Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Dora had sent a message to Sloane Street that Miss Austen should meet her in the office at ten the next morning.
She had instructed that the lady should wear her most fashionable clothes – no ‘country cousin’ looks if they wished to go into the world of opera singers and actors.
Jacob had already departed for his club when on the stroke of ten the lady arrived, interestingly without a maid.
Dora held open the door to wave her into the office. ‘You came alone?’
‘I hardly think either of us requires another female companion,’ Miss Austen said acerbically.
‘I’m sure the staff at my brother’s house have better things to do than trail after me.
’ She held out her arms to display her gown.
‘Will I do?’ She was wearing a red-spotted muslin trimmed with red braid – a stylish choice.
Her attitude was daring Dora to criticise and Dora felt she would not come out well from that skirmish.
‘You will do well,’ said Dora, thinking her own muslin was looking very dowdy by comparison. When she had some time to herself, she really must unpick the seams and turn the gown to extend its life.
‘I understand you will need to explain my presence,’ continued the lady, laughter lines at the corners of her eyes crinkling. ‘I don’t believe you are in the habit of taking a companion with you when you do your work?’
‘You are correct.’ Dora revised upwards her estimate of Jane Austen’s intelligence.
Eliza and Henry had not been merely flattering her when claiming she was the cleverest among them.
The lady had a talent for wrong-footing her company and seizing the initiative.
‘Do you have any suggestions? I confess I was at a loss when I was thinking about this last night.’
‘I can imagine.’ Was Miss Austen struggling not to smile?
‘Do you by any chance have any musical skills? How is your piano playing?’ Most ladies could play a few tunes on the pianoforte.
‘Tolerable but nothing to boast of,’ said the lady. ‘I would not attempt to pass myself off as skilled before a real proficient.’
‘Then what story can we present?’
‘Are you going to explain to those you interview that you are looking into the death of the late comte and comtesse?’
‘Word has got around among those in my world that I am working with Dr Sandys so yes, I was planning to do so.’
‘The truth? Never a bad idea.’ Miss Austen nodded thoughtfully.
‘There is no chance of getting caught out that way. In my case, I suggest you tell them that I am an authoress researching characters for my next novel, but I wish to keep my identity private as ladies of my station do not put their names to their publications.’
Dora frowned. She supposed it was plausible – at a stretch. Authoresses were normally more colourful characters, well known in town like Miss Edgeworth or Madame D’Arblay, not spinster ladies from Hampshire. ‘What shall we say you’ve written, if they ask, or is this your debut work?’
‘I think I shall lay claim to the novel Sense and Sensibility – yes, that would do. It came out last year and the author is anonymous.’
‘Sense and Sensibility! Oh, I loved that story.’ Dora had borrowed the book from a lending library in York and devoured it in three delighted bites, rushing offstage to pick up where she’d left off.
She’d almost missed a cue as she had reached the part when Marianne met Willoughby at the evening party in London.
‘We Austens also enjoyed it very much. I consider I know it well enough to answer questions should anyone care to ask.’
‘I hope the real authoress will not mind us taking her name in vain?’ Dora gathered her notebook and pencil, preparing to go out.
‘She sounds an eminently sensible lady and will not mind as it is in a good cause.’
Dora certainly hoped Miss Austen was right.
The only one of the big theatres open at present was Covent Garden, so Dora decided to start there to make a connection with the opera crowd.
Many performers would be taking the summer to tour, but if they were in luck, there would be some rehearsing for the beginning of the season or for private concerts.
After asking the porter what rehearsals (if any) were taking place, she led Miss Austen to the stage door on Hart Street and knocked.
A grizzled old man answered – the day shift.
He was practically bent double with arthritis.
They put beefier men on the door during performances to deter the admirers of the leading actors, but there was an unwritten rule in the theatre that retired stagehands should be accommodated with work where possible.
‘Good day, sir,’ said Dora offering her hand and a shilling. ‘My name is Miss Fitz-Pennington—’
Before she could go any further, the man opened the door and grinned. ‘Miss Dora Fitz-Pennington!’ He still pocketed the shilling.
