Page 2 of Loving Mister Stratford
“Yes well,” Rafe lowered his voice conspiratorially;“if you ever find a woman who can do the things she can with her tongue, then, by all means, I will bend over backward for you to ensure you get your dessert.” He clapped Simon on the shoulder in a brotherly fashion.“Now…shall we?”
Once backstage, Rafe and…Fanny?...mingled with the crowd as if they truly did deserve to be there, whereas Simon was certain he stuck out like a burlap sack amongst the silk and satin. He’d never managed these situations well, and in the close quarters of the maze of back hallways and narrow rooms, the bustling crowd of actors still on a high from their performance, he felt supremely uncomfortable. He didn’t have the same social anxieties as his sister, Lily, who tended to experience a crippling panic whenever she found herself in a crowded room; his anxiety stemmed from something else entirely. Simon felt as if he were a blatant interloper, that (as they usually did) someone would spot him for the imposter that he was, recognizing that he didn’t fit in with their society’s norms and mores.
To make himself less conspicuous, Simon took a few steps backward into a darker area of the room in which they’d congregated. It appeared to be some sort of storage area with props and tall pieces of mismatched scenery organized in some inscrutable fashion known only to the madman who had coordinated it. It reeked of sweat, paint, wood polish, with the mellow undertone of beeswax and stench of tallow, but there was plenty to watch, a myriad of people to observe. His eyes scanned the fascinating collection of guests, actors, and other theater employees.
Men in pristine black coats flirted shamelessly with half-dressed actresses wearing little more than petticoats and loosely lashed robes. Underlings scurried to and fro with notes and paper-wrapped bundles of roses, lilies, carnations, and other fragrant blooms to be delivered to various performers; others went about their duties, seeming rather unfazed by the crowd as they tied ropes, hauled props, and dashed about carrying piles of costumes.
Simon stepped back to avoid a collision with one such runner when the dinwas interrupted by a small yelp of pain. He immediately froze, confused, and searched for the sound’s origin. Finally looking down, he found a woman clad in a garish orange-and-blue gown, kneeling on the floor, shaking out her fingers he’d just crushed beneath the heel of his polished boot.
“Are you alright?” he asked, still trying to puzzle out what she was doing on the floor. Should he apologize for stepping on her? Would that be too rude to blatantly point out her behavior, which happened to be odd enough for even Simon to notice? Should he ask what in the world she was doing down there?
But when she turned her head to look up at him, however, Simon’s mind did something it never did: It stopped.
Odette momentarily forgot her smarting fingers as she looked up, and up, and up into the handsome face of the stranger who had quite possibly just broken her hand. He was clad in formal black and white—obviously one of the benefactors of the troupe or the play, perhaps even just a wealthy member of the audience with prominent friends—with polished black boots and dark blonde hair cropped close at his temples and slightly longer on top. His incredible blue-green eyes were set slightly wide on his elegant face, but they were complimented by his slashes of straight, sandy brows and cheekbones that looked as if they could cut glass. His nose was straight and well-formed. Her eyes drifted to his mouth—the lower lip fuller than the cupid’s bow arch of his upper lip—and it took her a moment to recognize that those lips had formed words intended for her to hear and respond.
And she’d missed them.
“I—I beg your pardon, what did you say?” She hoped the cacophony of the room would make up for her atrocious lack of listening skills.
“I asked you if I might help you to your feet,” he repeated, not demonstrating so much as a hint that he noticed her slip.
“Oh! No, thank you.”
She smiled.
He simply blinked down at her.
“No?”
She replied with a shake of her head.“You see, I seem to have dropped one of my earrings and I’ve borrowed the pair from someone. If I cannot find it, then I may as well make my grave right here and now.”
“I see.” His piercing eyes seemed to take her in, assess her one inch at a time. He was so serious, so analytical. The fact that he didn’t laugh at her was impressive enough; when he crouched down beside her, she nearly expired. He was mere inches away, smelling of parchment and, faintly, a clean-scented pomade.“What does this earring look like?”
Odette turned her head to show him the one that remained in her left ear.“They’re sapphires. I didn’t want to wear them, but she insisted.”
“Who is‘she’?” he asked somewhat absently as the tip of his gloved forefinger brushed the lobe of her ear to view it better in the dim lighting.
“My—my relative,” she replied, trying not to shiver at the strange sensation of having a man touch her ear.“I am a relation of one of the actresses. She insists that I dress up for these performances and parade around backstage, though I find it extremely uncomfortable.”
“That would make two of us,” the man muttered, now concentrating on scouring the floor.
Odette could hardly believe that he was helping her, let alone that he was now down on all fours with her in the corner of an after-show event on opening night. Good God, what would people say if they saw the two of them?
What would her mother say?
She barely stifled a bubble of hysterical laughter.
Odette had lived her entire life in the formidable shadow cast by Stella Auclair, the French actress known for her exquisite, fragile beauty; Odette had never felt quite up to snuff when compared to her. They were only sixteen years apart in age—her mother having been impregnated and abandoned shortly after entering the theater. Thanks to the generosity of her fellow thespians, she’d managed the impossible and maintained her career despite being a mother; she’d even become one of the most sought-after female leads in London with her flair for the dramatic, her ethereal looks, and enviable ability to memorize lines and directions more quickly than anyone. This, coupled with her mother’s crippling fear of aging out of the major roles, meant Odette had always been forbidden from calling her“mother,” or even the French,“maman.” When in the company of others, Odette had always been urged to address her as“Stella”—the Anglicized version of her name, Estelle. As such, their relationship had been more of close female relatives or companions rather than that of mother and offspring. It had suited Odette in some respects but left her hollow in others.
She’d never been privy to her father’s identity; the story seemed to change each time Odette had asked. Once, he was a deposed Italian prince, then he was a wealthy American tycoon. As Odette grew up, however, she realized (more likely than not) he had simply been a handsome, silver-tongued actor who’d seduced the young, lovely French girl so desperately longing to make her debut on the stage. All of this meant that Odette had grown up with a very confused idea of what it meant to have a family.
When she’d come of age, she’d spent most of her time away at school. And when she returned to her mother, she had spent her time accompanying her to events and watching the performances like the dutiful daughter of a woman who refused to acknowledge her maternal status.
Though she’d been sent away for her education and finishing, Odette’s earliest memories were of watching her mother apply her makeup before going on stage; the intricate costumes and paste jewelry; and the deafening roar of applause when her mother finished. Odette used to clap her hands over her ears.
Her childhood playmates had been some of the children hired as set hands or runners, a few of whom had grown up and made names of their own working in the business; one of them had even starred alongside her mother in this particular performance. Garret Frost had risen to near stratospheric success these past few years; it had been quite a pleasant shock for Odette to see him so successful when she’d returned for a visit, and, knowing of his humble beginnings and difficult past, she couldn’t have been more pleased for her friend.
As soon as she’d been of age, her mother had shipped her off to the most exclusive, expensive boarding school she could find; all under the guise of wanting to give her daughter the opportunities she’d never had. Odette still had no idea how her mother might have afforded such an education, but she certainly must have skimped and scrounged every last penny, perhaps even sold some of the gifts provided by one of her faceless admirers or protectors over the years to do so. While Odette’s childhood had been largely following her mother’s career, moving around a great deal and often having to go without; her early teenage years had been during her mother’s ascension into notoriety. She’d quickly procured them stable living conditions and arranged for Odette to have an education worthy of a proper lady.
