever we wanted to. It was most convenient.

Robert was very concerned about my mother, and I felt I could talk to him as openly as I could to Charlie.

He said: “This is most disturbing.”

I told him that we were going to insist on her seeing a specialist tomorrow. We didn’t think Dr. Green was good enough.

“You think it is something really bad?”

“Well, it has happened three times, all within a short space of time. She has to feel really ill to give up a night’s performance. It can’t go on. We are wondering if there is some reason for it … something wrong … internally.”

“She always looks so … how do you say it? … so full of the good spirits.”

“Healthy! Vital!” I supplied. “I wanted to stay with her but she wouldn’t hear of it. She said Lisa would need my support.”

“That is what she say to me. Dear Desiree, she think always of the others.”

“Yes. And I’m terribly worried about her.”

He took my hand and pressed it.

“We will do something,” he promised.

I looked down below. In the tenth row of the stalls I saw Roderick. He looked up at the box and waved. So he had come to see Lisa.

I was wondering what would happen when Dolly came out onto the stage and said his piece. The audience listened aghast, then the murmuring started.

Dolly looked distraught, his hand to his brow, his pose one of acute melancholy. He faced them bravely.

“Desiree is desolate. She hopes you will forgive her. Believe me, if she were fit to stagger onto this stage, she would have done so.”

One or two people walked out. We waited in trepidation for more to follow. There were some anxious moments, and then they settled down.

They had come to see a show. It was an evening’s outing, and although it might not be what they had expected, they would stay.

The curtain went up; the chorus was singing; it parted and there was Lisa. “Can I help you, madam?” She was giving it everything she had. I thought she was good.

Let them like her, I prayed.

Dolly came silently into the box and sat down, watching the audience rather than the stage.

After a while the tension eased. It was not going too badly. I felt even Dolly relax a little, but he was still watchful, still alert.

In the interval he left us.

Robert said: “It goes well, eh? Not bad? The young girl … she is no Desiree … but she is good, eh?”

I said: “Yes. It’s the third time she’s done it and she improves every time.”

“It is a trial for her.”

The door opened and Roderick looked in.

“Hello,” I cried. “I saw you below. Robert, this is Roderick Claverham, Charlie’s son. Roderick, Monsieur Robert Bouchere.”

They exchanged courtesies.

“It was good of you to come,” I said. “Lisa will be pleased.”

“How is your mother?”

“It’s another of those horrible attacks. We’re going to make her see a specialist. Martha is going to insist, and I agree with her. She can’t go on like this. How are you enjoying the show?”

“Very much. I am somewhat far from the stage, but it was the best seat I could get at such short notice.”

I looked at Robert. I said: “This is Monsieur Bouchere’s box. He kindly allows us to use it.”

Robert said quickly: “You must join us. Here you get a good view of the stage, except for the one corner. It is the right one. But that is rarely of importance.”

“How kind of you. I shall be delighted.”

“You are staying in London long?” I asked Roderick.

“No. My visits are brief. There is a good deal to do at home.”

“And your father?”

“He is at home now. I expect he will be coming to London soon.”

The bell was ringing and the curtain was about to rise.

I noticed with interest how Roderick watched Lisa.

“She’s doing well,” I said. “I’m glad.”

He nodded.

The final curtain had fallen. Lisa took the applause with obvious gratitude. It did not last very long. If my mother had been there, they would have called her back and back again.

We went into Lisa’s dressing room to congratulate her. She was half elated, half apprehensive and looked frail and vulnerable. I felt sorry for her and I sensed that Roderick was, too. Her great chance had not really brought her what she had hoped for.

Roderick said: “I wonder if I could take you out to a little supper … you and Noelle and perhaps Monsieur Bouchere?”

“What a lovely idea!” cried Lisa.

Robert said: “You must excuse me,” and I added that I wanted to get back at once to see how my mother was.

Lisa’s face fell and Roderick looked disappointed, too.

Robert said: “Why should you two not go, yes? It is good for you, Mademoiselle Fennell … to sit over supper … and what is it you say? … relax … release the tension. What you have done tonight is a stress … is it not? Yes … it will be good for you to sit … and talk … to laugh … to forget. I will take Noelle home.”

“Thomas will be there with the carriage for Martha and me,” I said.

“Then we shall all go in the carriage … the three of us … leaving these two to their supper.”

