We Shall See the Sky Sparkling

Advance praise for Susana Aikin and

We Shall See the Sky Sparkling

"Vivid and compelling—an exceptional

woman on an extraordinary journey."

—Livi Michael, author of Accession

"We Shall See the Sky Sparkling is a vivid, thoroughly absorbing account of one woman’s struggle to break from the rigid roles her social class and time period impose on her. Drawing from her family’s history and a series of fascinating letters, Susana Aikin crafts a marvelous tale of adventure, rebellion, and romance, taking readers on a captivating journey from the theaters of Edwardian London to tumultuous St. Petersburg and beyond. She weaves the character of actress Lily Throop Cable with a deft hand. Lily shines as a heroine of uncommon strength, determination, and passion. Her struggle to protect and foster her independence, even as she navigates through great loves and treacherous times, is one to be relished and remembered. It’s a pleasure and privilege to read this sparkling debut."

—Suzanne Nelson, author of Serendipity’s Footsteps

"Susana Aikin’s directorial eye is much in evidence in this sweeping saga. Her attention to period detail transports the reader on a filmic journey that is both astonishing and tragic. We Shall See the Sky Sparkling is a powerful meditation on the sacrifices women have made in pursuit of their dreams—sadly, as relevant in the early 21st century as a hundred years ago."

—Helen Steadman, author of Widdershins and Sunwise

Against the dramatic backdrops of a Russia on the brink of revolution and the colorful lives backstage of the London theatre circuit, Susana Aikin has created a feisty Edwardian protagonist whose trajectory still resonates with the predicament of women working in the arts today.

—Sara Alexander, author of

Four Hundred and Forty Steps to the Sea

WE SHALL SEE THE SKY SPARKLING

SUSANA AIKIN

KENSINGTON BOOKS

www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Advance praise for Susana Aikin and We Shall See the Sky Sparkling

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

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DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.

119 West 40th Street

New York, NY 10018

Copyright © 2019 by Susana Aikin

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

ISBN: 978-1-4967-1765-8

Kensington Electronic Edition: February 2019

ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1765-8

ISBN-10: 1-4967-1765-1

For Margaret

P

ROLOGUE

My mother kept an old sepia photo in an oval frame of faded coral velvet on top of her writing desk in her upstairs sitting room. In it stood a beautiful, slender woman richly dressed in a long, elegant coat with a fur stole that reached below her knees, and an elaborate hat adorned with ostrich plumes, or some other exotic bird’s feathers. On the back was a name and address printed in Cyrillic letters that likely belonged to a photographic studio in St. Petersburg, with the date 1902 written below.

Her name was Lily Alexandra Throop, a great-grandaunt on my father’s side, an actress who fled her family in Manchester as a young girl to work in London’s West End theaters, at a time when actresses were considered no better than sluts. For this, her memory had been handed down the generations clouded in a mixture of glitter and dark legend. She was beautiful and talented, but she had left home against her father’s will and was disinherited. She had shamed the family. The mention of her name in family gatherings always created tension; there were those who were riveted by her story, and those who deplored it. My cousin Margaret and I formed the core of the faction who idolized Lily, with other females in the family, including my mother, who flaunted Lily’s picture as a prized heirloom depicting a magnificent ancestress dame. Whenever the Throop women came together, it was only a matter of time before speculation about Lily’s adventurous life would begin to bubble up.

But my father and his brothers were not thrilled with Lily’s story. Having a bad girl in the family disquieted them. She was no lady, they said. My father’s younger brother, Uncle Tim, had been the main weaver of Lily’s ominous myth. He was a passionate genealogist who’d worked for years to reconstruct our family history, and in that process had come across certain photographs, official documents, and reluctant testimonies from older family members, all of which provided key pieces to the puzzle of Lily’s life.

We knew she had been born in 1880 in Stockport, Manchester, and lost her mother very young. Her father had remarried one of his cousins, a cruel woman called Betty, who mistreated Lily and her brother, Harry, but mostly Lily. At age seventeen, Lily left the family house amid disrepute and scandal. A cutting from the The Era’s theater-review paper listed her as playing Gretchen in a play called Soldiers of the Queen, produced at London’s Imperial Theatre in October 1897. A note Lily sent to Harry in June 1900 requesting a birth certificate needed for a passport application was found among my grandmother’s papers. Two of my great-aunts, Minnie and Bella, had talked about Lily leaving the country to travel in foreign lands, and how at some point, rumors had reached the family that she had borne an illegitimate child. A few years later she allegedly returned to England, alone, penniless and sick, and died shortly after, in disgrace.

