City of Ash (29 page)

But Claude had walked away without a backward glance. In his way, he had used me, just as Nathan had. I’d given him money and prestige, and he’d taken them and fled. He had not even said good-bye.

I looked at Mr. DeWitt, who was looking at me as if he saw something in my face that arrested him.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Langley?”

“Yes,” I whispered, though I felt ill. It made me more honest than I would have been, than I should have been. “How I envy you, Mr. DeWitt.”

“For what?”

“For what you have.”

He sighed. “Mrs. Langley … what I did … not telling you … ”

“You don’t have to explain.”

He met my gaze. “That morning, when I came to your house—I meant to tell you then. But you were so enthusiastic, and I didn’t want to hurt you. I’m sorry.”

My discomfort faded, along with my pain. The evidence of his concern was a restorative. “Thank you for caring, Mr. DeWitt. It … means a great deal to me.”

He looked at me, and something fell between us, some understanding that I’d felt for few other people, and I smiled and said, “Will you come to lunch with me?”

“Your husband tells me there’s been talk,” he said. “The café—”

“Yes, I know.”

“If we’re seen together in a restaurant, it will be worse,” he warned. “I don’t want to cost you.”

“My dear Mr. DeWitt, you are truly my only friend in this
town. Surely you won’t abandon me to my lonely purgatory for fear of some ridiculous gossip?”

He smiled. “I suppose, when you put it that way—”

“Then lunch it is,” I said.

Beatrice

T
hat night I felt a flurry of anxiety. Though I thought Nathan’s note meant he’d forgiven me, I wasn’t quite certain. I hadn’t seen him since I’d told him to leave me the hell alone, after all, and there was every chance he would still be angry, and I wasn’t forgetting that slap or that strangeness in his eyes that had frightened me or the way he’d fucked me, either, and there was a part of me that wished he would leave me alone, even though I knew what that would cost me, and I couldn’t afford it.

I went to the theater at four and put on my costume and did my hair and makeup for
Debts
beside a very quiet Susan. I knew she felt guilty about taking over Marjory, but I didn’t feel like consoling her. I went onstage and searched the boxes as I delivered my lines, and there Nathan was, in his usual box, and I felt this terrified relief that almost made me stick. Luckily I remembered my lines after only a pause, and I don’t think anyone realized how nervous I was. It only made me better, actually, because I’d done
Debts
so many times it felt sometimes as if I were saying my lines in a dream, and my nervousness woke me up. It was a good play; I’d forgotten how much I liked it, and suddenly I
was
the good and pious Margaret in a way I hadn’t been in some time, and that made me remember the passion Sebastian DeWitt had said was still in me, and I thought maybe he was right. When it was over, I was proud of myself, which was another thing I hadn’t felt for a long time.

The night was nearly as hot as the day had been—a week or more without rain, unusually warm—and with that and the stage lights and the close warmth of backstage, I was sweating as I hurried back to the dressing room after our bows. But once I was there, I was back to nerves again as I got ready to meet Nathan. I left on the costume—it was one of my best gowns, and my brown calico didn’t go very well with the cloak and the hairpins I’d locked away in my trunk. When I followed Nathan’s driver out, I glanced about for Sebastian DeWitt. I wanted to see his smile; I wanted to know he’d noticed tonight. But I didn’t see him anywhere, and that was strange, you know, because lately he’d always been hovering about my dressing room, and his not being there left me feeling a little off balance.

That feeling only grew when I got to the carriage. The driver opened the door, and I saw the shadow of Nathan inside, and he moved into the light, his hair gleaming as if it had been freshly combed with macassar, and held out his hand. When I took it, he pulled me hard into his lap and kissed me until I was gasping for breath and I thought he meant to have me there in the carriage, which made me wonder why the hell I’d bothered to get dressed up.

Then he let me go. “So you’ve forgiven me,” he said with a smug smile.

That smile annoyed me, but I didn’t want him remembering that it was the other way around, that I’d needed
him
to forgive
me
, and so I said, “Yes. I’m sorry I lost my temper.”

“Don’t be sorry. It was … interesting.” He gave me this leer that told me he was remembering what had happened after, and it shook me a little that he’d thought it was erotic, and I had to turn away to look out the window.

“Where are we going?”

“To the Queen City.”

That surprised me. The Queen City Chop House was a better
restaurant than I was used to, and I was surprised he’d take me there, where someone might see us and recognize him. But either that didn’t occur to him or he didn’t care, and I supposed, now that his wife knew I was his mistress, it didn’t matter.

The Queen City was large, but the cut-glass gasoliers were turned down low so it was very dim and hard to see anyone else, and the clouds of smoke from cigars and pipes only made everything fuzzier. It wasn’t full; it was late for dinner. But there were a few people dressed in elegant clothing, people who had come from the theater, or maybe from one of the lyceums in town. I smelled something delicious, rich and beefy, that made my stomach grumble.

Nathan whispered something to the man standing just inside the door, and he whisked us through, seating us in a darkened corner, secluded, but not so much that we couldn’t be seen, though he did seat me so my back was to the main. I whispered to Nathan, “Are you certain you like this table?”

He asked, “Why not? What’s wrong with it?”

“I’d thought there might be a private room—”

“Are you ashamed to be seen with me?”

“I was thinking it might be the other way around.”

He laughed. “My dear, if my wife can be seen having beer with Sebastian DeWitt, I can certainly bring a lady friend to dinner.”

My stomach dropped. Suddenly I remembered that conversation he’d had with DeWitt in the carriage. “Your wife had a beer with Mr. DeWitt?”

“Didn’t you hear? The rest of the world did.” Nathan picked up his menu.

“I didn’t realize they were such friends.” And really, I should have stopped before I said it, because I remembered too what DeWitt had said about Nathan telling him to fuck his wife.

