Marianne was able to creep out unobserved and meet the carriage Mr. Wilson had sent for her. Her excitement received a slight check when she saw the back regions of the theater where she was to perform. There were no chandeliers or plum velvet carpets backstage, only a dusty, noisy clutter; and the dressing rooms occupied by the artistes were less well furnished and far dirtier than the maids' quarters at home had been. For reasons of his own Mr. Wilson had given her a room to herself. She had no idea this was unheard-of for a beginner, nor did she know that two of his "star turns" had been evicted in order to accommodate her.
The room contained no furniture except a few hard chairs and a long counter that served as a dressing table. A faded curtain, strung on a rope, served as a wardrobe. The streaked mirror was illumined by flaring gas jets.
As Marianne and Wilson entered, a woman turned from the mirror and stood facing them, her hands clasped in front of her. Her clothing was commonplace; a plain brown alpaca dress and a white apron, with an old-fashioned frilled cap covering her hair. But her face… The left side from chin to brow was a livid, puckered mask of horror. A narrow slit of blank white eyeball showed through eyelids frozen in a permanent squint.
Marianne managed to turn her gasp of surprise into a cough, covering her mouth with her hand to hide her consternation. Her subterfuge failed; the woman's right eye narrowed until it matched the other, and the unmarred side of her mouth curled in a contemptuous smile. She made no attempt to hide her dreadful face. Instead she moved a little closer to the light.
"This is Maggie," Mr. Wilson said. "She'll help you dress and make up. Miss Ransom is new at this, Maggie, so show her what to do. She'll go on after the Magnificent Mazzinis."
He went out, leaving the two women alone.
Marianne felt as if she had been transported into the pages of one of the Gothic novels she had read with shivering delight. The ghastly figure before her stood as still and silent as one of the waxen images from the horror chamber at Madame Tussaud's. A wave of faintness swept over Marianne. "It is warm here, is it not?" she murmured.
"No."
Marianne managed to smile. "I am sorry. You must be patient. This is all new and strange to me. Tell me what I must do and I'll try my best."
The tragic mask of Maggie's face was ill-suited to any emotion except malevolence, but Marianne had the impression that her speech had surprised the other. After a moment Maggie said, "First the dress. It'll be in need of fitting. Martine's a good deal stouter than you."
She took Marianne's cloak; and as the girl stood uncertain she let out a cackle of sardonic laughter. "I s'pose you allus had a maid. Can you undo a button or d'you need to be undressed, like a babby?"
"I can do it," Marianne said.
In her voluminous petticoats and modest, ribboned corset cover she was no more unclothed than in a low-cut evening dress, but she felt indecent. Maggie paid no heed to her blushes, but gave her undergarments a critical appraisal.
"You must come from th' country. That crinoline's ten year out o' style. An' nobody wears flannel petticoats. Take 'em off."
"Isn't there a screen?" Marianne asked, with an anguished glance at the door. "What if someone -"
Her protests were in vain. Maggie had her out of the petticoats in a trice. Marianne did not relax until the new dress was on and Maggie was fastening up the back. Made of shiny black satin and imitation Chantilly lace, it was pulled tight across the front and draped in huge flounces on either side. A lace overskirt ended in a train in back, and the entire mass of fabric was caught up here and there with red velvet roses.
Marianne thought the dress quite magnificent, but she had an uneasy feeling that despite its somber color it did not suggest the mourning costume she ought by rights to be wearing. Gazing down, she beheld an alarming vista of bare white skin, and she clutched at the narrow bands of black lace that were supposed to hold the bodice in place.
"Too big, like I said," Maggie remarked, from behind her. "Stand still if you don't want to be pricked."
The shoulder straps were pulled tight and whipped into place. Then Maggie took tucks on either side of the bodice, and in front, narrowing the waist. Marianne was jabbed several times, though she stood as still as she could. Finally Maggie said, "There. Sit down an' I'll do your 'air."
Marianne let out a gasp as she saw her reflection in the mirror. Evening dress was permitted to be decollete, but Mrs. Jay had her own views of what was proper for a young girl, and Marianne had never worn anything that showed so much of her upper body. The dress was not really daring, by the standards of London society; but the contrast of the black lace against the girl's white skin was almost as wickedly suggestive as Marianne thought it was.
She forgot her qualms and watched, fascinated, as Maggie's trained fingers transformed her appearance. First her hair was drawn up into a coiffure far more sophisticated than any she had ever worn. A heap of sausage curls on top was surmounted by a black ostrich feather pinned by a diamond spray – as the naive wearer believed. The stones were paste, but in the gaslight they sparkled brilliantly. Loose ringlets cascaded down her back and over one bare shoulder.
To Marianne's disappointment Maggie rejected most of the fascinating little pots and boxes of cosmetics that littered the dressing table. She did pluck Marianne's eyebrows, a process that drew a series of anguished squeaks from the victim, and darkened its new, high arch. A delicate application of rouge and a touch of lip salve completed the process.
Maggie had been warned not to spoil the girl's ingenue look. Even the bright-scarlet mouth only gave the impression of a sweet young maiden who is playing at home theatricals.
Marianne sighed with pleasure. She thought she looked quite mature and sophisticated.
Then, beside the exquisite smiling face that stared back at her from the mirror, another face came into view, like a hideous mask hanging over the curve of her white shoulder. The two faces, one so lovely, the other so hideous, might have inspired one of the story paintings so popular in that sentimental age: the princess and the witch, or youth and old age.
Marianne had been brought up on morality tales. Mrs. Jay would have approved the way she reacted now. "There but for the grace of God…" She was too well bred and too kindhearted to express this sentiment aloud; instead she said in a gentle voice, "How clever you are! I never imagined I could look so well. Thank you, Maggie."
Maggie's grotesque face vanished abruptly. From behind Marianne her stifled voice said, "I looked like that onct. Not so pretty as you, maybe, but there was a gentleman-a-waiting for me after I sung, beggin' for a flower from my bokay, and ready to set me up in my own 'ouse, too."
Marianne paid no attention to the last part of this speech, which would have shocked Mrs. Jay out of her senses. She heard only the pain in the hoarse voice. Turning, she reached out impulsively and took Maggie's hand in hers. "I am so sorry; truly I am. What happened? Or would you rather not -"
"It wos a fire. We 'ad candles then. It wosn't a place like the Alhambra; the Canterbury wos respectable, it wos. I was a ingenoo. The Moor's Bride. I wos the bride, wif a white veil…"
Marianne squeezed the limp hand. "I am so very sorry," she repeated helplessly.
Maggie pulled her hand away. "Stand up and let's 'ave a look. I ain't so sure about them roses."