Roderick was looking expectantly at Lisa. I told myself he was implying that he would like to go back to the house to discover how my mother was, but Lisa was looking so dejected, and Robert was right when he said she needed to relax. As for Roderick, having made the invitation, he could scarcely take it back. So it was decided that Roderick and Lisa should have supper while the rest of us went back to the house.

When we arrived Robert said he would wait to hear the news of my mother, and as soon as we were in the house Martha and I went immediately to her room.

Martha knocked at the door. There was no answer.

“Asleep,” she whispered to me. “A good sign.”

She opened the door and looked in. Moonlight showed me that my mother was not in her bed.

Hastily we went into the room. And then we saw her. She was lying on the floor and it struck me that her head was in a very unnatural position. Then I saw that there was blood on her face.

I ran to her and knelt beside her. She looked strange … unlike herself.

I called to her in anguish. She did not move; she did not answer; and some terrible instinct told me that she would never speak to me again.

When I look back over the night that followed, it is just a jumble of impressions. There is the memory of all the household crowding into that room. Robert was amongst them. They were all shocked, unable to accept this terrible thing that had happened.

Dr. Green arrived.

He said: “She must have fallen and cut her forehead on the edge of that dressing table as she fell … and she has suffered further injuries.”

She was taken to the hospital, but by that time we all guessed that nothing could be done.

We had lost her. I was trying to think what it would be like without her, never to hear her voice again … her laughter, her gaiety, her easygoing acceptance of life. All that was gone … taken from us in the space of a few hours.

It was not possible to accept it at first. I wondered whether I should ever be able to. Life would never be the same again. I just could not imagine it without her. I could not bear to. She had been right at the heart of my life, and now she was gone, in one night.

Why had I not been there? I could have caught her before she fell. I could have saved her. While I was at the theatre, completely unaware, talking to Roderick, Lisa and Robert … this had been happening … and she was gone … forever.

It was past midnight when Lisa came in. She was flushed and elated. She had clearly enjoyed the evening with Roderick.

She took one look at me and said: “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

I said: “My mother is dead.”

She went pale and stared at me.

I said: “She got out of bed. She must have had a dizzy spell. She fell. She injured herself … and … it’s killed her.”

“No,” said Lisa. “Oh no …”

Then she fainted.

When she recovered, she kept saying: “No, no, it can’t be. She’ll get better, won’t she? She couldn’t die … just because she fell.”

I did not answer. I just turned away. She caught my arm. There was anguish in her face. She had really cared for my mother. But of course she had. Everyone had cared for my mother. I had thought in my heart that Lisa was too preoccupied with her own success, her own chance to show the world what she could do. It was natural. But she had really cared for my mother. She looked stunned. Yes, she had really cared deeply.

I got her to her room and asked Mrs. Crimp to bring her a hot drink. Mrs. Crimp was only too glad to have something to do.

“I can’t believe it,” she kept saying. “What shall we do without her?”

I could not answer that question.

The household was numbed by the shock. It was no longer the home we had known.

The papers were full of the news about Desiree.

“One of our greatest musical comedy artistes, Desiree had revolutionized the genre; she had brought it into favour. She was too young to die.” She had been cut off in her prime. She would be sadly missed. There were lists of all the shows in which she had appeared. Cuttings from the papers were reproduced.

There were reporters lying in wait for us. Jane’s opinion was asked. “She was a lovely lady,” said Jane.

Mrs. Crimp said: “Her sort are rare. There’ll never be another like her.”

Lisa was interviewed more than any. Lisa was the understudy. “I owe everything to her. She was wonderful to me. She gave me my first chance.”

I read the reports again and again. The newspapers were soaked with my tears. I wanted to read the laudatory notices … sometimes I would smile, remembering what she had said of some of those roles. Then my misery would descend on me. I could not rid myself of memories. They came flooding back. Going into a room when I was very young. “Is this a party?” and people laughing, frightening me a little until I was caught up in her loving arms.

People had loved her, but none more than I. I was the one closest to her; for me was the greatest loss.

Charlie was heartbroken: Robert was deeply unhappy: Dolly was despondent. The theatre was closed for a week out of respect for Desiree. And then what? demanded Dolly. It was doubtful that Countess Maud would continue. Dolly was deeply grieved, but, like the rest of us, what he was really mourning was the loss of Desiree. Like us all, he had loved her.

