Marianne decided that some good angel must be watching over her. She was not so much impressed at the offer of a singing job, for she had expected that; coming as it did after such a crushing disappointment only made the triumph sweeter. However, only a series of fortunate accidents made it possible for her to fulfill the engagement without a long, boring argument with Mrs. Shortbody. A summons from an old friend, taken suddenly ill, had prevented the landlady from accompanying Marianne that morning, and the emergency kept her from home that same night. (Marianne's definition of "fortunate" was as egocentric as that of most eighteen-year-olds.)
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."
Marianne obeyed. She wished, humbly, that she could remember some of the fine religious sentiments Mrs. Jay had taught her, about beauty being skin-deep, and a good heart being more important than a pretty face. But she doubted that she could have expressed these ideas with conviction. She knew, and Maggie knew, that a pretty face was important.
Maggie decided against the roses, and removed them. Then Marianne sat down again while the woman put the finishing touches on her hair and makeup.
"That'll do," Maggie said finally. "Come along, you'll be going on in a few minutes."
She opened the door. Marianne heard thumping strains of music somewhere in the distance. She became aware of a peculiar sensation in her insides. "Oh," she gasped, putting her hands on her stomach.
"Come along," Maggie repeated.
"I – I can't. Oh… I really feel most unwell!"
Maggie emitted a hoarse sound that might have been a laugh. "Stage fright. You'll get over it when you're out there."
At least, she added to herself, I hope so. She had not believed Wilson when he told her the girl was a beginner. Amateurs were not welcome at the Alhambra. Now, having seen Marianne's total ignorance and uncharacteristic gentleness of manner, she realized that the manager had been telling the truth. A sentiment so long foreign to her heart that she did not recognize it made her voice softer than usual as she added, "I'll come down wif you. Don't worry now."
Marianne was convinced she was going to be sick, but she had been taught to face her duty with a stiff upper lip. She tottered toward the door, where she was met by Mr. Wilson, who had come to fetch her. He nodded with satisfaction. Then recognizing the significance of her pale cheeks and trembling mouth, he smiled faintly.
"You look utterly lovely, Miss Ransom. Don't be nervous; sing as I heard you sing this afternoon, and you will win all hearts. Just nod at the conductor when you are ready to begin."
Taking her icy hand in his, he led her along the corridor and down the steep iron stairs. Neither he nor Marianne noticed Maggie skulking along behind them.
Marianne was also happily unaware of the looks and murmurs that followed her progress. Wilson's presence, as he knew, was the one thing that saved her from some of the unsavory practical jokes that were often practiced on unpopular performers by their fellow actors: the rude placard on the back, the foot outstretched to trip, the slashed gown. The music battered at her ears, and as they reached the wings and she looked out on the stage she saw only a dazzle of light, with dim figures moving in it. The music ended in a crash, blending with an unenthusiastic spatter of applause, and the acrobats who had finished their turn ran offstage, their makeup streaked from the hot lights and violent exercise.
"Now then, my dear," Wilson said, and led her onto the stage.
She scarcely heard his introductory phrases, nor the half-ironical applause that followed it; the thundering beat of her heart drowned out most other sound. But she did hear the orchestra. As always, music had the power to make her forget herself, and this was the first time she had sung to any accompaniment other than harp or pianoforte. Catching the leader's eye, she began to sing.
After a few bars Mr. Wilson, in the wings, relaxed and allowed a smile to curl his lips. It had worked! He was not listening to, or looking at, Marianne; he was watching the audience.
It was a somber-looking crowd. Almost the only shade of color visible was the dead black of masculine evening attire. A splash of violent magenta or brilliant red marked the places of the few women who were present. Waiters trotted back and forth serving the customers, who sat at small tables scattered about the floor; the eating and drinking continued unabated through the entire performance. But, Mr. Wilson observed gloatingly, most of the men had stopped drinking to stare.
They had never seen anything quite like Marianne on the stage of the Alhambra. Maggie had been right to rip off the offending roses; the severe black gown was now, in design, what any well-bred young lady might wear to an evening party. What made it shocking and subtly perverse was its color; for no young lady wore black unless she was in mourning, and no young lady in mourning carried on an active social life. The stark, unrelieved black framed Marianne's white shoulders, curved with reflected highlights over her breasts, and reduced her waist to nothing. Her manner was perfect. No winks, no smiles, no suggestion of double entendre in the simple, sentimental words of the ballad. She looked like a lady and acted like a lady, and there she stood, in a place where no lady would have dreamed of appearing.
Mr. Wilson rubbed his thin white hands together. She was a sensation, a novelty. Of course the novelty would wear off, it always did; but while it lasted the Alhambra would retain its hold on the most dissipated and sophisticated members of London's haut monde. And when they tired of Marianne he would find something else.