Her death certificate, according to Uncle Tim, declared her to be a spinster and a theatrical dancer, and said she died of pulmonary phthisis at age twenty-four. Unfortunately, that’s the sort of thing that happened to women who forgot their good breeding, he concluded as we sat around the table, while Margaret and I glared at him in fury, suspecting that part of the story had been contrived to create a perfect cautionary tale.

Lily’s tragic tale and disappeared child remained sources of endless conjecture among the family’s female faction, particularly the fate of her baby. Had she really had a child? And if so, what had happened to it? Would she or he still be alive? But for us, Lily’s charisma outshone all else; to have an ancestress who had defied all conventions to pursue an artistic career bestowed a very particular badge on the women of our clan.

There was another photograph of Lily in our house: another sepia picture of her as a young girl, probably around the age when she left for London. She’s clad in Victorian fashion, the collar of her dress closely fitted up the length of her neck and fastened with a dainty brooch of miniature pearls. Her face is a smooth oval with delicate cheekbones and a straight, elegant nose; her lips are thin and determined; her eyes stare ahead, radiant and brimming with life.

You have those same eyes, my father would say, half in jest. Watch that you don’t follow in her steps. He wasn’t the only one in the family who believed that I resembled Lily, not just in the face and eyes, but also in obstinacy and unruliness.

They say there are some children who grow in the shadow of a dead family member and unwittingly follow their fate. I think I was one of those children. There was always a secret thrill mixed with a certain dread in my affinity with Lily. I too was an artist, awkward and misunderstood, and felt the need to leave home and find a place where I could develop my creative drive. In my case, that place was New York, where I settled in 1997 to become a filmmaker and a writer. As I struggled on the path of my artistic career, I often thought about Lily and her journey all the way to Russia at the turn of the twentieth century. After all, plowing through the hardship of growing into an artist in a competitive world dominated by convention, and by men, is an eternally tough predicament for a woman, at any time in history, in any place.

But Lily’s journey always felt immensely more far-fetched, braver and riskier than mine. And whenever I fell upon hard times, met insurmountable obstacles, or got close to the end of my rope, I thought of her, wondering if she had encountered similar troubles and how she might have worked her way through. Lily was always in the back of my mind as the ghostly role model of the artist I strove to become. Maybe that’s why I became obsessed for years with the discovery of her real tale.

Sadly, I had to lose my father to come into possession of further clues to Lily’s life. When I returned to Manchester after his death to gather his personal effects, I was surprised and overjoyed to find a few of the letters Lily wrote to Harry and his wife, Alice. They had been kept in a box in the attic of the old house in Chorlton-cum-Hardy that had belonged to my grandmother, where my father had lived the last years of his life. This was fresh material that no one of my generation, or my parents’, seemed to have examined before.

There were thirteen letters in all, tied in a little stack with a string. I took them home and laid them out by tentative order of date and place across my writing desk.

Manchester, November 5th, 1897

My dearest Harry and Alice,

It’s close to eight in the morning and the carriage will be here any moment. I don’t have the heart to disturb you this early, so I’m writing this farewell note while I wait to have a last word with Father.

Oh, loves, if you knew how thrilled and how anxious I feel right now! My hand trembles as I write these lines. I can’t wait to be sitting in the train, I can’t wait to arrive in London and see the most wonderful city in the whole world. If only I could have both of you come with me, if only the three of us could be together in this adventure, I should be the happiest girl alive. But I will trust that soon you will join me, and the life we’ve dreamed of will come true.

So, get well, my dearest, dearest brother, and you, my sweet sister-in-law, bless you for all your love and kindness.

Much love and a thousand kisses,

Lily

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Lily stood leaning against the mantelpiece folding the note into a little envelope. The room was cold. The fire had not been lit. Neither had the cinders from last night been removed or the hearth swept. Outside loomed a dreary, wet November morning with rain-darkened trees silhouetted against skies threaded in scales of gray. The grandfather clock’s gloomy ticking filled the room. At the other side of the double-paneled door, she heard the muffled whimpering of her little sister, Annie, amid the swishing of dresses moving quickly along the hall and landing, followed by her father’s heavy footsteps coming down the stairs. Everyone leave the hall at once, Lily heard him say, in a loud, composed voice. I want to talk to her alone. All stood still for a moment.

