Chapter Nineteen
The only odd thing about the audience was that such a crowd should flock to this theater tonight.
It was almost as if the audience had been attracted by itself.
After all, there was no famous name on the bill except for one which graced an unknown actress.
No renowned actor was performing: Edwin Booth was home, ill; the Divine Sarah was somewhere in Paris, the lovely Lillian was playing elsewhere, Mr. Mansfield was in England.
Other great names were performing at other equally great theaters in the city tonight.
But that was only how things appeared at first glance.
Because, as everyone in the house knew, the famous father of one of tonight’s performers was present in the audience, and the well-connected suitor of that same performer had a front seat, too.
Together, those gentlemen had drawn such a crowd behind them, like comets trailing stardust, that the audience could be forgiven for dreading the moment when the house lights would be dimmed, and they’d be left to be entertained only by what would be going onstage.
After all, whatever fare was on the stage could scarcely compare to the famous profile of Blayne Darling, which he was kind enough to show by standing to greet all his friends and anyone who looked like he might be a friend, while constantly rotating so that no one in the crowd could miss him in the fifth row, center.
The fabulously wealthy Dylan brothers, as tall and handsome a pair of gents as anyone would wish to see, were there in the orchestra as well.
Gray Dylan was the fellow with an eye for the actress, his brother already had his won—for there was Josh Dylan and his spectacularly beautiful wife—she’d been an actress once, too, the whispers informed anyone who didn’t know—which would be anyone who was from out of town or dead.
There was a sprinkling of famous fellows from the Players Club and clutches of elegant ones from other exclusive gentlemen’s clubs, some accompanied by ladies, and some by women who were somewhat less than ladies and even more expensive; as well as ladies and gents from diverse mansions on Fifth Avenue: the rich and the dramatic were there in numbers.
Who could blame a ticket holder for staring at a sultan’s hoard of diamonds and rubies, emeralds and pearls, and a trapper’s winter supply of lush, exotic furs rather than his program?
And that was only what the gentlemen were wearing.
It seemed a pity that the ladies would have to remove their hats, because they were concoctions of plums and feathers, flowers, fruits, laces, and gauze that would rival the intricacy and daring of any stage set that might yet be unveiled.
Their gowns defied description, although members of the yellow press, in inferior seats, strained their eyes to try.
Whether they bore famous names or were only angling to acquire them from their escorts, the ladies dressed to the hilt and carried themselves with as much grace as sureness.
They either had a great deal of money or cost a great deal of it, and everything about them proclaimed it.
The audience itself ensured that the production it had come to see would be famous, whatever happened onstage.
Or infamous. Which was the same as famous in the theater, and perhaps even better.
Or so, surely, Kyle Harper’s greatest idol would have said, and what was good enough for P. T. Barnum was perfect for him.
Kyle stood in the wings and gazed out at the crowd.
He sighed as sorrowfully as anyone in the audience did when the houselights went down, the footlights were lit, and the orchestra leader strode to his podium.
Soon enough, fear and dismay, disappointment and fury would come as he watched the performers ruin his dreams—as they always did, however good they were.
Yet now, in this scant blink of time between the dream and the telling of it, as always, he rejoiced in the only real joy that he knew—the joy of perfect illusion.
And then the curtains pulled back.
Lester Claxton pranced out and made them laugh, the singers got them to join in on the choruses of even the newest songs, the dancers kept their feet tapping in time, and the stage sets and effects for every number made them gasp and applaud even more than the prestidigitator and the acrobats did.
By the time the comic dogs had paraded around the stage in fancy dress, the audience was clearly pleased.
When the intermission lights came up, they could be seen to be chuckling and smiling.
But it was equally clear that they wouldn’t remember a thing they’d seen.
An “Agreeable Entertainment” would be a fair review of the night’s fare, but it would be as bad as an epitaph on a gravestone.
None of it had been either excellent or deplorable enough to chat about at tomorrow’s dinner.
