Ruby's Song (Love in the Sierras Book 3) (3 page)

A string of underground playhouses had sprung up to produce outlawed plays, and
The Museum
was the most notorious of them. Though Elijah and his comrades had been successful in rooting out such venues and closing them down, he’d failed to discover the location of
The Museum.
That failure drove his determination and he announced he’d see the place burn before summer’s end.

“You know where
The Museum
is?” Marlena asked. “Elijah has been searching for months.”

Eloisa straightened and stared down her nose at Marlena. “You’re not going to tell him, are you? Please tell me I won’t regret inviting you into our circle?”

Marlena would never do such a thing, but not for the reason Eloisa suggested. She believed Elijah and the Moral Order were shameful tyrants, though she’d never utter such an opinion aloud. She shook her head.

“I won’t say anything, but do you really think it wise to go? What if you’re seen?”

“You mean what if
we’re
seen? You
are
coming with us, aren’t you? I was under the impression you western girls had gumption.”

The ladies laughed and Marlena hesitated to answer. The Winthrops would be livid and the punishment severe if she were discovered. Her eyes scanned the expectant faces all pinned on her, waiting. What would it be like to have grand adventures with friends, to experience more than readings and sober dinner parties where she ate little and spoke even less? If these women were extending an offer of camaraderie, she would be a fool to turn it down. Her lips curved up and she nodded.

Eloisa handed around bits of clothing. “Change quickly, ladies, and hide your gowns in this bag. We are servant girls tonight!”

Thus disguised, the ladies filed out of Eloisa’s room and silently padded down the hallways toward the servants’ staircase, making their way out into the back of the house. They crept behind the hedges, holding their hems high above the wet grass until they reached the street. Traveling on foot, they reached a back alley surprisingly close to where Marlena lived. It gave her a chuckle to know Elijah scoured far and wide for a place hidden in his own neighborhood. The front façade had the look of an authentic museum, but through a back door a wide warehouse opened with a makeshift stage, and the crowd was so full that the ladies were pushed to the side wall near the dais.

In the throng, Marlena was separated from the group, so she pressed her back against the side wall and slid toward her friends. Soon, she was close enough to hear her name spoken.

“Marlena must have gotten lost in the crowd.”

“Who cares?” Eloisa said with a wave of her hand. “I only brought her to take the fall if we’re caught. My maid and butler can vouch that she came to my house and you four are witnesses as well that this was all
her
idea.”

The other ladies laughed.

“I’m surprised she came with us,” one said.

“I’m not,” Eloisa said. “These are
her
kind of people. She should feel quite at home among thieves and vagrants.”

“Honestly, what were Sarah and Elijah thinking, taking her in all these years? I know they’re charitable, but good Lord. ”

“I heard Sarah was grooming her to become a great opera singer.”

More laughter ensued before Eloisa spoke again. “Can you imagine? Why, I’d never even heard her voice before tonight.”

“It’s true. She hardly speaks at dinners or parties.”

“I can see why, now,” Eloisa said. “Did you hear her voice? What a soft, mousy little thing. And I always thought she didn’t speak because she had no personality.”

“Or anything intelligent to say.”

Marlena’s eyes moistened with hot tears and she pinched her eyelids shut, unwilling to cry over the slight she should have seen coming. Her contempt for Boston was never so great as it was in that moment. There wasn’t a genuine bone in any body of Sarah’s acquaintance.

She cleared her throat, drawing the horrified stares of all five women. Her spine straightened and she leveled her eyes at each of them. “Good night, ladies.”

Without another word, she shimmied toward the back of the room and would have left, but the crowd hushed and the play began. Music played and actors leapt about in lavish costumes and before long, Marlena was grinning. As she stood in the audience watching the players, something inside her sparked to life. She saw herself on the stage, reciting those lines and singing those songs, making people laugh and cheer. It was what she’d come to Boston to do.

The singers weren’t perfect, but their influence was, and not a face in the house looked disappointed as Marlena scanned them. But her heart nearly stopped in her chest when her eyes landed on the face of Sarah’s tour manager, Harrison Brady. She dropped into a squat and shielded her face with a hand.

He blocked the only way out, and she couldn’t sneak by without being seen. Cold sweat lathered her palms and she slid them over her skirt. Plain dress or not, Harrison would know her instantly. As she squatted, the soft padding of footsteps pattered to her ears and she noticed a small gap between the side wall and the back wall. She followed the seam only to realize it was a door built to look like the wall panel. The steady hum of traffic on the other side of the wall told her it was a busy corridor. Built for the actors and stagehands, she assumed. She saw her only escape route and took it, pushing quickly through the door to land in a dimly lit hallway.

“What’re you doing back here?” A man asked in hushed tones. He was tall, burly, bald and had ears that stuck out like miniature flags. “No patrons allowed back here.”

