Chapter Twelve
Most mornings, Miss Lillian could reliably be found at the club she adored, and which Ava despised: the Roxy.
It was the kind of place that always held a clutch of people within it, and today was no different, for despite the morning sun pressing against the red stained glass, Ava counted at least four men clustered around the cards table, and another two slumped at the bar.
Miss Lillian was sitting in her usual spot at the window, a cigarette in her hand, and her bad leg resting upon a cushioned chair. A curl of smoke encircled her, catching the morning sunshine, turning her long, red braid a dazzling shade of copper.
‘I was wondering when I might see you,’ Lillian said, stubbing her cigarette into a cracked pink saucer as Ava approached. She snapped her fingers in the air, waiting until the barman had shuffled forwards to say: ‘The usual.’
The barman’s glassy gaze slid to Ava in askance, and she shook her head. Lillian’s ‘usual’ was a plate of kippers – and Ava had never quite managed to stomach fish for breakfast. ‘Just tea, please.’
‘Mmm. Not quite a “champagne” occasion, is it?’ Lillian said, her dark eyes catching Ava’s. That was what they’d ordered the last time they’d sat at this table together – half of it frothing over the bottle’s lip and onto the floor.
‘To the future Mrs Foster,’ Lillian had said, raising a fizzing glass, her smile not quite reaching her dark eyes. ‘And your engagement.’
‘To my engagement,’ Ava had said, the excitement within her stomach melding with something else. ‘Not that it will change much between us.’
Of course that had been a lie. It had changed everything.
And now when Lillian looked at her, her eyes narrowing, Ava saw all the moments that had passed since that one: the late nights, the rows, the early starts in rehearsal, crying in the darkness of the mop cupboard, standing upon the stage, the heat of the limelight making the sweat drip in lines from her temple to her chin.
‘Oliver told me,’ said Ava, feeling the weight that had sat within her stomach since their walk to the market two days ago grow a pound heavier. ‘He said you lent him money after the accident.’
Lillian’s expression tweaked, and she reached into her pocket, pulling out her gold case of cigarettes. ‘We will get to the topic of your brother,’ Lillian said. ‘First tell me about Edinburgh.’
‘Well, it was wetter than here.’
‘I care nothing for weather,’ tutted Lillian, a flicker of her Hungarian accent peeking through. ‘What did you do for work? Bertie couldn’t find you on any of the bills there.’
‘Nothing,’ said Ava, keeping her tone light.
‘Nothing?’ Lillian’s eyes widened in her long-perfected look of utter innocence, at the same moment as the barman placed a teapot, two cups, and two new saucers down.
Beside them he placed a rather miserly number of sugar cubes (two) and a dribble of milk in a small jug.
‘You expect me to believe you did nothing? For three months?’
Ava reached for the teapot, trying to focus on the curling steam, the shards of green-brown tea leaves floating in her cup. ‘I did nothing that would interest you, Lillian.’
Lillian narrowed her eyes. ‘Try me.’
‘Tell me how much Oliver owes you,’ Ava said firmly, matching Lillian’s steely gaze with her own. ‘And I will repay it.’
Lillian watched her for a long moment, her dark eyes roaming Ava’s face, as though trying to see beneath her skin. Then her brow smoothed. ‘I’ve an easier solution. Come back to the Penny Farthing.’
‘No.’ Ava could feel the warmth spreading up her neck now, and it took more courage than she cared to admit to keep her eyes on Lillian, to keep her chin raised. ‘I shan’t perform again.’
Lillian gave her a wide, carefree smile – and it set Ava’s teeth on edge. ‘Oh, I’m not asking you to perform,’ she said simply. ‘I want you to coach Miss Fairchild. She has taken over your mother’s act.’
It shouldn’t have hurt. She had no right to feel sore – for the act wasn’t her mother’s any longer, and it wasn’t Ava’s, either. She had set it aside, hadn’t she? So then why did she care if another plucked it up?