Lily held her breath as the door opened. Her father walked in and sat in his armchair by the window. He was fully dressed in his Sunday brown suit and immaculately groomed despite the early hour. Even the chain of his pocket watch was perfectly looped through its customary buttonhole. He sat upright and looked across the room, ignoring her. Then he fumbled in his waist pocket and brought out his monocle. His right eye first widened, as if surprised, and then squinted as he placed the round glass in between his cheek and upper eyelid. He picked up his cane again and leaned on it with both hands.

Father, I will be leaving any minute now. . . . Lily started.

You will go nowhere. You will stay at the house and do what I tell you. If you dare disobey me . . . her father said, straining to sound severe but ending on a deflated note. He cleared his throat and huffed. You’ll be the disgrace of us all.

Lily felt a sob cramping her throat while tears shot up into her eyes. Her father gave her a sidelong glance, while shifting his weight uncomfortably in the chair. There’s still time to call this ridiculous idea off. Should you do that, I will forgive everything. He paused for a moment. So will Mr. Duff, I’m sure.

At the mention of Mr. Duff, Lily’s cheeks flushed with anger. I thought we already talked about Mr. Duff, Father, that I shall never marry him. The image of the clergyman’s beady little eyes flashed through her mind. She shuddered, recalling the proximity of his scrawny, buttoned-up body as he had whispered, My dear, you need to think of putting your talents in God’s service at the church.

Her refusal to marry him had thrown the household into calamity only a few weeks ago. Her father had stopped talking to her, while her stepmother, Betty, had sneered to no end. Only dishonest girls lead a man up the garden path like that. Besides, I don’t know how many other offers someone like you will get. And she had hounded Lily with images of drab spinsterhood.

But all of this was now far away in the past in Lily’s mind.

Father, please, let’s not quarrel anymore. You know how much I love you. And I do appreciate your thinking of my future. It’s just that I am so drawn to acting, and so feel I must follow my heart.

Her father shot her a furious glance. I will never give you permission to leave the house.

Lily rushed toward him, kneeled by his chair, took his hand, and put it to her lips. Father, please, give me your blessing. I promise one day you’ll be proud of me.

Her father pulled his hand away from hers and stiffened in the chair. She knew how hard this must be for him. He was a bland man and found it difficult to discipline his favorite daughter. But he was also bland in the presence of Betty, a strong, unwavering personality who had always sought to dominate him, and made every effort to crush Lily’s spark.

As if summoned by Lily’s thoughts, Betty entered the room. I see you’re already getting the best of your father with your theatrical ways, she said, closing the door. What you’re about to do is not just indecent but also ungrateful, after everything he’s done for you. She was stout, with a large head and compact body. Her hands had been quick to smack Lily’s head and ears in the past, but now it was her tongue she used to wound. But you’re not concerned, are you? You’ll always do as you please. Well, let me just say this: I can’t help but see you a fallen woman in a few years, fit only for the workhouse. Every girl I know who went in for the theater ended up in the gutter.

Lily scrambled to her feet, trembling. You never knew anyone who went in for the theater! She stood facing Betty with rage pounding in her ears, struggling to control herself, for she knew restraint was the only viable strategy in the presence of her old enemy.

Oh, yes! Betty continued. Stupid girls who could sing and dance! They thought they would do anything they fancied, but never knew how fast they could get shot down.

Her father stood up. That’s enough! We won’t say another word about this. You are only seventeen and under my tutelage. You will not leave this house! Send the carriage away and go to your room.

Lily kneeled again before her father and searched his eyes. I only ask for your blessing, Father. The clip-clopping of horse hooves and the clatter of wheels filled the street before they came to a halt outside the house. If you won’t stand behind me, Lily added, her voice shaking, I can only hope one day you will forgive me.

Forgive you! I will not lay eyes on you again as long as I live. I will disinherit you properly and forget you were ever my daughter!

Lily stood up. All right, Father, I will just say good-bye then. She turned toward the door where Betty was barring the threshold. Let me through, she said, but Betty was unmoved. You shall have to step over me, she said.