When Marianne crept into the house several hours later she was in such a happy daze she did not even feel tired. It had been just as she had seen it in her daydreams. Of course the Prince of Wales had not been there; but no doubt he would come, another night. She had sung a second time, and on that occasion she had been scarcely troubled by stage fright, so that she had been cool enough to survey the audience while she sang. What a rich, elegant crowd they were! The snowy linen and diamond studs of the gentlemen, the satin-lined evening capes and gold-headed canes… She had been a trifle surprised to note that people kept drinking and eating while she sang, but concluded that this must be the mode in London. Some of the men had been quite nice-looking. One especially, sitting at a table to the right of the stage, had looked just like the Byronic hero of her dreams – a thin, clean-shaven face with curving dark brows and high cheekbones. She had not been able to judge his height, since he had been sitting, but she was positive he must be tall. And he had never taken his eyes off her the entire time. She hoped to dream of the handsome Unknown; instead she dreamed of Mrs. Jay scolding her for some childish misdemeanor, and woke in a sweat of terror, because Mrs. Jay's distorted face had been so terrible.
Marianne's luck held – though in retrospect it would be hard to say whether that luck was good or bad. Her landlady's friend did not improve, so Mrs. Shortbody remained away from home. Had she been there, Marianne would never have been able to continue her career without explanations, since her schedule necessitated her leaving the house late in the evening, after the other residents had retired. She was able to do this because the overworked housemaid and cook went to bed early, and because her room was next to the back stairs. Marianne was able to creep down them unobserved, unlatch the kitchen door, and pass out. It was a miracle that none of the enterprising denizens of London's extensive underworld happened to try that unlocked back door. No doubt something of the sort would have happened sooner or later; but Marianne's career was over sooner rather than later.
It may seem incredible that Marianne should continue to be unaware of the real nature of the establishment in which she was performing. That she did may be attributed to two factors: first, the abysmal ignorance of a young lady of that period, and second, the assiduous efforts of Mr. Wilson to keep her ignorant. Even he underestimated her naivety; he felt sure that when she discovered that the "theater" was one of London's most infamous clubs, pandering to the jaded appetites of titled and wealthy roues, she would be too pleased by her success to object. However, he knew full well that her greatest charm – aside from her undeniable beauty – was in her innocence, and he did his best to maintain it as long as possible.
On the first night he managed to spirit her out of the place before any of the habitues could locate her. The task became harder on each succeeding night, but Wilson kept the would-be suitors at bay, insisting, in the face of ribald remarks, proffered bribes, and incredulous laughter, that the girl was precisely what she appeared to be, and that he could not permit an innocent young lady to be harassed. As he was well aware, the possibility that this might be true only made the suitors more eager.
Marianne had been appearing for slightly over a week when the inevitable happened.
She was a trifle preoccupied that evening, since she had learned that Mrs. Shortbody's friend was recovering nicely, and that the landlady hoped to return home within a day or two. When that happened, she would be forced to tell Mrs. Shortbody the truth. Though she did not feel she was doing anything wrong, she had a vague, uneasy feeling that Mrs. Shortbody might not share that opinion, and she was not looking forward to telling her.
However, when she arrived at the club her spirits soared, as they always did at the prospect of performing. The applause had gone to her head; she was fast becoming stage-struck. Mr. Wilson was waiting for her, as he always was, and on his arm she swept past the crowd waiting at the stage door.
Maggie returned Marianne's smiling greeting with her usual gruff nod. The woman's manner was never effusive; Marianne did not notice that she seemed disturbed about something, nor did she pay attention when Maggie drew Wilson aside and spoke urgently to him. The manager interrupted her after a few sentences with a wave of his hand and a curt dismissal.
Marianne had gotten over her stage fright by now; she moved onto the stage with cool assurance, her dimples very much in evidence. As the orchestra played her introduction she let her eyes wander over the audience, and her heart leaped as she recognized a face she had not seen since the first night – that of the dark, Byronic gentleman. She scarcely noticed the man who was with him. The latter was stout, gray-haired – too elderly and plain to be interesting.
As she sang she let her eyes wander over the audience in professional style; and the slightest of frowns puckered her forehead when she saw another familiar face. This man had been there every night, at the same table, one of those in the row nearest to the stage – from which she deduced, correctly, that he was a favored customer. He was dressed with a richness conspicuous even in that haunt of the wealthy; the studs on his shirtfront were rubies so large as to verge on vulgarity. The gaslights brought out the lines and wrinkles on his sallow face. He was bald, except for a fringe of dark hair. His eyes were dark too, though they were so sunk in pouches of flesh that their color was scarcely discernible.
Perhaps because she was nervous about the forthcoming interview with Mrs. Shortbody the unknown's unwinking regard affected her even more unpleasantly than usual, and when she had finished her song she left the stage at once instead of acknowledging the applause as she usually did. She was annoyed to find that Maggie was not waiting with her wrap. It was the first time she had had to go to her dressing room unaccompanied, though Wilson had not continued his escort service after the first night. He had made it eminently plain to the other performers that the slightest gesture against his star would be repaid with interest. So, although Marianne's progress was followed by stares and mutters, no one molested her as she made her way back to her room.