‘I take it you’re using the stooges?’ Ava asked, wishing she could better hide the brittleness that’d sneaked into her tone. ‘Tommy, Stanley, and the rest?’
Lillian nodded. ‘But the script is flat. She hasn’t your training – your knowledge of the craft. You had all these good lines – about Frank something or other—’
‘Franz Mesmer,’ corrected Ava. ‘The father of mesmerism. He was the one who coined the name “mesmerism”, in fact, although his theories have been somewhat disregarded now—’
‘See?’ Lillian’s eyes sparkled. ‘This is why I need you. Why Miss Fairchild needs you. Your passion.’
Ava shook her head. ‘I doubt the others would want me back at the theatre.’
‘The others? Forget them.’ Lillian lit another cigarette. Ava hated the smell of tobacco, hated the way it seemed to spread and permeate everything, but she stayed at that table, her fingers clutched around her weak cup of tea. ‘Do it for Oliver.’
‘I can find another way to repay the money he owes you—’
‘Oh, it’s not just money he owes me,’ Lillian said, blowing smoke upwards, towards the ceiling. ‘It’s more than that.’
‘How can it be more than that?’
‘I know his secret,’ said Lillian, not looking at her.
Ava felt Lillian’s words like a dragging heat across her heart. She’d known since they were children – since he’d blushed at the baker’s lad, rather than the pretty girls at church – though no-one but her had seemed to notice.
‘And I know you know it, too.’ Lillian added. ‘We both know what that kind of a secret can do to a man. And what that secret in the wrong hands might mean …’
Oliver wouldn’t have told Lillian, Ava told herself. He wouldn’t have been foolish enough to tell someone like her. He wouldn’t be foolish enough to tell anyone, because his secret was dangerous.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said quietly.
‘Rest assured,’ Lillian pressed on, her tone sickly sweet. ‘Come back to work for me and all shall be forgotten. It will be like I never knew.’
‘I don’t believe you know anything,’ said Ava. ‘I think this is another of your tricks. Another of your manipulations.’
Lillian shunted a half-laugh through her teeth. ‘Oh really?’
‘Really.’
‘Then test me, Ava – and find out. People call it so many different things, but I believe the most important terms are “illegal”. “Punishable”.’
She sat back in her chair, dark eyes fastened on Ava, and Ava felt her face grow warm. Perhaps she did know.
‘It’s simple, Ava,’ Lillian said, her tone languid. ‘Help Miss Fairchild shine, and I shall keep your brother’s secret safe.’
‘So you are blackmailing me.’
‘I prefer to think of it as rekindling a partnership that you prematurely ended,’ Lillian said, her voice low. ‘You left me in quite the … now what’s the phrase you English like? “The pickle”?’
Ava didn’t answer, her gaze fixed firmly upon the table. ‘And say I do this,’ she said. ‘Then you will keep Oliver’s secret safe?’
‘I cross my heart,’ Lillian said, raking a red fingernail across her ribcage. ‘Your brother’s secret will die on my lips.’
‘And once I’ve got Miss Fairchild to where you wish her to be, I will be free to leave.’
Now Lillian paused, her head tilting slightly. ‘I suppose that is fair.’
‘I want to hear you say it,’ countered Ava, her gaze unwavering. ‘That once I have done this – I will be free, and so will Oliver.’
‘Very well,’ said Lillian, huffing a breath through her teeth. ‘Train Miss Fairchild – make her believable – and your brother will be safe. That is all I am asking of you.’
‘Good,’ said Ava. When she looked up, she saw Lillian’s hungry gaze upon her for half a breath, before her expression slackened. ‘I’ll let you know once I’ve prepared the others for your return. Though be warned, Ava – a lot has changed since you left.’
Ava stood, her heart thudding in her throat, the heavy feeling that’d long sat in her stomach twisting into something else.
Something sharp.