A string of coughing sounds was heard approaching the hall. Then came a weak, insistent knock on the door. Father, open up.

Betty stepped aside as her husband fumbled with the knob. Harry! Son! Why have you left your bed?

Harry leaned against the threshold, a gaunt figure, wrapped in a heavy gown. Behind him stood Alice, with her pretty, freckled face pulled into a frown as she struggled to place a blanket around his sloped shoulders. Darling, please, she said. Let’s go back. It’s cold out here.

Harry went into another long fit of coughing. Lily watched in agony at the red stain spreading on the handkerchief he pressed to his lips as he hawked. He looked up with thunderous eyes as soon as he could steady himself. Father, let her go, he said, out of breath.

Harry! Father exclaimed in a fury. This is not for you to interfere! Go back to bed. I will call Dr. Morton presently.

Father, I say you give her your blessing.

I will do no such thing!

She will go anyway, Harry said, locking eyes with his sister.

If Lily had one regret about leaving her father’s house in this state of strife, it was Harry. In different circumstances, it would have been her brother now going to London to work in the theater. Of the two of them, Lily had always seen Harry as the real dreamer, the true actor, the director and playwright. But he had also been the eternally sick child, prostrate for months, imprisoned in bed, surrounded by medicinal droppers, bedpans, hot-water bottles, and jars of pungent ointments; though none of that had ever made him lose his spirit, for he never stopped creating theater houses inside his sickroom, building tents and stages with bedsheets, making puppets out of old socks, and writing plays and stories over his pillows. Lily had always felt the silly, inept little sister by his side, following him into imaginary worlds as a way to distance herself from the somber household, from Betty’s violence, from the long, dark winter nights pelting rain over windowpanes.

Harry coughed again.

See? Betty said. Upsetting your brother.

Betty, this is not your business, Harry said, catching his breath. It’s my father’s and my own. Lily rushed to embrace him, but was careful not to crush him in her arms for fear of making him cough again. Go now, Lily, Harry said, and write to us as soon as you get there.

Harry, how dare you! Betty hissed. How dare you oppose your own father like this! Harry held her gaze in silence, while Lily pressed her lips one last time to her brother’s cheek and dashed out into the hall. She reached the coatrack by the entrance door and glanced back while unhooking her cape and hat. She froze at the scene behind her: Harry had started coughing again, while Alice embraced him at the waist with her thin arms and burst into sobs. Everyone stood around him in a knot of sadness and concern. For a second Lily’s hands felt like they would wilt and drop her cape. But Harry looked up at her again and said, Do not think of stepping back, Lily. Just leave. Everything will be all right.

Then she heard the Cook Nelly’s heavy footsteps walking up the kitchen stairs and into the hall. She held a napkin bundle in her hands. Miss Lily, this is for your elevenses on the train, she said in her sweet manner, oblivious to the commotion in the hallway. She was an ample matron, swathed in layers of white pinafores and aprons with a pinkish, round face and kind eyes. And, dear, do take care not to catch cold; it’s miserable today.

Cook, don’t you dare give Miss Lily anything! Betty said, coming up quickly behind them. She’ll leave the house without food or personal belongings.

Before she reached them, Lily pecked Nelly’s cheek, snatched the small bundle from her hands, and fled through the door. The cold morning mist hit her face while she tingled with euphoria.

Lily Alexandra Throop! She turned around at the sound of her father’s voice and saw his small brown figure standing in the doorway. I shall keep my promise and disown you this very day. I shall never call you my daughter again. She watched as he removed the monocle from his eye, returned it to its pocket, and then waved his hand at Nelly, demanding she close the door. He then turned into the dark, narrow tunnel of the hall and was gone.

London, February 14th, 1898

My dearest Harry and Alice,

I just received the travel trunk you so kindly sent me from Manchester. Oh loves, you don’t know how important this is, to have my clothes again with me and my books, for I have no money to buy anything, and London is very expensive. All these weeks I’ve been wearing Ruby’s extra coat and shoes, since mine were in such a sorry state. Do you remember Ruby? She is the red-haired Irish girl with the pretty eyes who played Mary Magdalene by my side in the Passion play last year. She’s here in London with me and we share a room at Mrs. Bakerloo’s boardinghouse. She’s such a lovely friend!