Then we heard that, in view of the suddenness of her death, there would have to be an inquest.

What an ordeal that was!

We were all there—the servants, Martha, Lisa, Charlie, Robert and Dolly. Lisa sat beside me, tense and nervous.

There was no question as to my mother’s death: it was due to a fall during which she had broken her neck, and there were multiple injuries which had resulted in instant death. But because Dr. Green had reported that she had been subject to bilious attacks which had come in rather rapid succession and for which the only explanation was that these were due to food she had eaten, a coroner’s inquest had seemed desirable.

Two doctors gave evidence. Traces of poison had been discovered in the stomach, although the poison was not the cause of death … only indirectly. The sickness and dizziness which had made her fall had, however, been due to the fact that she was suffering from the effects of this poison.

They talked of Euphorbia lathyrus, and I began to understand why men had been sent to examine the garden. The doctors explained that they were referring to the plant commonly known as spurge … caper spurge in this case. It would have been in bloom at the time of the death and could have contributed to it. In this plant was a milky substance which was a drastic purge and irritant. The results of taking it could be sickness and diarrhoea— and in some instances this could result in dizziness.

It was clear that the deceased had been a victim of such poison, and as there was a bush of caper spurge in the garden, it seemed likely that it came from this.

Perhaps she had been unaware of the unpleasant quality of this plant and had touched it on those various occasions after which she had been taken ill.

We were astounded. My mother had never expressed any interest in the garden, such as it was—a small square behind the kitchen with a few shrubs growing round it, one of which was evidently this caper spurge.

I could not imagine her going down to the garden or, if she did, noticing the plants, but the assumption was that on those occasions when she had suffered the attacks she had been in contact with this plant.

There was a seat in the garden. Yes, she had been seen by Mrs. Crimp on one or two occasions, though not recently, sitting on it. The caper spurge was near the seat. The conclusion was that by some means she had managed to get the poisonous juice on her hands and it had touched the food she ate soon afterwards.

To some it might seem a possible explanation. Not so to me, who knew her so well. It did transpire that some people were more susceptible to the poison than others. It was assumed that the deceased may have been one of these. But death was not due to the poison. It was the fall which had caused that.

The verdict was Accidental Death.

It was over. She had gone forever. A blank and empty future lay before me.

What now? I asked myself. What shall I do? I did not know and I did not greatly care. All I could think of was: she has gone forever.

A few days passed. They were bleak, meaningless. I was too numbed still to take in the situation and to realize fully the drastic change in my life.

Charlie and Robert were a wonderful help. I saw them every day. I felt they were both trying to impress on me that they were my friends and were going to look after me.

Dolly was quite desolate, and it was not only because Countess Maud would have to come off, since it was no good without Desiree. Lisa was quite ill. She stayed in her room and seemed to want to be alone.

I learned of my financial position. My mother had earned a considerable amount of money when she was working, but she had spent lavishly and the life of even a successful actress had its unproductive periods. She had lived up to her income and, when debts were paid, there would be just a little for me. Invested wisely, it would bring in a small income, enough perhaps for me to live modestly. The house was mine, but I should not be able to keep a houseful of servants.

My first thoughts were for the Crimps. They, with Jane and Carrie, had been part of my life. Matty had been making plans to leave, because, as she had said, I should not much longer be needing a governess.

Then Robert said he would buy the house from me. He needed a place in London. He had for some time been tired of staying in hotels. He would keep the servants and, of course, I must consider it my home for as long as I wanted to.

I said: “You do not really want the house, Robert. You’re just buying it because you know how worried we all are here.”

“No, no,” he insisted. “I do need a place. Why should I seek … when it is here? It is … her house. I feel it is what she would want. She talked much of you. She asked me to look after you … if ever there was a need. You understand?”

I did. He had loved her. He was doing this for her.

There was the question of Lisa.

“She should not be disturbed,” he said. “She is much upset. She was very grateful to Desiree. She grieves much. No, she must stay … if that is her wish. We will not disturb her.”

Mrs. Crimp said she had always known that Monsewer Robber was all right and, even though he was a foreigner, he was quite the gentleman. She and Mr. Crimp would look after him. They could not hide their relief that their future was safe.

Then there was Martha. She had already spoken to Lottie Langdon, who had always wanted her and had even on one or two occasions tried to lure her away from Desiree.

