Chapter Sixty-Seven
Her mother.
Standing in front of the church on their wedding day, her veil blowing in the wind, a smile upon her face.
Her mother.
The day her brother was born, her father telling the midwife ‘Propriety be damned’ as he walked into the room, and pressed a kiss to her mother’s damp forehead.
Her mother.
Moments Ava had shared with them, and a very many she had never heard of.
Her father had wanted to capture them all, and she had let him.
She’d followed him from room to room of their house and unravelled dinners, and quiet evenings spent reading or painting, and their trips to Crosby before she had been born, and their teas with Mr and Mrs Moss – back when Mr Moss, too, had been alive.
And for a moment, she was there with them. She was on that stage, too.
Her mother.
After the curtains had closed, Ava stood there for a moment, one hand resting against the fraying blue velvet.
She could still hear the applause in her ears, roaring like the winter’s wind that surely howled outside.
Normally that sound filled her with relief: for it meant that she had done something right, that people had liked the show, liked her, but not tonight.
Tonight it sounded like a drumbeat, like a war cry, and she let it settle beneath her skin, let it fill her as she turned and marched from the stage, towards the wings where Lillian stood, cane tucked beneath her armpit, clapping.
‘That was good, Miss Adams,’ said Bertie, tipping her hat towards her. ‘A good show.’
‘Good?’ said Lillian. ‘It was fantastic. And the trick with your father? Ingenious! Everyone loves a love story, but the sickness! The sadness! Using your family house as the way back into his memories – attaching each one to a room so that whenever he is home he thinks of her? Oh, Ava. I knew you had talent but this – just think of the papers! And yes, yes – we cannot do the same in the next show – not word for word, people would grow suspicious – but perhaps it can be a theme? Death? Memories of lost loved ones? There’s money in that. Money in spiritualism—’
‘People die every day,’ Bertie agreed, nodding. ‘And your father put on one heck of a show.’
‘It wasn’t a show,’ said Ava in a calm, measured voice. ‘It wasn’t planned. It was real.’
Something lit in Lillian’s eyes – bright, and hungry. ‘All the better,’ she said. ‘That’s what made it feel so authentic! And of course the rapport. The embrace at the end was a nice touch. We must find a way to cheat that.’
‘Pre-interviewing audience members, perhaps,’ said Bertie.
‘Or asking more questions before you work your magic upon them,’ said Lillian, nodding.
‘Lillian,’ said Ava. ‘I fulfilled our agreement. I trained Miss Fairchild, I stepped in for opening night. And now we are done.’
Lillian hesitated, her mouth still half open. ‘We … what?’
‘We’re done,’ Ava repeated. ‘I kept my end of the agreement – and now you shall keep yours.’
Lillian’s expression hardened. ‘Did you not see the audience out there? Did you not hear them? They loved you!’
‘I heard them,’ said Ava. But she didn’t need it, anymore. Didn’t need their approval. Didn’t need their applause. Not like she’d used to.
‘With a show like this, we could outsell the Royal,’ Lillian said hurriedly. ‘We could even take it on tour! Do you really think I’d agree to you quitting now?’
‘I don’t suggest you remove the act,’ said Ava. ‘Just the performer.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Lillian. ‘And who would replace you as my star, hmm? Bertie?’
‘Miss Fairchild can be your star,’ said Ava. ‘She’s good, Lillian – if you’ll just let her make a name for herself. If you don’t try and force her into my mother’s shoes, like you did me.’
‘She’s not you,’ said Lillian, shrugging as if to say: And that is that. ‘I need you. I need this act.’
‘That wasn’t the deal,’ said Ava firmly.
‘Well, the deal has changed.’ Lillian folded her arms over her chest. ‘Because if you haven’t forgotten, I still have your brother’s secret.
And if you do not do this, then it won’t be a secret any longer.
And then we shall see how quickly you want to come back to the theatre, when the police are knocking at your door. ’
Ava’s eyebrows furrowed. ‘You won’t do that, Lillian.’
‘And why not?’
‘Because you loved her, too. My mother. She was your friend, just as you were hers, and you wouldn’t hurt her like this. You couldn’t hurt her like this.’
Lillian’s expression faltered – just briefly, like a candle guttering in a draught. She looked away for a moment, and when she spoke, her voice held none of its usual sharpness. ‘Do you know, Ava,’ she said. ‘The story of how I got my limp?’
Ava’s brow furrowed. She’d never asked, but of course she’d heard the whispers. Miss Lillian had been a performer, too.
And she’d performed the high wire.
‘Only rumours,’ Ava murmured. ‘That’s all.’
‘Then you heard I made the choice to remove the net? To stand up there with nothing to catch me?’
Ava nodded. She’d always found she could believe it, too. Could picture Lillian, so assured of her own brilliance, standing up there.
Lillian tilted her head to one side, and looked down at her cane, fingers tracing back and forth across the ivory handle.
‘That’s the story I like to tell, you see, because I want people to believe that it was bravery that drove me.
That it was hubris that ruined me.’ She tapped one finger against the cane’s tip, nails blood red.
‘But the truth is, it was my father who removed the net. My father who ordered the stagehands to come and remove it – when I was already up there. Already about to step out upon it. He wanted – I don’t know.
To prove to me that I was only good because I wasn’t afraid. But I was afraid, Ava.’
And when she looked at her, her expression said: And part of me still is.
‘I wouldn’t have done it,’ Lillian said, voice threaded with defeat. ‘Not to Adeline.’
‘She loved you too, you know,’ Ava said. ‘And she loves you, still. She’s not gone, Lillian. She’s here – whether her dresses are in that room or not. She’s with us.’
‘I see that,’ said Lillian, looking at her. ‘I can see her in you, Ava. I always have.’