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  The Lady of Lyon House

  Jennifer Wilde writing as Edwina Marlow

  CHAPTER ONE

  IT HAD BEEN raining during the day and there were flat black puddles in the streets. They gleamed darkly under the lamp light, sometimes reflecting the green and blue and yellow lights from the cafes that lined the street on either side. It was still early, and the cafes were not bursting with noise and activity as they would be later. Only an occasional carriage rumbled over the cobbles, splashing the puddles. The fog was not yet thick. It was a thin, vaporous white mist, swirling around the lamp posts where the gas lamps burned dimly.

  I walked slowly, forcing myself to measure my steps and not break into a run. I was not in a hurry to get to the music hall. I had over an hour. It was not because I was late that I wanted to run. I had the same uneasy feeling that I had had for the last week. I felt someone was following me. Even when I stopped and turned around and could see no one, I felt eyes watching me. It caused me to shiver, and it made this walk from the boarding house to the music hall a thing of anxiety. I had always enjoyed sauntering through the streets before, but now I was almost afraid.

  I could leave early with Mattie and Bill, but Mattie would think it strange and want an explanation. I could not explain this feeling of uneasiness. It was not something I wanted to talk about. They thought me a dreamer anyway—always lost in thought, always reading a book, always handling the puppets and making up stories for them to enact. If I told Mattie and Bill about this new sensation, they would laugh. Mattie would prescribe some dreadful home remedy to rid me of the vapors, and Bill would talk to me in his jovial manner and before long be off on one of his endless stories about his youth.

  I loved both of them. They had looked after me ever since I was a little girl, treating me like their own, and I was as close to them as I would have been if they were truly my parents. My mother and father had been members of Bill’s shabby little theatrical troupe, traveling all over England to play short engagements in third-rate theaters. My father died of consumption, and after her handsome husband was gone, my mother seemed to lose any will to live. She died three years later, leaving my sister Maureen and me without a single living relative. Bill and Mattie unofficially adopted us, carrying us along with them from town to town and bringing us up as best they could.

  I had been five at the time, my sister Maureen almost fifteen. She disappeared five years later, running off with a middle-aged actor who had promised her a life of luxury. The actor soon vanished, leaving her to fend for herself. Maureen had too much pride to come back to Bill and Mattie. I had no idea what had become of her, although frequently there were letters from different parts of England and, recently, small sums of money enclosed in the envelope. I had not seen her for eight years, not since the day she eloped with her actor.

  So I had no one but Mattie and Bill. They treated me like a daughter and showed a great deal of concern about my upbringing. In recent years there had been tutors for me, and once I had even attended a private school for a few months, but the financial situation had always been a precarious one and the school had cost too much money. Bill had disbanded the troupe and bought the music hall, running it himself with some small success. A little later he bought the boarding house. Mattie ran it with a firm hand, dividing her time between the house and the music hall. For the first time in years the Jamesons had a bit of security in their lives, although it required titanic labor to keep the two establishments above water.

  I did not want to bother them with my problems. They had enough to worry about without me adding to it. I was not sure that there really was a problem. I was not sure that it was not all my imagination, and I walked on down the street, trying to rid myself of the feeling that plagued me.

  It had started almost a week ago. I had been walking to the music hall at the regular hour, just after the sun had set and darkness began to cloak the city, and I heard footsteps behind me. I turned around, but there was no one there. I imagined I had seen a man in a checked cloak step quickly into a darkened doorway, but I was not sure of it. As I continued on my way, I heard no more footsteps behind me, but I had the feeling of being followed. I arrived at the music hall and forgot all about it until the next night, when the same thing happened again.

  Three nights ago I had met an old woman selling violets. I stopped to purchase a bunch, and as I handed the woman a coin I glanced back at the sidewalk I had just passed over. There was a man standing beneath the lamp post at the corner, half a block away. I could not see him clearly because of the fog, but I noticed the checked cloak. As I stood there with the bunch of violets in my hand, he crossed the street and disappeared into the fog. It had upset me, and I had been on edge ever since.

  When I left the music hall late at night, I was always with Bill and Mattie and usually some of the players who boarded with us. Nothing ever happened as I walked back with the noisy group. It was always when I was alone that I had this strange feeling. At first I had wondered if it could have been some stage door Romeo who had seen me on stage and was too bashful to speak to me openly. There had been many of them in recent years, and I had discouraged them all with cool disdain. I was eighteen years old and more than ready to fall in love, but I was not going to have anything to do with actors or with the fickle, debonair young men who hung around the theater. My ideas about romance had been formed from the countless novels I read, and there was nothing romantic to me in the men I had observed courting the other girls who worked at the music hall.

  If the man who was following me—if, indeed there was one—was a stage door gallant, surely he would have spoken to me, I reasoned. He would not linger behind me, out of sight, following me down the street and never speaking. I tried to tell myself that it was all my imagination, that there really was no one there, but I still could not shake this feeling.