That was as deadly as outright failure would be.
But the night wasn’t over yet.
Hannah stood in the wings and waited for intermission to be over.
She was dressed in a long white nightgown, her hair hanging in carefully disordered gleaming waves, her cheeks pink with rouge, and her eyes wide with expectation: the very picture of the distraught daughter awakened in the night to hear dread news—as she was supposed to be.
Kyle studied her; for a scant moment, he felt a stirring of regret, even pity.
She was good. Not spectacularly so, but good enough.
Of course, the tensions of the night might destroy her resolve again, as they had that time in the West. But what Kyle knew, and doubted that she did, was that it hardly mattered what she did when she got onstage, so long as she got there.
She was Blayne Darling’s daughter, and so whatever she was, she’d be talked about; and being talked about, for good or ill, would keep the box office open.
Keeping the show alive so that it would make enough money to finance another was the only thing Kyle was concerned with.
Yet, just now, as he heard the audience settle in its many seats after intermission, Kyle had the wild urge to rush to her side and beg her not to go on.
He’d the sudden impulse to take her costume and play her part again, as he had once before, to save her from herself, lest she freeze with fear again, but this time—onstage.
But then he remembered it was her choice, and one she had to make.
And calmed himself by remembering that he’d offered her his name and his hand, whatever transpired tonight.
Gray smiled. At intermission he’d greeted acquaintances with ease and grace, now as the houselights dimmed, he stopped trading quips with his brother and sister-in-law, and settled back in his seat with an expression of polite interest. But Lucy Dylan saw his tanned hands clenched to fists in his lap, and Josh Dylan saw the muscle working in his clenched jaw, and husband and wife exchanged soft sighs as they glanced at each other.
Gray was willing his lady to wild success with every nerve in his body, even as he was dreading it.
He didn’t know if he was more anxious for her or himself, since he knew all too well that her success might signal his failure.
But one thing he did know, now at the last—and it amazed him to know it—was that whatever it meant for his future: she must not fail tonight.
Because he doubted she could bear it, and if she couldn’t, so then, neither could he.
And Blayne Darling, in the unfamiliar anonymous darkness of a theater audience, sat up straight and leaned forward, his body tense, his eyes glittering as he waited for his daughter’s debut.
When Polly finally cried out, pleading with the villain, “Oh sir, desist! Pray be still, for I fear you’ll wake my dear sister from her well-earned slumbers—Oh, heavens! See, she comes!” Hannah stepped out to take the stage.
Kyle took a step back. Gray let out his breath at last. And Blayne Darling stopped breathing so he could listen to every nuance of her speech. It was her moment, for good or ill. And there was nothing any of them could do but watch.
She looked wonderfully well. There was no doubt of that.
Whether it was the makeup or her own inner calm, her face was refreshingly lovely.
She didn’t freeze up, so her movements were graceful and easy.
Her voice didn’t shake or quiver, and came out sweet, strong, and low, projected just exactly as she’d always taught her pupils, so that it reached every member of the audience.
She used every nuance in the script and added some of her own.
As the drama went on, she was touching as the distraught daughter, tempting as the shy lover, sympathetic as the endangered beauty, and laudable as the intrepid rescuer. She was very good.
Kyle sighed with relief. Gray wore an increasingly sad expression, even as his heart rejoiced for her. But halfway through the drama, Blayne Darling sat back and relaxed. Because she was very good indeed. However, she was not great.
The play ran just as it ought, and soon the more susceptible members of the audience had handkerchiefs in their hands and ready tears in their eyes.
At times, they were concerned for the distressed father.
At other times, for the cunning little sister, the worried mother, or the handsome, bold, but doomed lover.
At times they hated the vile seducer to the point of audibly hissing him, even some of the more sophisticated of them.
And they always sat up straighter and paid close attention whenever Hannah appeared, which surely signified her utter triumph as an actress. But Blayne Darling knew better.