“I couldn’t stay here,” she said. “Too many memories. We’d been together too long. But now she’s gone and it’s no good wanting her back because she’s not coming. I have to keep reminding myself of that. I know what she’d say if she were here, God bless her. ‘Be sensible, Martha. I’ve gone and you’re still here. You’ve got to go on. It was good while it lasted, but it’s over now. You’re valued in the profession and you know Lottie Langdon always wanted you. She always said you were the best.’ That’s what she would have said. Charlie will look after you. She always said Charlie came first. He was the most reliable, in spite of that old dragon he married. Robert will keep this place going … for her sake … and it will always be a home for you. I don’t know anyone who was loved as she was. And she deserved it, that she did. I can’t stay here. It’s best for me to get away … and be quick about it. As for you, Noelle, you ought to do the same … even if it’s only for a little while. If there’s anything I can do … But I think Charlie wants to talk to you.”

She was right. Later that day, Charlie came to me and said: “I want to talk to you seriously, Noelle.”

When we were in the drawing room, he said: “Your mother and I were, as you know, very great friends.”

“I know that.”

“For many years the friendship persisted. I knew her as well as anyone. I loved her deeply, Noelle.”

I nodded.

“My dear, dear child, you were always first with her. She was a wonderful woman … unorthodox, yes … not always acting in a manner acceptable to society … but what is that beside a warm and loving, caring heart?” He paused, too filled with emotion to go on.

I waited, sharing his feelings.

“She asked me to look after you,” he continued. “She said: ‘If I were to go and Noelle needed someone, I’d like it to be you, Charlie.’ That is what she said. And it is not only because of that. I’m very fond of you, Noelle.”

“You have been wonderful to me, Charlie, always … you and Robert.”

“There are too many memories here, Noelle. I’ve been talking to Martha. We agree, you ought to get away. It’s very necessary. It’s all too close here. I know you will never forget her, but you have to try.”

“It wouldn’t be any good. I shall never forget her.”

“All grief, however deep, is softened by time. I want you to come to Leverson Manor. I want to have you there … under my care.”

I stared at him in amazement.

“But … I have never been there … neither I … nor my mother. It was … apart. We always knew that. Your wife would not want me there.”

“/ want you and it is my home. I promised Desiree that I would look after you. More than anything, I am determined to keep my promise to her.”

“You can’t do this, Charlie. Our two families have always been kept apart.”

“It’s different now. I am going to take you to Leverson. You must come. Think about it.”

I did think about it. It seemed incredible. To go there … after all these years. It was impossible. But Charlie was determined.

For a short period I was thinking of something other than the loss of my mother. To leave this house of memories … I thought with sudden pleasure, I shall see Roderick. See him often … learn about the estate and some of those exciting remains which had been found on it. For the first time since I had seen my mother lying dead on the floor of her room, I had thought of something else, and the curtain of gloom and melancholy had lifted a little.

Charlie went home that day—I supposed to prepare his family for my possible arrival. I could not believe that the formidable Lady Constance would ever allow me to enter her home. But it was Charlie’s home, too, and I had seen how determined he could be. He had been devoted to my mother, and that devotion was now directed towards me. I considered the prospect of seeing more of Roderick, and I felt that I was being propelled into agreeing to accept what might be an extremely embarrassing situation. I had to think of my future. I must take Martha’s example. She was unsentimental, full of common sense, and she had said, rightly, that when a situation became unbearable, the sooner one moved away from it, the better.

I should have a small income. Thanks to Robert’s bounty, I should have a roof over my head. What did women in my position do? Of slender means, fairly well educated: well, there were only two paths open to them. They became governesses or ladies’ companions. I could not see myself as either. Governesses usually came from highly respectable backgrounds—very often from vicarages; ladies who found themselves faced with the necessity to earn a living. The daughter of a famous musical comedy actress would scarcely fit in.

So … I needed to think of Charlie’s proposition.

It was, after all, what my mother had wanted, and she had sought the best for me. I needed time to think. On the other hand, it was desperately important that I draw myself out of this maze of misery in which I was caught.

Charlie settled the question temporarily.

After a few days he returned.

“Could you be ready to leave by the weekend?” he asked.

“But …”

“Let us have no buts,” he said firmly. “You are coming.”

“Your family …”

“My family will be ready to welcome you,” he replied with an air of finality.

And that was how I went to Leverson Manor.