  I walked on down the street, my crinoline underskirts rustling. I was almost two blocks from the music hall now, and the fog was growing thicker, the mists descending rapidly and shrouding everything in white vapor. My heels rapped sharply on the pavement, and the sound echoed behind me. The tapping noise repeated itself, loud, sharp taps coming just after I stepped. I knew it was an echo, I knew there was no one behind me. I paused. I heard the echo of my last step. Then there was a heavier sound, a scrape, immediately following. It was no echo. Someone was there. I was sure of it now.

  I looked back the way I had come. The fog swirled gently, curling around the lamp post and stroking the sides of the buildings. The pavement gleamed wetly, casting back reflections of the lights that were almost hidden now by the fog. I saw a dark, shadowy form just in front of one of the cafes, but I could not be sure it was a man; the fog was too thick. I continued to walk, listening intently to my own light rapping footsteps. Now there was a heavier sound, keeping time with the sound of my own steps.

  I felt a cold shiver, and I had to restrain the urge to run. If I arrived at the music hall out of breath and panting, I would be forced to answer questions, and I did not want that. I did not want a group of concerned faces hovering over me. What if there was someone behind me? Anyone had the right to walk down the street. There was probably some reasonable explanation for all this. Still, I wished I could see whoever it was. I wished even harder to see a bobby in his dark, slick rain cape and his buckled hat, swinging his stick as he covered his beat.

  I walked quickly now, paying no heed to the noise I made. I did not know if I was still being followed or not. I was intent on getting to the music hall
. I crossed the wet street and hurried down the block to the alley that led to the stage door of the music hall. I turned into the dark alley, wishing that they had turned on the lamp that hung over the door. I paused, leaning against the damp brick wall, trying to compose myself before I went inside.

  I watched the entrance to the alley. The fog swirled in front of it. A carriage rumbled down the street. I saw it pass, jostling over the cobblestones. I listened intently. There were footsteps, growing louder and louder. A man sauntered past the alley. He wore a brown and yellow checked cape, the long heavy folds covering his body. There was a tall hat on his head, the brim pulled over his face. He walked past the alley casually. He did not pause. He did not glance into the darkened recess where I was standing. There was nothing at all out of the ordinary about his conduct. The sound of his footsteps died away, and I could hear nothing but the pounding of my heart.

  I stood there in the alley for several moments, composing myself. I decided I would tell Mattie about the man. I would mention it casually and watch her reaction. I would not tell her about my feeling of uneasiness, but perhaps she would be uneasy herself when I told her about the man. She might suggest that I come to the music hall early, or she might send one of the waiters to come and escort me back each night. We were in a fairly respectable part of London and there was seldom any kind of trouble, just the usual drunks and late hour roisterers. Certainly it was not infested with thieves and muggers as were some parts of the city.

  I opened the stage door and stepped inside, glad to be out of the fog and shadows. I welcomed all the marvelous odors of backstage as I closed the door behind me. I could smell the grease paint and chalk and shabby velvet and rust. I walked past the stacks of clumsily painted cardboard backdrops, ran my hand along the railing of the iron staircase that led up to the dressing rooms above the stage. The stage was dark, an ugly, dusty expanse that would take on an aspect of glamor when the footlights illuminated it. The shabby, yellow-gold curtains that hung around it, closing off the backstage areas, fell in ponderous folds that hugged the floor. The front curtain of worn red velvet shut off all the sounds of the great hall where waiters served food and beer to the groups of people who crowded the little tables.

  Bill would be behind the bar, polishing the flat marble surface, or else he would be dusting the bottles while he chatted with a customer. Mattie would be perched on the stool behind the cash register, or she would be in the office, marking up accounts in the ledger. She had the level head and acute business sense that kept things running on an even keel, while Bill contributed the affable manner and casual charm that kept the customers contented.

  Jameson’s was a second rate music hall, without the glitter and sparkle of the more expensive places, but it was the best second rate. The food was good, the liquor the best, the beer was unwatered and the entertainment provided was noisy and pleasant, however uninspired it might be. It was a rowdy, lively place, full of noise and activity. For all their merriment, the customers were usually well behaved. If a fight broke out, as frequently happened, Bill and his muscular bouncer soon squelched it. Most of the customers were regulars, men and women who came in two or three times a week to relax and enjoy the congenial atmosphere.

  We had had one celebrity, and that had been an exciting night for me. It was three years ago, when I was fifteen, and I had already begun to put on a puppet show between intermissions. It had started as a fill-in for some of the acts that couldn’t go on for one reason or another, but the audience had enjoyed it so much that the puppet routine became a regular part of the show. There had been a tiny write-up about it in the paper: Julia Meredith and her puppets make debut at Jameson’s Music Hall. The article mentioned my age and the nice reception my act had received. It was this article that brought Mr. Dickens to the music hall.

  He sat at the front table, a large, florid man with thick, dark hair and clear blue eyes that twinkled with merriment. He wore a loud, colorful vest with an impressive gold watch chain draped across it. His hair was a little mussed, and he frequently stroked his “door-knocker” beard. When I put my puppets through their paces, he laughed loudly, banging the table with his fist. His laughter was rich and melodious, filling the room with its lovely sound. The other customers sat in awe of the great man, laughing when he laughed, silent when he was silent. When the show was over, he asked to see me, and Bill brought him backstage.