If she hadn’t been so distracted by the size of his ears, she might have given an answer, but another man saved her from it as he sidled up beside them.

“Monkey,” he whispered. “What’s going on? Is this the girl for the audition?”

Marlena couldn’t help but giggle at the man’s name. How apt. She seized the opportunity presented her. “Yes, I’m here to audition.”

“Come on,” Monkey said, taking her by the elbow down a few more turns until depositing her in a private room backstage. “Wait here for Maggie.”

She sat, listening to the remainder of the play, wondering how she would get out of this scrape. Her mind spun all sorts of escape routes and lies to get her out of the situation, but one thought pulsed through her mind.

What if?

What if she could land a place on the stage here? After all, she’d come to Boston to perform. Perhaps it was time to take matters into her own hands. Sarah had told her repeatedly she wasn’t ready for the stage. No better way to know than trial by fire. Then, she’d know for sure if she had what it took to command a stage. Or if she really was some soft spoken, untalented pity case like Eloisa and her friends believed.

When footsteps approached, her body shook and she had to swallow three times to clear her throat. The door opened and Monkey walked in, followed by a tall, rotund middle-aged woman who stood in the middle of the room with legs apart and arms akimbo. A fat cigar hung from her mouth, its smoke filling up the tiny space.

“So, you want to perform on my stage, eh?” she said, appraising Marlena. “I’m Maggie. Stand up, girl and let me look at you.”

Marlena obeyed and felt the woman’s eyes roving critically.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Eighteen.”

Maggie nodded. “You ever act before?”

Marlena glanced at the floor. Did living in disguise count? Finally, she shook her head. “No, but I sing.”

A raspy laugh hissed from Maggie’s lungs. “Your voice is as delicate as a whisper. You sure you can project enough to be heard out there? We pack quite a crowd.”

Marlena nodded.

“Well, let’s hear you sing something then,” Maggie said, folding her arms over her chest.

“Here? Now?”

“Why not? Go ahead, girl.”

Marlena cleared her throat and sang, watching the bright widening of both Maggie’s and Monkey’s eyes as she did so. The depth and range of her voice made the room seem too small, the roof too low.  Soon, Maggie’s arms fell to her sides and she exchanged a smile and laugh with Monkey before signaling Marlena to stop.

“You’re hired,” she declared, plucking out the cigar and blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. “What’s your name, girl?”

“Mar…” she began, then decided it was best to obscure her identity. “My name is Penny Wallace, and my father is an innkeeper.”

“Sounds good to me,” she said. “Welcome aboard. Monkey will introduce you to everyone.”

“One thing, Miss Maggie,” Marlena called out, wringing her hands as she studied the floor. “I can only rehearse in the evenings and no one can see my face. My father doesn’t approve.”

Maggie waited until Marlena raised her eyes and then nodded. “We can work with that.”

With a wide smile, she left
The Museum
through the back alley and ran home, forgetting her dress at Eloisa’s. Knowing she couldn’t enter the house looking like a servant, she employed the old oak on the side of the house, using its knots and gnarled limbs to ascend to her window.

Sleep came easily that night. Forgotten was the bitter prank of Eloisa and her comrades. Set aside was her fears and worries over Sarah’s criticism. For the first time in years, she went to sleep with a smile on her lips, for she could finally call herself a performer.

Chapter 3

Dalton slid a finger between his neck and the stiff collar of his dress shirt, trying to loosen the cinch of the black bow tie pressing on his Adam’s apple. His mother swatted his hand away and seared him with a scowl as they shuffled along the marble-floored lobby of the Boston Opera House. After two hours of boredom, he couldn’t wait to taste the cooler night air. Out in the moonlight, he removed the top hat and took a deep breath, tugging the bow tie off. “Thank God it’s over.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” his mother cooed, laughing at Dalton’s public and unabashed disrobing.

“It wasn’t Marlena,” he returned. “And that’s who we got all dressed up to see. What happened? You said she was supposed to be on stage.”

Her shoulders rose. “Jess told me she performs at the Boston Opera House each Monday, Wednesday and Thursday.”

“Perhaps you should have double checked prior to purchasing seats.”

Juliet sighed and placed her fists on her hips. “Dalton Cunningham. Stop acting like a squalling infant. It was a lovely opera, despite some misinformation.”

“The opera was several things, Mother.
Lovely
wasn’t one of them. The Opera Queen seemed a bit vacant, don’t you think? And isn’t she Marlena’s patroness? I thought I recognized her.”

“Yes, that’s her,” Juliet confirmed. “And I agree she did seem a bit distracted, but still. You can’t deny her talent.”

“I don’t deny it. I just don’t find it particularly palatable.” He hailed a carriage and instructed the driver to their inn. “Pity we wasted an evening there and didn’t even see Little Miss.”