Nathan said, “Oh, I think they’re much more than friends,” in this nasty little way. My appetite fell away. I wanted nothing more than to go home, even though I knew how stupid it was. Sebastian DeWitt might see me as his muse, but he didn’t belong to me, and I couldn’t afford him that way anyway, so jealousy was just a waste of time. But still I wondered when he’d given in.
I wondered if that was where he was tonight, if he was with her.
Stupid, Bea. Stupid, stupid
.

Nathan ordered wine and a meal of beef in some kind of rich sauce and potatoes whipped and crusty brown and sweet glazed carrots, and when it came the smell was so good that I couldn’t resist it after all. I’d never had a better meal, to tell the truth, and Nathan acted so besotted I thought he might crawl across the table and fuck me there in the chair. He cut my meat, poured me wine, and leaned close while I drank it, smiling and touching my hand until I laughed and said, “I’m not one of your helpless society ladies, you know.”

He poured me another glass of wine. “No, you’re something much better.”

I’d had a little too much wine. I laughed again. “And what’s that?”

“It’s a relief to be with you after dealing with Ginny all day. You never pretend to be something you’re not.”

Which only made me think he was either stupid or deluded, because I was an
actress
, after all. My job was in pretending to be someone else, and besides, what was this dinner except pretense? He wanted to be in bed with me and I wanted to be away from him, and this all felt like some strange and confusing game. But I said, as if I were interested, “Really?”

“This acting nonsense … she has no real desire to be onstage, you know. She just likes the attention. She always has.”

“I know actors like that too.”

“The difference between them and my wife is that Ginny hasn’t an ounce of talent.”

He was so dismissive. It was insulting, the way he talked about her sometimes, and I didn’t like it. But I didn’t like her either, and I wasn’t about to defend her.

Nathan smiled. “But then, no one in the company has your talent.”

That surprised me. “You think I’m talented?”

“Of course you are. Why else would I have noticed you?”

“I’d thought … because I look like …”

“My wife?” Nathan laughed. “A coincidence, I assure you. I suppose I have a preference for dark-haired women. But no, it
wasn’t how you look that made me pick you out. It was your presence on the stage. You’re quite charismatic, you know. There’s a—what’s the word?—oh … 
feeling
, I suppose. One can see how you love being there. The eye is drawn to you.”

The same thing Sebastian DeWitt had said, of a sort, and I’ll admit it pleased me. “Well. Thank you.”

“In fact, I had thought you might be well served by a good … ah, never mind.”

“A good what?”

Nathan shrugged and toyed with the stem of his wineglass. “Nothing. What do I know about drama?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly, but he’d piqued my curiosity and my vanity, and I couldn’t help wanting to know what he’d been going to say, especially because he was echoing DeWitt, and I wondered how I managed to be so transparent when I worked so hard to make it otherwise. “Tell me what you were going to say.”

He looked at me consideringly, his blue eyes glinting. “You need to grab the limelight, my dear, and to do that you need a part that grabs attention for you.”

I couldn’t resist a little jab. “That’s what
Penelope Justis
was supposed to do.”

“And it still will. When Ginny’s gone, it will be yours again.”

I sighed. “It will never be mine. Everyone will have seen her version first.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” he said with a thin smile. “But I was thinking of something else, something along the lines of … what was that play I saw recently? When I was in New York a year or so ago, I think. A French court, a woman with a scar … horribly disfigured …”

“From a bullet fired into her face,” I said. “
L’Article 47
. Augustin Daly produced it in New York, though he stole it from Belot.”

“The heroine was quite mad. It was stunning to watch. Greene should play it here.”

“Well, it wouldn’t bother Lucius to steal from Daly. You should suggest it to him.”

Nathan leaned back in his chair, idly sipping his wine. “You know the part of the woman?”

“Cora. Yes, I know it. It’s a good play.”

“Say a few lines for me. I want to see how you do it.”

I laughed and drank my own wine. I felt pleasantly full, a little drunk, and tonight Nathan had stroked my vanity in a way I wasn’t used to. Perhaps he did truly feel sorry for giving his wife my part. In any case, I liked him this way, as charming as he’d been when I’d first met him, a charm I’d forgotten he had. So I put my elbows on the table, clasping my hands beneath my chin, taking on the persona of Cora, the mad mulatto. Dreamily, I said, “ ‘Have you forgotten our first night? Our beautiful life in Louisiana! Do you not remember our room, opening on a garden full of fragrant flowers? In the distance, the Father of Water hurried down against the sea breeze and the rising tide! The birds that flitted by the window sang a chorus to our duet of kisses!’ ”

“Wonderful,” Nathan said. “I’m entranced.”

I smiled and went on. “ ‘You swore by the myriad stars that glowed above us that you had never seen my like for beauty! That you could not tear yourself from me, and the morning star found us where Hesperus had last peeped in. Can our old-time bliss be never known again?’ ”

He leaned forward. “Amazing. You truly
are
her. That man she was in love with—”

“George.”

“Had she looked at him the way you’re looking at me now …”

Nathan’s expression took on the ardency I’d never liked. I leaned away. “It’s an excellent part.”

“Can you do some of the mad lines? Act them out for me.”

I glanced around. “Here?”

He shrugged. “Why not?”

“Nathan, there are people—”

“No one I know.” He looked around as well. “No one I care about. Let’s give them a start, shall we?”

I shook my head.

“What’s wrong? You did it that night at the saloon. With Metairie and the others.”

“That was for fun—”

“This will be fun for me,” he said. “Go ahead. I want to see
how they react. I’ll warrant they’ve never seen anything like it. Amuse me, my dear. Be mad Cora.”

There weren’t very many people in the place, it was true, but still I was reluctant. And without my fellows …