I am so happy, dear brother and sister! London is so big and beautiful with tall white buildings and elegant people coming to the play. The Imperial is just across from Westminster Abbey and the river. It’s the biggest theater I’ve seen: It holds up to three thousand people. It’s gorgeous inside, in the shape of a large horseshoe surrounded by columns and two rows of galleries. Everything is painted in red and gold, and the whole place glitters when the lights are turned on.

The play opened three weeks ago and it’s been a success. I am sending the cutout of The Era’s review—can you see my name in the list of actors? I play the part of Gretchen, and Ruby is Annette. But the article doesn’t mention either of us, it just says, The minor parts are all creditably sustained. I think it means we do well.

I feel blessed to be here, but I miss you so much, my darlings!

Your Lily

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Lily stood with her cape and bonnet, looking out the window toward the grim line of houses along Charing Cross Road. The rain fell hard over the cobbled streets. It beat against the windowpanes, sliding in rivulets along the soot-stained glass in slim, meandering paths. With the cuff of her sleeve Lily wiped clean a circle on the condensed surface and stared across the street at a woman who huddled behind her umbrella struggling against rain-threaded gusts of wind. Men walked around hunched up inside their coats with hands dug deep in their pockets, or ran holding newspapers above their heads. It was as wet and miserable as a large city can get under winter rain.

But not for Lily. No amount of rain, sleet, or snow could deter her hunger for exploring her new world. No day of the week, save Mondays, which was her day off, could ever be miserable enough for Lily not to want to be the first to arrive at the theater. That was all she thought about, getting there and rushing through its back door as soon as the janitor opened up, traversing the labyrinth of mysterious back corridors, probing dressing rooms, wardrobes, and storage rooms replete with furniture and the strangest variety of objects, or props, as Mr. Featherspoon, the property master, had taught her to call them. Ruby complained about the extra tasks that were part of their chores as players in training, but Lily relished them. What did it matter to her to have to sweep and scrub the stage before performances if that could afford her the chance of standing on that magical platform? Even empty, the stage vibrated with all the drama, laughter, and emotion that had been spilled over decades of performances. Sometimes, when no one else was around, she stood on the apron and looked out into the dark pit, imagining the day when it would be fully illuminated and swarming with patrons, roaring with applause for her.

Behind her, Ruby stood at the door spying through the keyhole. She’s still there, the old goat, she whispered. Stepping out of their room without having to face Mrs. Bakerloo was one of their most unpleasant daily tasks. No matter how softly, how carefully they closed the door, how much breath-holding and gingerly tiptoeing down the stairs, the grim matron was always waiting at the bottom, ready to scowl and threaten them with eviction. Mr. Bennett, their theatrical manager, never paid the rent on time, and now he owed more than two months. Slipping in and out of the room became harder every day the debt increased. The dining room had already been barred to them. For weeks they had been going without breakfast. But today, they were already late for the theater and just had to brave it past the old woman.

They opened the door and rushed down the stairs. Morning, Mrs. Bakerloo, Lily and Ruby recited in unison as they hurried toward the door.

It’s already afternoon, Mrs. Bakerloo barked. But you theater people wouldn’t even know the difference.

Out on the street, Lily looped her arm through Ruby’s as she opened her brolly and they walked down the street side by side. By the time they reached Stoney’s Gate, the rain had petered into a drizzle. They closed the soaked umbrella and rushed toward the theater with quick little steps.

The Imperial was housed inside a large corner building with darkened façades framed by rows of long, narrow Gothic-style windows. On the sides of the main doors hung large posters announcing the play, colorful vignettes of khaki-uniformed soldiers charging at one another over green hills, carrying British flags and large sabers.

They entered through the stage door, where Mr. Featherspoon sat perched on a stool waiting for them. He was a tall, lanky fellow with a protuberant pouch in his midriff that so contrasted with his thin torso and spindly legs, it looked like he might have eaten an animal that still lay undigested in his stomach. His face was long, etched with wrinkles and punctuated by sharp, tiny eyes that stared out of deep sockets. His nose, knobby and slightly crooked, sat above a thick imperial-style moustache that matched his gray sideburns and hair he wore parted in the middle and slicked back behind his ears. He was always dressed in the same shabby green velvet jacket and waistcoat, and a dark top hat that might have been black once. But he was a kindly fellow, Lily thought, despite his unpredictable, eccentric rants.