“I am certain the innkeeper will know where to find the residence of The Opera Queen. I’ll send a note to Marlena and ask her to dine with us.”

“Why not just call on her yourself?”

Once inside the cubicle his mother pinned him with her cool blue eyes. “You know very well why. It isn’t proper, and as much as I don’t mind a slamming door in my face, I know you will take offense and I don’t want to upset you.”

He studied her appearance. She was adept at disguising herself when the need arose. Her hair, dyed a scandalously bright red, was stuffed beneath the opulent garnishes of a Parisian headdress festooned with tule and plumage. Her normally rouged cheeks were pale as porcelain and her lips remained their natural nude color. She looked every inch the lady. But he wouldn’t ask her to go on in disguise. He loved her for who she was, and believed others should, too.

He pursed his lips as he wondered. “Why doesn’t it offend you, Mother?”

“You have to have pride to be offended, and you have to abandon your pride to make a living as a woman alone. So, I abandoned mine years ago. We all go through life bargaining with the talents granted us. As women, our options are few. We’ve got wife-ing, whoring, and a palm full of career opportunities. Only one of those was a true option for me. But I am not ungrateful. I have more money, freedom and authority than I would have otherwise, but I have no illusions that it’s a respectable line of work.” She reached across and squeezed his hand. “There will never be a society where whoring is shameless, and there shouldn’t be. And that’s not really what you want anyway.”

He felt his brow scrunch in confusion, but she went on.

“Sooner or later, you’re going to have to acknowledge it bothers
you
that I’m a whore, instead of being angry that it bothers everyone else.”

He gritted his teeth. “You’re not a whore, Mother. You gave up paying customers years ago.”

She leveled her eyes at him. “Dalton, I run a brothel.”

He blew out a hot breath. “All right, Mother. I’ll admit it. You’re right. I wish you weren’t a…a…”

“Whore,” she supplied with an amused grin and he huffed in anger.

“Stop it,” he said. “I’ll never call you that.
Never
. But I do wish…”

“What, Dalton?” she asked softly.

“I wish you knew what it was like to be loved for who you are outside of a bedroom.” Her lips curved slightly, sadly, and he reached out to touch her knee, looking her straight in the eye. “You’re worth more than that, Mother.”

Her eyes bore into his with a brightening sheen and she covered his hand with hers. “I was wrong when I said I didn’t have any pride.” She squeezed his hand. “It’s sitting right across from me.”

Dalton’s throat crowded with emotion and he swallowed as he sat back to survey the cityscape passing by the carriage windows. Four months had crawled by since he left Virginia City, and he was itching to get back. The trip abroad had proven three things. The first was that the only travel he enjoyed was done through mountain ranges on horseback. The second was that he considered himself wholly American, despite his English parentage. And the third was that he cared very little for large cities, like London and Boston. He’d seen enough. Too many people. Too many noises and smells. Too many rules. He wanted to return to the place where life was real and raw.

The rush of excitement upon stepping foot on American soil under American sun was invigorating, but he still had a long way to go to feel a western wind at his back, the gentle glide of a tamed mustang beneath him and the wide dawn breaking over a landscape sculpted by the Creator. Four months away from the place where he belonged seemed interminable, and he wondered how Marlena had managed five years in Boston.

“I’m curious to see how Marlena’s grown, how she’s changed,” he mused aloud.

“She was a little gem of a child,” his mother said. “If she favors her sister, she will be a raving jewel, no doubt.”

Dalton nodded in agreement, but he wondered most about her demeanor. He’d seen moments of boldness in her as a child, mostly when it involved defending or protecting her sister, but he had also noticed how quickly she’d retreat into silence when she received any attention or praise. She’d been on the verge of fainting the one time he’d asked her to dance at the spring festival, and then had not uttered a single word during it. He’d been reduced to telling jokes to elicit something more than the doe-eyed expression she’d pinned on him.

The thought of that same personality gracing the stage of an opulent opera house, the focal point of hundreds of critical eyes, intrigued him. The girl he once knew couldn’t command an audience’s attention. Not like the actress he’d discovered at
The Museum
months ago when they’d traveled through Boston en route to London. A hot bolt of lust moved through him as he thought of the woman with sleek, long legs and a voice dripping with honey.

He’d first seen her dressed as Puck in
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
. She’d pranced around, singing lines from the original, unedited Shakespeare, wearing a mask and headdress that looked like weeping tree branches full of leaves. He never saw her face. But he saw her legs, and the way the tight white hosen clung to her derriere. Her hair was long, wavy, blond and swished about her waist as she danced and sang.