  I was embarrassed and flustered, not knowing what to say to such a great person. He seemed to be aware of this, and he shook my hand and told me I had given him much pleasure. I stammered that he had been giving me pleasure for years, as I had read every one of his books as they came out. He laughed and said he hoped the next one would please me as much. He promised to send me a copy, and I forgot that promise until one day a package wrapped in brown paper was delivered backstage. I tore away the papers to find A Tale of Two Cities. It has always been my favorite of his books.

  I stood backstage now, pulling off my gloves. I hung my cloak up on a peg and brushed my skirts. It was a little chilly here, the air crisp and bracing. I stood in front of the long mirror that hung beside the entrance. My hair was slightly damp, and it fell in rich, silvery-blonde curls to my shoulders. I brushed a lock away from my temple and studied my face. I was a little pale, although there was a spot of pink on each cheekbone. My eyes seemed very large and still a little frightened. They were a deep blue, almost violet, surrounded by long, dark lashes that brushed my cheeks. There were soft gray shadows about the lids, delicate shadowing that most people thought was artificial. Below each cheekbone there was a slight hollow, softly molded, giving me a rather pensive look, even when I smiled. My lips were firm, a pale coral color that owed nothing to rouge. If I was not beautiful like my sister Maureen had been, at least my face was interesting, with unusual coloring.

  As I stood studying myself in the mirror, Laverne Maddux came down the staircase, her heels clattering on the iron steps. She was a large, buxom redhead with enormous brown eyes and a pixie smile that delighted the customers. Laverne sang brassy, slightly risque songs with the audience joining in for all the choruses. She had a salty tongue, a carefree manner and a warm, generous nature. She roomed with the Jamesons, her room right down the hall from my own, and I considered her my best friend, even if she was in her late thirties. Now Laverne was wearing a pink dress glittering with spangles. Her red hair was piled on top of her head and tied with a large pink bow. She was perspiring, despite the chill.

  “Blast!” Laverne. cried, seeing me. “To think I spend hours over this face of mine and can’t achieve half the effect you do just by opening your eyes. You’re a little early, aren’t you?”

  “There was nothing left to do at the boarding house. I finished sewing the sitting room curtains and folded up all the laundry.”

  “You work yourself to a frazzle,” Laverne said. “Always doing something, never just sitting and resting your feet.”

  “It’s the least I can do,” I replied. “Mattie and Bill are so good to me—”

  “You’ve got a point there,” Laverne agreed. A frown crossed her brow. “You’re going to have to go on early tonight, kiddo. Bert’s been hitting the bottle again and Sarah has him up in the dressing room, trying to sober him up in time for the last spot. If that man doesn’t lay off the stuff, Bill’s goin’ to throw him out.”

  Bert and Sarah Clemmons did a song and dance routine that had been pleasing the audiences for almost twenty years. They had been members of Bill’s original troupe, and I knew that he would never fire them, no matter how Bert drank. They had lost a child a few years back, and he had started drinking then, consuming more and more as the years passed. He and Sarah were both quiet, both quietly charming, and in their black costumes sewn with large silver buckles they did slow paced numbers that caused the audience to sigh with nostalgia. They also lived with us at the boarding house, and sometimes, if I happened to be sitting alone in the parlor when Bert came in, he would sit down and talk to me a
bout my parents, who had been his best friends.

  “Do you think you’ll have my blue thing done by Saturday?” Laverne asked.

  “I’m sewing on the sequins and feathers now,” I replied. “I should have it done by then.”

  “I want to wear it Saturday night,” she said. “I’m getting tired of this rag—” She swept her hands over the pink dress. “I’m sure the fellows are, too.”

  In addition to doing a routine with my puppets, I was the official wardrobe mistress for the music hall. I did most of the sewing up in my dressing room, making all the bright, spangled costumes for the troupe. Besides Laverne and the Clemmons, there were eight chorus girls working for Bill. They shared a large, barn-like dressing room near the attic that always sounded like an aviary full of exotic birds. Most of the girls were in their middle or late twenties, loud, brassy creatures who treated me like a favored child. They were always running into my dressing room to have me sew a feather on or take up a hem. All of them brought their dresses to me for repairs, and twice a year I made a new set of costumes for them. I loved the work, and it was one of the ways I could pay Bill and Mattie for their kindness.

  “Is there a crowd tonight?” I asked Laverne.

  “About the same as usual. Pretty good for a Thursday night. They will come packing in later on—always do. By the way, your boy friend is out there again tonight.”

  “My boy friend?” I said, startled.

  “Sure. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed him.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “He’s always at the same table, right up in front. He sits there with a glass of beer until you come on, and when your bit’s over, he pays for the beer and leaves. Same thing every night for a week now.”

  “Are you certain, Laverne?”

  “Sure. He’s there tonight, same table. A good looking fellow, too. Classy. All the girls have commented on him. They say he comes just to see you.”