He jumped off the stool with surprising agility. You are very late indeed, missies. I was expecting you ten minutes ago. Lily blushed while Ruby clicked her tongue. Surely, they couldn’t tell him about the difficulties of getting past Mrs. Bakerloo. I’m a very busy man, Mr. Featherspoon continued in a high-pitched nasal voice, and cannot afford to be waiting on two fickle young ladies who cannot keep to their timetables. He paused to scan their unease with bemused eyes. Anyway, let’s get on with it. He took a large ring of keys out of his pocket and advanced down the corridor ahead of them. Lily and Ruby quickly removed their coats and hats and followed him.

From the day they arrived in London, Lily and Ruby had been under Mr. Featherspoon’s orders, helping to move light stage props and putting them back behind locked doors before closing the theater every night. They had also been bound to Mrs. Potterlane, the wardrobe mistress, a moody woman who made them brush and iron the actors’ costumes under fastidious supervision. When they joined the company, Mr. Bennett had announced he was happy to have them on board, but because they were only apprentices, he could not pay them beyond covering their food and rent. Soon, though, they might become understudies of May Withersfield, Dorothy Brown, and Mrs. Bennett, the company’s professional actresses.

The weeks before the opening of the play had been very busy. Lily had never seen a cast of twenty people in action, or witnessed a battle onstage. The play, Soldiers of the Queen, consisted of a military plot written by Mr. Bennett himself that took place during the Boer War. It had been hard for Lily to obtain a full manuscript to read, and she struggled to understand what the whole story was about. It seemed the actors only carried the pages where they had lines, and those who didn’t have lines didn’t carry any pages at all. Lily only had one line in the performance, and a short one at that: Dear soldier, let me bring you water. Her character, Gretchen, a barmaid in a gambling saloon in the middle of South Africa’s forsaken lands, took pity on the protagonist, Dick Forrest, a young mounted rifleman undergoing misery in the aftermath of battle. Only one line, but each time she uttered it, her eyes filled with tears as her heart filled with emotion. A line was a line, after all. Ruby didn’t have any. And this one line was spoken to the hero of the tale.

During the long, complex rehearsals, she sometimes climbed the narrow stairs up to the catwalk over the stage and stood on the wooden bridge by Harvey and Chut, the men in charge of changing backdrops by moving ropes and pulleys from above. From that high post, she admired the convoluted mechanics of coordinating action, while she thought of Harry and how he would have wondered at all this. Every time she thought of Harry something shrank inside her. It wasn’t just missing him; it was the feeling of treading on the tracks that should have been her brother’s destiny. It felt as if she were borrowing his life, like wearing a strange, large coat that she might never be able to fill.

Lily and Ruby followed Mr. Featherspoon down dimly illuminated corridors and arrived at the main wardrobe room. He ferreted out a short, fat latchkey from the clinking collection on the chained ring and unlocked the door. A gust of moldy dust blew out of the cave-like space as he went inside and turned on the light. Rows of costumes hung on heavy metal rods on both sides of the long, narrow room. Above them were sets of shelves escalating up to the ceiling, stuffed with crates and boxes of all sorts and sizes, some anonymous in their contents, some labeled in large, longhand writing: helmets and swords, Roman; blood-soaked clothing and ghosts, Macbeth; wigs, beards and moustaches, French; Arlecchino masks, breeches, commedia dell’arte; crowns, tiaras, jewels and wreaths, parasols, animal furs, and so on.

The room smelled of grease and old sweat with an undertow of urine. At the far end, the space opened up into a wider alcove lit by a gas lamp, where two large mirrors stood against the walls. Here the actors were fitted, and Mrs. Potterlane and her seamstresses worked sewing and adjusting costumes. Under the room’s only window sat a coal stove with a flat top, where the irons were kept hot for pressing. This was where Lily and Ruby spent hours brushing and ironing the habillements, or cloth accoutrements, as they were called. But today the stove had not yet been lit and the room was stone cold.

Please step in, little ladies, Mr. Featherspoon said. Mrs. Potterlane has instructed me to get you going with the soldiers’ uniforms for today’s performance. Perceiving Lily’s disappointment, he added, I know I said I’d take you into the prop room, but all in good time.

