“Yes, she’s come to that conclusion herself.”
“Oh, dear. I shall have to speak with her.”
“After supper?”
Seeing his forlorn face, she relented. “Of course, my love. We shall go down to the dining room right now, and deal with this problem later.”
Her reward was a rare smile from him. Tucking her hand into his elbow he murmured, “Then let us proceed.”
By the time they reached the dining room nearly all of the tables were occupied. As she threaded her way to her table by the window, Cecily exchanged greetings with guests, most of whom seemed excited about the pantomime that evening.
Considering Phoebe’s reputation for disastrous presentations, Cecily found that quite heartening. She always viewed Phoebe’s efforts with a certain amount of trepidation, due largely to the fact that her entourage of performers was not only inept but also stubbornly resistant to orders. They even went so far as to occasionally take a devious delight in tormenting their hapless director.
Phoebe was no match for them and was frequently reduced to a raging mass of torn nerves and shrill reprimands. Not too conducive to a successful performance. The Pennyfoot guests, however, seemed to enjoy the ensuing mayhem as much or perhaps even more than the actual presentation, much to Phoebe’s utter dismay. She had sworn so many times never to direct another show that even she didn’t believe her own words.
All in all, it promised to be an eventful evening, and Cecily looked forward to it as a rather masochistic way of putting her problems behind her for an hour or two.
“What are you thinking about?”
Her husband’s voice interrupted her thoughts and she smiled at him. “I was just thinking about how much I’m looking forward to the pantomime tonight.”
“Good Lord. Are you out of your mind? You haven’t been at the gin or something, have you?”
She pulled a face at him. “Oh, come, you know you enjoy watching Phoebe make a complete fool of herself.”
“A dubious pleasure at best.”
“But one you wouldn’t miss.”
His lips twitched into a smile. “You know me too well, my dear.”
She relaxed, pleased that she had coaxed him into a better mood. For the time being, all thoughts of murder and villains would be banished from her mind, while she settled back and enjoyed what had become a great British tradition-the Christmas pantomime.
Backstage in the ballroom, Phoebe was doing her best to hustle her girls into the dressing room. Several of them appeared more inclined to exchange comments with the stage-hands who, instead of attending to the job, were tossing good-humored banter at the breathless dancers.
Having promised herself earlier that this time she would absolutely, definitely, not lose her temper with them, Phoebe attempted another tactic. It involved a lot of pushing and pulling, with a good deal of pinching thrown in, but one by one the young ladies were persuaded to join their companions in the cramped dressing room.
All but one. As usual, Isabelle lagged behind, lurching one shoulder up against a backdrop in a most disgusting manner. The stagehand grinning down at her wasn’t helping matters at all. He gave her a lascivious wink, which reduced the ridiculous girl to silly giggling.
“Isabelle!” Phoebe pitched her voice loud enough to make them both jump. “In the dressing room. Now!”
“Gotta go,” Isabelle said, blowing the man a kiss.
The oaf pretended to catch it and smack it against his mouth.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Her voice thick with disgust, Phoebe grasped Isabelle’s shoulder and propelled her toward the noisy dressing room. “Get in there and behave yourself for once.”
Inside the room, young women were wandering around in various stages of undress. Phoebe rolled her eyes and went to work, doing up buttons and lacing ribbons, muttering all the while that this was positively the last time she would ever waste her efforts on such an ungrateful, uncooperative, unruly bunch of hooligans.
The girls, as usual, completely ignored her.
“That Sid Barrett,” Isabelle said, amid giggles, “is so funny. He makes me laugh until I wet my knickers.”
Howls of laughter greeted this comment, which Phoebe immediately attempted to suppress. “The audience is coming in!” she shrieked at the top of her voice. “They will hear you cackling away like geese in here! How much respect do you expect to get from an audience when they hear you all behaving like animals! You are… such… disobedient…” Her voice trailed off as she realized that the girls had gone silent and she was the only one screeching.
Someone snorted, and the rest of the group dissolved once more into raucous laughter.
“Enough!” Phoebe raised her arms. “One more sound out of any of you and I will cancel this performance. Right here and now.”
Apparently realizing they had gone far enough, the girls fell silent once more, and dutifully began pulling on costumes and wigs.
Trembling with suppressed fury, Phoebe fought for composure. “Dora, where are your ballet shoes?”
Dora looked down at her feet as if amazed to see they were bare. “I can’t find them, Mrs. Fortescue.”
“Then you will have to dance in bare feet.” Phoebe stalked over to another of her dancers and began tugging at her costume. “For heaven’s sake, Martha, pull this bodice up higher before you’re arrested for indecent behavior.”
Behind her, she heard Isabelle’s low voice. “He asked me out, you know.”
Dora answered in the same low tones. “Who did?”
“That Sid Barrett. He’s going to take me to the George for a gin and tonic after the show.”
“Oh, that one. He’s nothing but a saucy rake.” Dora tossed her curls so they bounced on top of her head. “He asks all the girls to go out with him. I wouldn’t trust that one for the life of me.”
Isabelle sounded sulky. “I didn’t say as I was going, did I.”
Phoebe whirled around. “I thought I said no sound.”
Both girls gave her mutinous stares. “We were just-” Isabelle began, but Phoebe stopped her with a sharp raise of her hand.
“I said no sound. Or would you like someone else to play the prince?” She glanced across the room. “Martha, for instance. She knows the part.”
Isabelle clamped her lips shut.
“We should have a man play the part of the prince, anyhow,” Dora said.
“Yeah,” someone else said. “Like Sid Barrett.”
Laughter rippled around the room. “He’d make a handsome prince,” Dora murmured.
“The prince is always a woman in a pantomime,” Phoebe said stiffly. “You all know that very well.” She paused, one hand to her ear. “Listen! That’s the orchestra playing the introduction. We have five minutes to take our places. Ladies-move!”
To her immense satisfaction, the girls jumped into action. For a frantic moment or two they scrambled here and there tugging and pulling on their costumes, and then, at last, they were ready and dashing out the door.
Phoebe waited until the last one left, then followed at a slower pace. She felt exhausted, and the show had yet to begin. This was her last pantomime. There was no doubt in her mind.
Out in the audience, Cecily sat in the first row, her husband on her left and Madeline on her right. Peering around her friend to where Kevin sat next to her, Cecily said quietly, “I have something of importance to discuss with you later.”
Kevin nodded, and Madeline gave her a curious look. “Something’s happened?”
“Yes, but I promised Baxter I wouldn’t talk about it until after the show.” Cecily studied the program. “I think this is the first time Phoebe has done Cinderella.”
“Well, that should give her plenty of opportunities for mistakes, then.” Madeline settled herself more comfortably on her chair. She wore a pale blue gown with simple lines and without any adornment. On anyone else it would have looked plain and uninteresting. On Madeline it looked elegant and sophisticated. Silver sandals peeked out from under her skirt, and she had bound her hair with silver tinsel-a decidedly Christmas touch that no one else would have dared to try.