Her delivered lines had him and the other patrons shaking with laughter, and his eyes clamped onto the graceful movements of her body as she bounded and danced, but that wasn’t what solidified her place in his thoughts. It was the way she possessed the stage, the charismatic and arresting presence she exuded. He couldn’t take his eyes off her that night, or the other two times he’d seen her perform, always in some costume that obscured her face.

He’d sent her notes backstage, praise really, but she’d never acknowledged them and he’d gone on to London with visions of her haunting his sleep. Always in his dreams, he’d lift her constant veil and see a beautiful young woman with wide expressive eyes, porcelain white skin and soft pink lips, ready for his kisses. She’d be a passionate lover, he knew, for anyone who could fill each performance with such vigor was sure to be full of passion when it came to lovemaking.

“Are you going to
The Museum
again tonight?” his mother asked, seeming to trace the path of his thoughts.

He nodded. “Care to join me?”

“No,” she released with a wave of her hand. “I’ve had my fill of entertainment for the evening. You go on without me.”

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the inn and Dalton leapt out to help his mother out of it. Once tucked safely in her room, he went to his and changed clothes. Black trousers, a pressed white shirt and a black coat. He threw the top hat across the room and snatched up his familiar headwear, a wide-brimmed, black felt hat designed by the hatter, Stetson, himself. It looked out of place in Boston, gaining its usage on the western plains, but he was ready to feel more at home, so he settled it onto his head, smiling at the snug feel.  

He made his way down the stairs, through the dining room and back onto the bustle of Boylston Street. If he hurried, he’d be able to catch the last act. The thought filled his innards with heat and he broke into a jog until he reached the front entrance of the theater. It had been two months since he’d seen her, and his only hope was that she was still there.

He hurried through a lobby filled with cases of artificial relics from Revolutionary War battles. Once through a back door, the space became a large open warehouse-turned-theater with bodies crowding the ground level. He went straight for the staircase that led to the balcony and found his familiar spot in the back.

If she hadn’t spoken, he would have never recognized her. She was dressed like a middle-aged man, her hands clasped behind her back as she paced the stage with a straight back and a stiff gait. A foamy white wig hugged her scalp, and a bushy mustache of the same color obscured her mouth. The rest of her face was made up in white with bright red cheeks, giving them a shiny, ruddy appearance. His chest shook with silent laughter.

She began to sing, lifting that enchanting voice of hers until it filled the entire room. It wouldn’t matter what lyrics she sang. He was enraptured. The contrast between the two women he’d heard sing that night was blaring. When the performance ended, his robust applause joined the rest of the audience and continued long after the others faded away. Bodies cleared the area, anxious to dispel the heat with the cooler night air, but he didn’t move.

Finally, his persistent applause won him the reward he sought. Just before she slipped behind the closed curtain, she turned and locked eyes with him. A surge of intense heat moved through him, and he wondered if she felt it, too. She bowed once more, a gesture for him alone, and then she disappeared. He pulled a folded note from his pocket and made his way outside to the back entrance, hoping this would be the night he’d come face to face with the actress who had caught his eye.

Marlena’s skin itched from the layers of sweat and grease paint lathered across her face, not to mention the mustache glued to her upper lip. Her bodysuit created the large belly of the figure she was impersonating, none other than Elijah Winthrop, and only added to her discomfort. The white, fluffy man’s wig tied over her bundle of blond hair made sweat slide down the back of her neck. But it was worth it. She looked and acted every bit the part, and no one could play him better. She’d heard his righteous spiel several times, and it had contributed the fodder for the song she wrote and prepared to perform.

The back doors of the theater were propped open to admit a breeze, but it did the actors little good. The wooden stage arced toward the standing audience, and its entire u-shaped perimeter was lined with lamps at full glow emitting one giant ball of heat.

She scowled at her counterpart in the scene, a young man dressed as an aristocratic woman, his hoop skirt rising now and again to reveal long legs wrapped in stockings and pantaloons. His wig of beribboned dark brown ringlets bounced around as his head lashed from side to side while he spoke his lines in a high-pitched drawl.   

“But father,” he whined. “Why mustn’t I go to the theater? Why can’t I see the play?”

He aired his rouged face with a lacy fan and Marlena felt a pang of jealousy. She screwed her features into a frown.

“A play?!” she bellowed, her voice a deep gruff. “Do you want the devil to take you on the spot? Plays are horrible displays, full of…” she turned to the crowd and her tone became mocking, “immorality.” The audience cheered. “Rebelliousness.” They cheered again. “Unwholesomeness.” She leaned down, as if sharing a secret with the onlookers and widened her eyes. “Lasciviousness.”

The people hooted and raised their fists, erupting into fits of laughter when the young “lady” on stage fell into a faint. Marlena paced across the wooden planks as the piano player’s fingers danced over the keys. She began to belt out an anthem she’d composed.