Maggie was not there. Grumbling at the inconvenience, Marianne got out of her dress – no easy task, since it had several dozen fasteners down the back – and hung it up to prevent its creasing. She was about to slip into her cotton wrapper when the dressing-room door was opened.
Marianne did not even glance up. "So there you are! I wondered what had -"
She saw the man reflected in the mirror, and shock stopped her speaking. The rubies in his shirtfront reflected the light like drops of liquid blood.
Marianne whirled around, clutching the dressing gown to her breast. The intruder smiled, if it could be called that; a spasmodic movement of the lips that did not alter his cold, hard stare.
"Nicely done," he said in a drawl. "And quite unrehearsed! Is it possible, I wonder, that Wilson could have been telling the truth after all?"
Marianne recovered enough breath to speak. Though frightened and angry, she still did not comprehend the full extent of her danger.
"How dare you!" she exclaimed.
The man's unpleasant smile intensified. He extended a gloved hand and closed the door.
"Sir, if you do not leave immediately…" Marianne began.
"Very well, very well; you needn't play the innocent with me; I am the Honorable Percival Bagstock, and I can well afford your price. We may as well come to a private arrangement, eh? Saves paying Wilson his cut."
Marianne let out a wavering shriek.
Terror constricted her breath, so the scream was not very loud; but it had a remarkable effect on Bagstock. His face darkened with fury. Gripping his gold-headed cane, he lunged at her, moved as much by anger as by lust, for he honestly believed that Marianne's outrage was pretense, designed to raise the price of what he desired. His violent, vicious rages were well known in his own circle; even his peers tried not to irritate Bagstock. And what had he to fear from a cheap performer?
Marianne's strength was no match for his. He had her pinioned in his arms before she could scream again.
"Very well," he snarled. "If this is how you prefer it -"
Marianne felt her senses leaving her. The dark, ugly face bending over her grew blurred. Then the hard arms relaxed and Bagstock's expression changed from anger to blank astonishment. He collapsed in an ungainly heap; and there stood Maggie, the gold-headed cane still raised in the gesture with which she had struck him down.
Marianne's knees gave way. Maggie did not allow her to fall; dropping her weapon, she seized the girl's bare arms in a grip that left bruises, and shook her violently.
"Quick! Make a run for it, now, 'afore he comes to. Where's your gown? Here… No time to fasten it, throw your cloak over… Come, quick."
Automatically Marianne obeyed the commanding voice, the hasty, fumbling hands that helped her dress. Maggie pushed her out of the room and guided her down the stairs. When they reached the stage door, the doorkeeper looked up.
" 'Ere! Where do'ye think you're going?"
"A breath of air," Maggie answered, and propelled Marianne through the door before the man could reply.
The night air was not salubrious. It was thick with fog – not the black, choking pea-souper common in the later winter months, when millions of coal fires added their poisonous fumes to the dampness, but heavy enough to blur the outlines of objects and shroud the streetlights in a white veil. Supporting Marianne's swaying form, Maggie headed toward the light at the end of the alleyway. "You got money?" she demanded.
"I… My bag. I left it -"
" 'Ere it is." Maggie looped the ribbons over her limp arm. " 'Old on to it, for Gawd's sake. Curse 'im, I shoulda known.
… Seen 'im watching you, shoulda known it was a false message… Look 'ere, take 'old o' yourself, don't faint nor nothing. You know what you gotta do?"
Marianne groaned.
"Gawd 'elp you," Maggie muttered. "If you an't even more 'elpless than I thought…"
They reached the main thoroughfare. To Marianne's dazed eyes it seemed like a scene from a nightmare, a dark landscape through which shrouded forms moved like ghosts. Maggie, peering through the fog with keen, accustomed eyes, put her fingers to her mouth and let out a shrill whistle. Marianne jumped. Maggie shook her again.
"Listen," she said breathlessly. "Go straight 'ome and stay there till you can get out o' London. Wilson won't look for you, 'e's not that kind, but if Bagshot finds out where you live… 'E didn't see me, but 'e'll know who done it. 'E allus knows. They say 'e's in league wif the Devil. Old 'Arry'll take me in. I 'ope… 'Ere's the cab. D'you 'ear me? D'you understand what I'm saying?"
Marianne nodded dumbly. With a quick, violent gesture Maggie pulled the hood of the girl's cloak up to cover her head; but before the folds settled into place her hard, rough hands briefly stroked the golden curls. Then she turned to look at the driver of the hansom cab that had pulled up beside them. It was just as well Marianne did not see the look on the man's face as he studied her, or hear the brief exchange between Maggie and the driver. He thought, of course, that she was a streetwalker heading for home after a meeting with a generous patron. Still in a stupor she supplied the information that was demanded and sat like a wooden statue during the long, jolting ride. How she got into the house she could never remember; but seemingly she had wits enough to lock up, and undress. Not until she was in bed did the full reaction strike; she lay shivering, her teeth chattering, for what seemed like hours, until sleep, or unconsciousness, overcame her.