“And where is your room?”
“Here at the end,” Tessa said, “across from Mr. Merriwether’s.”
As Tessa opened the door on the left, Marc glanced out the dusty window onto Colborne Street, and noted that the balcony which adorned the front of the Regency Theatre was indeed a false one, making it a dubious escape mechanism for those fleeing a sudden fire and a precarious perch for would-be Juliets.
“The maiden’s bower!” Tessa gushed as they followed her inside.
Marc had to admit that the room was nicely decorated, with lavender wallpaper aflutter with sprites and fairies, a thick carpet in some neutral shade, a commode-and-vanity with tilting oval-mirror, a quaint Swiss clock, a settee embroidered with daisies, and a four-poster bed swathed in pink. On a night-table, a decanter of sherry winked at the interlopers.
“Mrs. Thedford insisted I take this room. Usually I have to share with Thea.”
“Where does Thea sleep?” Rick asked. “With Mrs. Thedford?”
“Lordy, no. Annie always stays by herself. Thea’s sleepin’ on her own in a little room in the Franks’ place. Annie’s afraid the rest of us might catch whatever she’s got.”
“You’ve a fondness for sherry,” Jenkin said with a smile.
“Oh, that. It’s somethin’ Mrs. Thedford taught me-to have one or two small glasses after a performance to help me sleep.” Giving Rick a sidelong glance, she added, “’Course I do share it once in a while.”
“Well, that leaves us with all but Mrs. Thedford accounted for,” Jenkin said in what he intended to be a disinterested tone.
“We’ve gone past her rooms,” Tessa said.
“Rooms?” Jenkin asked, intrigued.
Tessa led them back into the hall and pointed to the door next to her own room. “I’ll just give a tap an’ see if she’s still up.”
“Oh, please don’t disturb her,” Rick said.
But Tessa, who apparently liked to have her own way whenever it could be arranged, had already rapped, and a moment later the door opened.
“Oh, do come in, gentlemen,” Mrs. Thedford said. She stood tall and elegant in the doorway, clad only in a satin kimono, her coiffed hair almost touching the lintel above her. “I heard you in the hall and was about to step out and invite you in.”
Jenkin demurred. “We don’t wish to disturb you at your …”
“Toilette?” She laughed, giving the word its French pronunciation. “Don’t worry, sir, you’re not invading milady’s boudoir.”
As they followed her in, they realized that the owner-operator of the Bowery Touring Company had a suite of rooms befitting her status. After introductions were made and requisite courtesies completed, Mrs. Thedford offered them sherry, sat them on her comfortable chairs and settee, and regaled them with witty tales of theatre life in New York. Marc noticed two things: Owen Jenkin was quite taken with the woman, and she herself appeared as regal, confident, and genuine as the image she had projected from the stage. Nor did she seem to be playing a role, of which she was perfectly capable. And if she were, it was one she believed in.
At one lull in the conversation, she looked at Marc and said, “Edwards … my, what a fine English name.”
“I can’t take credit for having applied it to myself,” Marc said, and it was plain from her approving expression that Mrs. Thedford-who slept alone in the adjoining bedroom and was, according to her story, long a widow-appreciated the witticism and the lineaments of the man who’d made it. Good Lord, Marc thought, surely I’m too young for her attentions. Besides, it was Major Jenkin who was paying court to her with all the Welsh charm he could muster.
“I noticed the lovely lilt of your accent,” the major said gallantly. “Do I detect a shadow of English in it?”
Mrs. Thedford gave him a smile worthy of Cleopatra.
“The merest shadow, Mr. Jenkin. My father was English, but he brought me to Philadelphia when I was still a toddler. I have, alas, no memory of my birth-country, only a few of the unconscious traces of its glorious speech.”
“Which is no drawback in the theatre,” the major replied.
“Those pieces on your commode there look very English,” Marc remarked, admiring a pair of silver candlesticks. “I remember seeing something of that design in London.”
“You are very observant, Lieutenant. In fact, the hairbrushes, hand-mirror, and the candlesticks were especially made for my parents as a wedding gift, a matched set. Or so my father told me when I was old enough to understand. They are all that I have left of them-or England-and I bring them with me everywhere.”
“Aren’t you afraid they’ll be stolen?” Rick asked.
“Not with Jeremiah nearby, I’m not. And as he’s been complaining of a toothache all day, I expect he’ll be more vigilant than usual at his post tonight.”
“And we’ve got policemen patrolling our streets,” Rick said, as if he himself were native-born and a major contributor to local improvements.
As they were getting up to leave, Mrs. Thedford said, “I hope you all plan to come to the farce tonight, as guests of the company. And, of course, you’re welcome to join us in the hotel for supper.”
“Thank you. I wouldn’t miss either for the world,” Jenkin said with a brief bow.
“I’ll be here every night this week,” Rick said with an artful glance at Tessa, who had sat through the polite chatter without saying a word, though she and Mrs. Thedford had exchanged cryptic looks, and the latter had given Rick what could only be described as critical scrutiny.
Tessa beamed him a conspiratorial smile, then turned to determine its effect upon Mrs. Thedford. But that lady’s gaze rested on Marc.
“And how about you, Mr. Edwards?”
“I must decline, ma’am. I am engaged to dine with my fiancée’s aunt this evening.”
“Ah, I understand.” Mrs. Thedford’s eyebrows rose in interest. “But you’ll come later in the week, to the Shakespeare, perhaps?”
“Yes, I will,” he said, and realized with a start that he meant it.
Rick accompanied Marc back through the gloomy theatre to the front doors. “Isn’t Tessa just the most darling thing you’ve ever set eyes upon?” he asked imploringly.
“You’ve got quite a girl there, Rick,” Marc replied, and left it at that.
Catherine Roberts was Beth’s aunt, her mother’s sister, who had grown up with the McCrae family in Pennsylvania. After Beth’s mother died, her grieving father had taken his children to a new Congregational ministry in Cobourg. Aunt Catherine married and went to live in New England, where her affection for things English had taken root. So much so that when she herself was widowed just two years ago, she had readily accepted Beth’s offer to come to this British colony and invest jointly in their millinery shop on fashionable King Street. Ever since his engagement to Beth had been announced (“proclaimed” would be a more accurate description), Marc had arranged to have supper with Aunt Catherine on the second Monday of each month.
“Right on time, Marc.” She smiled as she led him through the shop towards the stairs that would take them to her apartment above. “It must be the military in you.”
“Or the lawyer,” Marc said. He loved to watch the soft gray eyes light up in their bemused way behind the gold-rimmed spectacles. Like Beth, she was a diminutive woman with an Irish complexion and sunny disposition. Without ostentation, she always dressed and carried herself with a spare dignity that impressed her wealthy customers and helped to account for the success of the enterprise-that, plus her Yankee business acumen.
“What’s going on in the back room?” Marc asked at the sound of strange voices.
“I’ve had to hire a pair of extra girls,” she said, “to handle the dress-making side of the shop. It’s doing very well for us, and the girls do like to talk while they’re sewing.”
“That’s not a girl’s voice.”
“Oh, that’s George. He’s just come in the back door. He’s been away every time you’ve come for supper-not deliberately, you understand.”