Chapter 3 #3
Marguerite stood, slapped out her skirts, and spread her arms. “I was informed today that my name is too foreign. You’d think I’d come straight from the Tower of Babel, the way they mangled it.
So from now on, for the sake of the stage and my future adoring fans, I am going to be Rita, not Marguerite.
Rita Jolivet. English enough, don’t you think? ”
Inez stared up at her, her eyes wide. “It’s … well, yes. It’s English enough, I suppose.” She tried it out slowly. “Rita. It’s bold. I like it.”
“Good. So do I. All right, then. Your turn.”
“I’m fine with Inez.”
“No, sorry.” Marguerite pulled her upright with both hands; the striped quilt rumpled into a pink-and-white mound between them. “A new name, if you please. A good London name. A good English name for when you perform for the king at the Royal Albert Hall.”
Inez shook her head again. Marguerite could practically see her spirit shrinking at the thought.
“Very well, I’ll name you. How about Nezzie?”
“What? No!”
“Inezabeth?”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Well, then, come on. Give me something.”
“Leigh,” Inez said after a moment. Firelight glinted off her lashes, cast gold across the blue of her irises. “I’ve always admired it, ever since we were little. Leigh Jolivet. Simple enough, but … flowing.”
“Perfect.”
“But only for the violin. For my music. Otherwise, I’m still just me.”
A knock sounded on the door. It eased open to reveal the housemaid bearing a heavy silver tray.
“Oh, the tea,” Marguerite said and gestured to a side table. “Over there will be fine, Della.”
“There came a message for you, miss, to the scullery door. Some scrapper came by. I’ve put it with the cups.”
“Thank you,” she managed, hardly hesitating, although her heart began to pound and the top of her head suddenly ached, as if all the blood in her body had flooded to her crown, making her dizzy.
Inez gave her a significant look, waiting for the maid to leave, then crossed to the tray and lifted the envelope between two fingers.
“You’ve gone rather pale. Shall I?”
Marguerite nodded, speechless. All these years, all her life, all this waiting and dreaming, and here it was in front of her in the shape of a small, snow-battered envelope, her fate decided.
All at once, she didn’t want to know. If it was a rejection, if she wasn’t good enough, fair enough, strong enough—she didn’t want to know. She was a coward who wanted to keep dreaming, for better or worse.
But Inez was already breaking the seal, tugging free the sheet of paper inside.
“Regarding the Catharine’s Good Girls Stay Home.
Miss Marguerite Jolivet is cast as ‘Bessie Johnson.’ Rehearsals begin Monday next, noon precisely.
Salary negotiable. Have your agent contact for details.
Confirm at once.” She looked up, dismayed. “Are you supposed to have an agent?”
Marguerite braced a hand against the black walnut mantelpiece, light-headed and stunned and caught in the strangest sensation of vertigo. She felt afloat. Flying above herself.
Everything, once again, was numb, but in the best possible way.
“I don’t know,” she answered at last and flattened both palms atop her head. “Do you think I should find one?”
“Yes? Yes. Probably.” Inez frowned at the note, then carried it over to the secrétaire, pulling out the chair. “But for now I’ll just write them back, shall I, telling them that Rita Jolivet accepts.”
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, flush with success, Rita took them both to purchase the pistols.
She’d first glimpsed them a fortnight ago in a storefront along Piccadilly, shining with wicked purpose on the other side of the front window.
The shop itself was a small, nondescript place wedged between a haberdashery and one of the many ubiquitous booksellers that choked the road.
But for a hard beam of sun that pierced the glass, glancing across the weapons on display, she might have walked right by.
JOS. CHRISTIAN the senior Mr. Christian, she presumed—presented the matched pair with gloved hands, placing them reverently on a black velvet cloth spread along the main counter.
The shop was even smaller inside than she’d imagined, but every inch seemed to bristle with weaponry: assorted rifles and pistols and swords fixed to the walls, crossbows marching in rows up the corners to the ceiling.
A grouping of scimitars, most tarnished with age, had been arranged along the far wall in the shape of a starburst. A mounted ram’s head anchored its center, its mouth grimly set, glass eyes staring.
Inez was staring back at the ram with an air of dismay, her hands clasped against her stomach. Rita focused on the pistols laid before her.
“Browning,” the proprietor said, running a finger along the engraved sides, the gleaming mother-of-pearl grips.
“Belgium-made these are, best of the best, and prime examples of ’em, too.
Notice the slide mechanism, very modern indeed.
We have our share of Pistolet Brownings here in the Old Smoke, but you don’t see many like these, what with the pearl handles and all.
And the etching, eh? We tend to find the more practical sort over here, don’t we?
But these are pretty as a penny, miss. Rare fit for a lady such as yourself or your friend here.
Semi-automatic, never used, not even a year out of the factory yet. ”
Rita lifted the nearest one, turned to direct it at the window, and squinted along the barrel. Inez tore her gaze from the ram, took a nervous step back.
“Mar—Rita, are you sure?”
“It’s hefty, certainly, but not unwieldly. These will do.”
“Done some shooting, miss?” asked the man, respectful.
And Rita, who had never even touched a gun before this moment, said, “Oh, we’re country chits, both of us. You know how it is. Stag, moorcock, the usual.”
“I do, I do indeed.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I might mention that the American president himself owns a pair of these. Custom-made, pearly and all.”
“Really, sir, I’m quite sold. You needn’t butter me up.” He bowed. She waited until he straightened to meet her eyes, then added sweetly, “Could you personalize them?”
“Miss?”
“The etching, the scrollwork. It’s very attractive, but could you add a little something to it, along the barrels or somewhere? Our names, I mean?”
“Oh! Yes, of course! Nothing easier. My boy has a master hand, trained with the best. Handles commissions like this all the time.”
“Splendid. Have you some paper? I’ll write them down for you.”
THEY EMERGED FROM the shop into the day, blinking at the shoveled mounds of snow edging the pavements, miniature mountains that had begun to melt under the sun before hardening again, their crests streaked with soot.
Black dagger shadows stretched past them to score the road; a pair of motorcars puttered by, trailing exhaust, and the sisters paused to watch them pass.
“The Old Smoke,” Inez said thoughtfully. “It’s what he called it, the city. It makes sense to me.”
“I suppose so. Let’s walk a bit while there’s still some daylight.”
Piccadilly was rowdy, crammed with commerce.
Horse trams clattered along the icy cobbles, hansoms, a few more motorcars, and even a brave landau, roof lowered, revealing a laughing set of young men.
A footman in deep green livery walked toward them with a trio of waddling corgis on leashes.
The dogs snuffled at their skirts as they passed, tails wagging, and Inez finally smiled.
“Tell me. How does owning pistols make us scandalous?”
Rita tipped her head, considering it. “Why, we’ll wear them on our hips, like the cowboys do. We’re in the Smoke now, after all. And in the Smoke, it never hurts to have a little something extra on your side.”
Inez made a faint sound of amusement. She raised her arm and aimed her index finger at the filmy haze of roofs and spires that crowded the horizon.
“Bang!” she said, pretending to shoot.
Bull’s-eye.