Chapter 24
The applause continued.
Jane’s heart surged. As she curtsied again, alone on the vast stage, a vision in shimmering blue chiffon, the crescendo increased, and Jane thought that this once the ovation would become thunder, that this once it would become endless.
But already, and she had only just taken her bow, she heard the pitch dropping.
Still smiling, Jane inclined her head and left the stage.
Her smile disappeared. From elation came the dragon of despair. She felt it choking her. Would she ever get a standing ovation as her mother had?
Would she ever be as good as her mother?
“Jane, darling, you were wonderful!”
Jane managed a smile for Robert Gordon’s benefit. He was beaming, and he hugged her soundly. It felt good, and Jane clung briefly.
He was middle-aged with graying hair and a mustache.
He gave her a searching glance, then swept her into her dressing room.
Jane dropped down on the dark-red velvet love seat, feeling the drain now, as Robert popped open a bottle of champagne.
He handed her a glass. “You were wonderful, Jane,” he said levelly.
She looked at him, her eyes big and blue amid the white stage makeup, her lips rouged, cheeks flushed the color of ripe strawberries. “So you say.”
“Jane.” It was reproving. Jane sipped the champagne and closed her eyes, head back. “You are very talented,” Robert continued. “We’ve only been running three weeks, and London loves you! The performance tonight was nearly sold out!”
Jane opened her eyes. “But it will be the same tomorrow, won’t it, Robert?
They’ll say I am quite talented, especially for one so young.
Then they’ll wonder—will she ever reach the grandeur of her mother?
” Jane suddenly set the champagne flute down with force.
“I’m tired of being compared to my mother! Tired of it!”
Robert came to her and put his arm around her. “You are young. You are good. Give yourself time.”
Jane rubbed her eyes. “I’m just tired, Robert, forgive me.
” She stood and walked to the dressing table and began to remove her stage makeup with Pond’s cream and cotton.
Robert left her. When she had finished, she released her hair from its chignon and tied it back in a simple tail.
Robert returned with his arms full of roses. Jane had to smile.
“Do you want to see the cards?” he asked.
“Are they all amorous?” Jane returned.
“Of course.”
Jane laughed, shaking her head. “I’ll take the flowers home.” She glanced around. “There’s no place here for any more.”
And there wasn’t. Roses in vases were everywhere: upon her dressing table, on the butler’s table, on the side tables by the sofa. At least in this one respect she was similar to her mother, Jane thought. She had many admirers, not that she cared. Nor did she even care to know who they were.
They went out the back entrance, to avoid a few men who were waiting in front of her dressing room, hoping to catch a glimpse of her and have a few words.
It was that way every night. At first Jane had been flattered, then amused.
Now she accepted the attention and admiration as a part of her celebrity, as she did the appellation “Little Angel.” Apparently someone had remembered that she had been called “Sandra’s Angel” as a child and had been too glad to revive the nickname.
She was glad they had dropped her mother’s name; the cross would have been too much to bear.
They had avoided the busy mobs and traffic on Picadilly Circus where the Criterion Theatre was located; the street out back was silent and nearly deserted.
The Criterion had been built only two years before as an annex to the popular Criterion Restaurant.
Things had changed. All of London’s theaters were now booking long-running performances, instead of troupes that had a variety of acts in their portfolio.
Troupes no longer traveled about England and performed, and the companies changed when the performances did.
It made more sense, as evidenced by the popularity of the play Jane was acting in now, James Albery’s comedy, Pink Dominoes.
Jane sat with a shawl around her shoulders in Robert’s coach.
There was still a bite in the air in the evenings, even in mid-June.
She was very tired from her performance, and Robert understood, as he always understood, and he said nothing.
Impulsively Jane reached out to squeeze his hand, and he squeezed hers back.
Jane didn’t know what she would have done without Robert.
Not how she would have survived, but how she would have lived after leaving the Earl of Drag-more.
Robert had still been at the Lyceum almost two years ago, and Jane had found him instantly.
Her world was still intact, shattered but intact, because she expected the earl to come claim her.
Not out of love, but out of duty. Yet deep inside her soul, deep within her heart, she had the fantasy that he would chase her because he realized, at that last moment, that he loved her and could not live without her. But he hadn’t come.
And then her world had shattered like crystal glass. For he hadn’t come.
Robert picked up all the pieces. Jane stayed with him, grieving, her heart broken. He encouraged her to come to the theater with him, and after a few months of serious depression, Jane found her heart again in her love of the stage. And she began to smile once more; the tears came less.
She just wished she could hate him, and knew she never would.
Jane had a small town house on Gloucester Street.
Originally she had stayed with Robert, but soon both deemed that arrangement inappropriate.
The apartments were small and three-storied, plaster over yellow brick, in a modest but fresh neighborhood filled with shady elms. She even had a small yard in the back in the Mews with daisys and black-eyed Susans and a swing.
One of the stagehands had painted it for her, a pretty shell pink.
“Robert, I’m very tired,” Jane said, hoping he wouldn’t want to come in.
“I know. I’ll come by in the morning.” He looked at her.
Jane gave him her cheek, and he kissed it, his mouth lingering. “Good night.” She flashed him her smile, the one everyone said was so angelic. Then she slipped out of the cab and through the wrought-iron gate to the house.
Molly was waiting. “Evenin’, mum, more flowers?” A merry grin split her face. “How was it?”
Jane smiled. “Good. Here, take these, please.”
Molly laughed at Jane’s tone, taking the armload of roses. “I’ve got roast beef still warm in the oven, mum.”
“Maybe later,” Jane said, watching Molly leave with the flowers.
She smiled. It had been impulse, asking Molly to come with her that night so long ago when she had run away, but the maid had instantly agreed.
She had never been farther than Lessing, and the thought of going to London had been immeasurably exciting to her.
Jane hurried upstairs, kicking off her high-heeled slippers and quietly opening a bedroom door.
One small nightlight was on, illuminating the room.
There was a small bed, the headboard painted pink and blue and white.
Blue and yellow clowns graced the wallpaper, holding pink ribbons.
A few dolls lay scattered about, and a new, white-and-black wooden rocking horse grinned at Jane from the center of the room.
Jane moved to the bed, its sides up, to look at her daughter.
She smiled, because Nicole did that to her, made her unbelievably warm and happy—and unbelievably protective.
No one knew about her.
No one was going to take her away from Jane.
Jane knew, without a doubt, that if he knew, he would claim her and take her away.
Just the thought made her sick with despair—and furious with maternal anger.
If he had come after her when she had run away, then the child would have been theirs together.
But he had forfeited all rights. Nicole was hers.
Hers. And he was never going to take her away from her. Not ever.
Molly understood and Robert understood. They were the only ones who knew her secret. It was a terrible thing to live with, like a dragon breathing fire, to know that one day her secret might be found out and that one day he might come and take Nicole away from her.
Jane refused to feel any sympathy for the Earl of Dragmore. She refused to consider his right to know. She refused to consider his feelings—and the kind of father he would be. He had Chad. Nicole was hers.
She heard it then, Molly racing up the steps.
She was coming too fast, something was wrong.
Jane straightened, one last glance at her year-old daughter, wanting to touch the dark curls but resisting.
She quietly left the room, closing the door and leaning upon it.
Molly appeared, breathless, wild-eyed. Jane’s body tensed in anticipation. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“Oh, good Lord!” Molly cried, white-faced. “There was a knock on the door and I looked out the window, but it’s so dark, so when I saw a gentleman on the stoop I thought it was Robert come back! Or I’d never have opened the door!”
Jane’s heart stopped.
“But it ain’t! Mum! He’s here!”