Page 5 of Somewhere I'll Find You
The question caught her off-guard, and she answered hastily. “I believe it was done with the assistance of one of your managers—”
“No one does anything around here without my permission.”
Julia nodded, her face turning scarlet. “I lied,” she admitted. “I would never have gotten to see you otherwise.”
There was a touch of annoyance in his laugh. “You'll do well for us, I think. Tell me, Mrs. Wentworth…are you actually married?”
Although she had prepared herself for the question, Julia felt herself flush in discomfort. She couldn't tell him the truth, yet she knew he was too talented an actor to accept a lie easily. She wandered aimlessly across the stage, her arms folded over her chest. “Not really,” she said without looking at him. “I thought that posing as a ‘Mrs.’ would give me protection against unwelcome advances.”
“Very well.”
When no further questions seemed forthcoming, Julia glanced at him in surprise. “Aren't you going to ask about my family? My background?”
He shook his head, tugging absentmindedly at a lock of mahogany-red hair. “I assume you're like most people in the theater, who have a past they would like to escape.”
“Even you?” she dared to ask.
Scott nodded. “There are events in my life from which I've run for a long time. But I never seem to get farther than here.” He glanced around the empty stage and seemed to relax. “I never feel entirely comfortable anywhere as I do at the Capital. It's home to me…as I hope it will become home to you, Mrs. Wentworth.”
A smile broke out on her face. “Yes,” she murmured, sensing a little of why he so clearly loved the place. She could easily imagine the thousands of stories and personalities that had filled this stage, the air ringing with music and voices, the audience feeling the players' emotions; fear, hope, love…
In the theater a person could forget who he or she was, at least for a while. Actors could turn themselves into anyone they wished to be. That was what she wanted for herself. She would live as Jessica Wentworth, and bury all traces of Julia Hargate—and the secret that had haunted her all her life.
“I told you so,” Nell Florence said, her wrinkled face breaking into a rare and beautiful smile. “It was the right choice to approach Logan Scott. I admire his work at the Capital. Despite his youth, he's a capable manager. You'll profit far more by joining Scott's acting company than you would have at Drury Lane.” Her frail shoulders moved in a shudder, and she made a face of disdain. “Drury Lane is being ruined by that American impresario Stephen Price and his freakish taste for spectacle. You should have been born a half-century ago and worked for David Garrick—he would have known exactly what to do with a girl of your talents. To think of how you could have played opposite him inThe Wonder…”
“Then you approve of Mr. Scott?” Julia asked, gently prodding her back to the subject before Mrs. Florence could lapse into one of her long reminiscences.
“Oh, yes. His productions have wonderful style, and his devotion to the art of acting is unquestionable.”
They sat together drinking tea in Mrs. Florence's parlor, with its musty furniture upholstered in rose silk, and walls covered with ancient theater mementos. Julia had met the elderly woman only a few months before, when Mrs. Florence had accepted a small part in a production at the Daly Theatre. Normally an appearance at the Daly would have been beneath such a great actress, who had acted at Drury Lane for more than thirty years. However, Mr. Bickerston had paid Mrs. Florence a fortune, knowing that her name would fill every seat in the theater.
After a successful month-long run of the play, Mrs. Florence had left Bickerston and the Daly—but not before she had taken Julia aside and given some well-intentioned advice. “Your gifts are being wasted here,” she had told Julia. “You must find another theater, a reputable one, and get some proper training.”
Julia had been flattered almost to the point of speechlessness. She greatly admired the elderly woman and the success she had made of her life. Born to a large and impoverished family on the east end of London, Nell Florence had profited from her considerable talents on the stage and also from a few discreet love affairs with wealthy men. Although her legendary beauty had faded with age, her rich red hair now streaked with silver, she was still a handsome woman.
Several years ago Mrs. Florence had retired to a London townhouse with a small staff of servants to look after her. If an aspiring actor or actress took her fancy, she would occasionally give acting lessons. Although Julia couldn't afford to pay her high fees, Mrs. Florence had decided to take her under her wing regardless.
“I can afford to teach for pleasure, if I wish to,” she had said. “I believe our association will do us both some good. I will help you to achieve the success you deserve, and you will brighten my days with your visits. Old people must always have young ones around…and you are very much like I was at your age.”
Once a week Julia would visit Mrs. Florence in her cluttered parlor, drinking tea from painted china cups as she paid rapt attention to the elderly woman's instructions. Now that Julia had been hired as a member of the Capital Theatre, Mrs. Florence seemed as pleased by Julia's success as if it were her own.
“I knew Scott wouldn't hesitate to hire you, once he saw you act,” she remarked. “You have a quality, my dear, which he couldn't fail to see. You seem to give everything of yourself when you're onstage…but you withhold just enough to make them want more. Never give everything, Jessica, or you'll be taken for granted.” Settling back in an overstuffed chair, the elderly woman regarded Julia with bright eyes. “Now tell me…how was it to play a scene with an actor of his caliber?”
“Thrilling,” Julia said instantly. “He almost made me believe it was really happening. I've never met anyone who could make a scene from a play seem more real than life.”
“So it is with the great ones,” Mrs. Florence replied reflectively. “But beware, Jessica…after reaching the heights that are possible in the theater, real life can seem rather disappointing. You may awaken one morning to find that your profession has stolen precious years from you. And you'll be no better off than I, surrounded by faded artifacts and portraits, with nothing but memories to sustain you.”
“I would love to be exactly like you,” Julia said fervently. “You've made your mark in the theater, you're respected and comfortable andindependent…I could hope for nothing better than that.”
For a moment Mrs. Florence's eyes were filled with sadness. “I haven't always made the right choices, child. I've had to live with the consequences for a very long time.”
“Do you mean…” Julia stared at her, perplexed. “Is it that you regret not having married?”
“I only wanted to marry one man in particular,” the elderly woman informed her, with a wry twitch of her lips. “Unfortunately he didn't mix with the theater. He wanted me to leave it entirely, and so…” She spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I let him go. How I envied other women who didn't have to make such a choice!” She stared at Julia in a faintly pitying way, as if it were a certainty that Julia would someday face the same painful dilemma. Julia wished she could tell Mrs. Florence the truth…that she would never need to choose between Love and her profession…that she was in fact already married, and her husband was no obstacle at all.
Quietly Julia made her way to her mother's bedroom, located in the darkened east wing of Hargate Hall. The luxurious gothic estate was dark and stalwart, with tall chimneys and long, narrow windows. Set in the midst of the chalky Buckinghamshire hills, it was connected to the market town a mile away by old, sunken paths that hadn't changed for decades. Hargate Hall was dim and quiet, with heavy mahogany furniture and ceilings covered with webbed fan vaulting.
Being inside the home she had left two years ago gave Julia an uncomfortable, closed-in feeling. Resolutely she climbed one of the long flanks of stairs leading from the first floor to the second, half-fearing that at any moment she would hear her father's knifelike voice commanding her to get out.
