The Sweet Far Thing

Page 61

“What do you mean?” Ann asks. Felicity is in full stride and we struggle to keep pace.
“He made an improper advance toward you, Ann.”
“Toward me?” Ann asks, wide-eyed. A lightning-quick grin splits her face. “How wonderful!”
At last, we find Lily Trimble’s door. We knock and await a response. A maid answers, her hands filled with costumes. I present my card. It is only a plain card from a shop, but that is no matter, for her eyes widen as she reads the illusion there.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” she says, giving a slight curtsy. “I’ll be just a minute.”
“What did you put on that card?” Felicity asks.
“Something that would gain us entrance.”
The maid returns. “This way, if you please.”
She ushers us into Lily Trimble’s dressing room, which we take in at a glance: the damask chaise; the lamp with a red silk scarf thrown over the top; the dressing screen covered with a collection of silk robes and gowns and stockings sprawled in a shameless display; the vanity, where an array of creams and lotions sit next to a silver hairbrush and hand mirror.
“Miss Trimble, Misses Doyle, Worthington, and Washbrad to meet you,” the maid says.
A familiar smoky voice comes from behind the screen. “Thank you, Tillie. And, darling, please, you must do something about that wig. It’s like wearing a hornets’ nest.”
“Yes, miss,” Tillie says, leaving us.
Lily Trimble emerges from behind the dressing screen in a deep blue velvet robe she secures about her waist with a gold tasseled tie. The long, flowing hair was only a wig; her true hair—a muted auburn—she wears in a simple braid. Ann is slack-jawed, awed to be in the presence of such a star. When Miss Trimble takes her hand, Ann curtsies as if greeting the Queen.
The actress’s laugh is as thick as cigar smoke and just as intoxicating. “Well, this is a fancy reception, isn’t it?” she quips with an American accent. “I must confess, I haven’t met too many duchesses in my time. Which one of you is the Duchess of Doyle?”
Felicity offers me a naughty smile for my duplicity but there is something so very straightforward about Lily Trimble, I find it impossible to lie to her.
“I have a confession to make. None of us is a duchess, I’m afraid.”
She arches a brow. “You don’t say?”
“We are from the Spence Academy for Young Ladies.”
She takes in our unchaperoned state. “My. A lady’s education has changed rather dramatically since my time. Not that my time was so long ago.”
“We think you are the most marvelous actress in the whole world, and we simply had to meet you!” Ann blurts out.
“And how many actresses have you seen?” Miss Trimble asks. She notes Ann’s blush. “Mmmm, thought so.” She sits before her dressing mirror and rubs cream over her face in practiced strokes.
“Our Ann, er, Nan is quite talented,” I say in a rush.
“Is she?” Miss Trimble does not turn around.
“Oh, yes, she can sing beautifully,” Felicity adds.
Ann looks at us in horror, and for a moment, the illusion flickers. I shake my head and smile at her. I see her close her eyes for a moment, and everything is as it was. Lily Trimble opens a silver case and pulls out a cigarette. The shock registers on our faces. We’ve never seen a woman smoke. It is terribly scandalous. She places the cigarette between her lips and lights it.
“And I suppose you’d like me to secure you a berth in the company?”
“Oh, I c-c-couldn’t ask s-such a thing,” Ann stammers, red-faced.
“In my experience, my dear, if you don’t ask, you do not get.”
Ann can barely force the words from her lips. “I should like…to try.”
The actress appraises our friend through a stream of cigarette smoke. “You’re certainly pretty enough to be on the stage. I was that pretty once.”
She pulls her hair forward and grasps it tightly in one hand, brushing the long ends with the other.
“No one is as beautiful as you are, Miss Trimble.”
Another smoky laugh escapes from Lily Trimble. “There, there, you’re not auditioning for me, darling. You can keep a lid on the charm. And speaking of charm school, what would your mother have to say about all of this?”
Ann clears her throat softly. “I don’t have a mum. I’ve no one.”
Lily puffs thoughtfully on her cigarette. She blows a ring of smoke.
“The hand you hold the longest is your own.” She glances at herself in the mirror, then holds Ann’s gaze there. “Miss Washbrad, this life is not for the faint of heart. It is a vagabond’s life. I have no husband, no children. But my life is my own. And there is the applause and the adoration. It helps to keep a girl warm at night.”