‘You’ve heard of me?’ Dora doubted very much the positive notices she had received for her Viola and Polly Peachum in the provinces had reached London.
‘Oh, yes! You’re the one who took on Susan, Ren and Hugo. They think they are being so discreet, snooping around on the tail of ne’er-do-wells, but they’ve been spotted – oh, yes, spotted!’
Naturally, employing people from the Shakespeare’s Head Tavern a few doors away would not be missed by the theatrical crowd who went there to exchange news and grab a drink before and after the performance.
Watching the agency’s employees going about their new work had likely developed into a new spectator sport.
‘They have proved to be splendid hires.’
‘And that business in the Egyptian Hall!’ The doorman tapped the side of his nose.
‘We’ve all kept our tongues from wagging, but it’s appreciated, miss, very much appreciated.
’ With the help of the theatre folk, Dora had walked into the hall with a booby-trapped cart to foil the plot laid by a French spy and to save Kir.
What the doorman was appreciating she wasn’t sure.
Saving the boy, stopping the French gaining a piece of Elgin’s Greek marbles, or perhaps delaying the opening of a rival entertainment establishment – all were possible.
‘Fascinating,’ murmured Miss Austen, gazing at Dora with renewed interest.
‘We thank you for your discretion. May we come in? We’d like to observe a rehearsal,’ said Dora, attempting to get back on the trail of their purpose for being here.
‘But of course. Please go in.’ The doorman did not so much as spare a second glance for her companion. ‘The ones in today are in the Green Room, fourth door along that corridor.’
Dora felt an odd pang of homesickness as she made her way past the dressing rooms with that odour of the theatre that was partly grease paint, partly powder, and a distinct hint of sweat.
Nowhere she had ever performed matched the splendours of Covent Garden, of course; this was the pinnacle to which all others aspired.
It was exciting to get backstage here, even if it wasn’t with a mind to performing.
‘I do love the theatre,’ sighed Miss Austen, looking about her with lively attention.
Jolted out of her reverie, Dora glanced at her companion. ‘You attend?’
‘Whenever I can – though I’ve never been behind the scenes. This is wonderful – faded grandeur, exactly as one would expect.’ She patted the fringe of a frayed velvet curtain over an alcove with fond delight, like an aunt admiring the ringlets of a favoured niece.
‘I thought you lived in the countryside?’
‘Even country mice are allowed to visit their family in town from time to time.’
Thinking how quickly Miss Austen had come up with the story to explain her presence, Dora grew suspicious that she was in the company of an aspiring actress.
The woman didn’t have the stage presence to make a go of that, being neither beautiful nor memorably characterful – perfectly pleasant didn’t get you cast. ‘Did you ever want to go on stage?’ She hoped she wouldn’t have to be the one to let the lady down if that were her dream.
‘Only in private theatricals. My father ran a school when we were growing up and we would often entertain ourselves with putting on a play – even so, they did tend to get out of hand as we youngsters took them to heart. It was easy to fancy yourself in love with a young man spouting fine words written for him by someone else, do you not find?’
‘It is a hazard of the profession, to mistake the illusionary character for the reality.’ At least Miss Austen talked about it in the past tense. Dora wouldn’t have to tell her that the stage wasn’t for her.
‘Yes, I can well imagine that.’
Dora could now hear the chatter from behind the door of the Green Room and the trickle of notes from a piano.
The original actors’ waiting room in the sister theatre of Drury Lane had green-painted walls, but the name had now stuck as the communal space backstage in all British theatres, even little ones up north, no matter the colour of their decorations.
She knew better than to knock and went in with all the confidence her five years treading the boards had given her.
Two men and a lady stood around a piano with a seated accompanist, sheet music in hand.
They turned on hearing the interruption and the female pianist’s introduction tinkled away into nothing.
‘May we help you?’ asked the nearest man, a gentleman with a beak of a nose and flushed cheeks, likely in his fifties. He had a stature worthy of an alderman overly fond of mayoral banquets.