He left, while Ruby and Lily stood looking at each other. Ironing soldiers’ uniforms, fifteen of them, was a most boring, thankless task. But ahead lay the promise of helping Mr. Featherspoon inside his shop of curiosities, with its rows of shelves stuffed with swords and daggers, torches, skulls and bones, banners, caskets, old string instruments Lily had never envisioned before, and chests filled with silk flowers and red petals. On her last visit there, Lily remembered seeing a full body armor and a pair of feathered wings beside a severed head of wax.

I’ll run down and bring up a tray of coals, Ruby said. You line up the suits and the irons in the meantime. She was always quick to run to the furnace room where Mrs. Waithe, the charwoman, kept a small pot simmering with coffee and was delighted to share juicy gossip with visitors.

Lily started pulling soldiers’ coats from the rack and piling them on the table, knowing that Ruby would take a while. After unhooking the last set, she noticed a floor-length red gown hanging on the opposite rack. She lifted it out of the tight line of dresses and admired it in the light. The gown was a fine cloth of smooth velvet and brocade, embroidered with artificial pearls and hand-sewn cultured beads, its edges trimmed with shimmering orange ribbons. A piece of paper was pinned to the shoulder: Rosalind, it read. Rosalind’s palace outfit from As You Like It! The role Lily had always dreamed of playing. Though there was no other name on the label, Lily knew it must belong to one of the leading actresses, who were asked to provide their own costumes and brought them to the theater ahead of time to have them tailored. Did this mean that the company was planning to stage a Shakespeare play next? Lily’s head reeled. Nothing would be more thrilling, even if she were only given the minutest of roles.

A woman’s shrill laughter cascaded down the corridor toward the door, accompanied by a man’s coarse whispering. Heavy footsteps entered and the door was hastily closed before Lily heard two bodies grinding against each other under the rustling of skirts. She hid inside the line of costumes and listened to the strange heaving and grunting sounds with a pounding heart.

Not here, not now, the woman murmured amid the groaning.

Why not? ‘Wherever passion doth possess thee is as good a place as any. . . .’ the man quoted, his voice heavy with panting.

Should we be found! the woman said, but laughed again.

Lily froze. She recognized the voice. Mrs. Bennett! How unfortunate to have intruded upon a private scene between her employers. She listened to the increasing thumping sounds, startled and confused, until the woman gave out a set of little squawking cries and the man’s heavy groaning peaked, and then stopped abruptly. Their breathing wound down among sounds of two bodies drawing apart and the susurration of a dress being reorganized.

Lily stood petrified with dread.

Seconds later, Mrs. Potterlane’s voice was heard coming down the corridor. Hurry up, it must be freezing in the dressing room! Lily heard the man and the women rush toward the table area and sit down hurriedly. Ruby walked into the room with quaint little steps, followed by the older woman’s heavy stride. And where is that other girl? Mrs. Potterlane asked as she brushed past the very garments that hid Lily. Oh, hello, Mrs. Bennett. Afternoon, Mr. Wade. I’ll be with you in a moment.

Mr. Wade! Mrs. Bennett! Lily now dared look at the scene across from her through the heavy costumes. She saw Ruby opening the stove’s iron gate and shoving in the coal, while Mrs. Potterlane huffed around the pile of jackets stacked on the table. Close to the mirrors, Mr. Wade and Mrs. Bennett were smiling at each other in conspiratorial gleam.

Herbert Wade was the actor who played Dick, the mounted rifleman to whom Lily offered water in the play. Though he was probably in his late thirties or early forties, he had a boyish appearance from afar, maybe because of his trim body and clean-shaven face. But from close range, as when Lily faced him onstage, he presented a shriveled, impish countenance and penetrating, pointed eyes that made her feel uneasy. She felt afraid as she remembered his face.

The smell of charcoal embers filled the room. Where’s your silly friend? Mrs. Potterlane asked Ruby again, irritated. Didn’t you say you left her here?

Across from her, Lily saw Mrs. Bennett stare in her direction and fix her gaze with some alarm at her feet. Looking down, she realized the tip of her right boot protruded from the row of costumes. Reflexively, she pulled it in. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought she would be discovered on that account alone, but everyone in the room went on with their chatting, oblivious of everything. Only Mrs. Bennett started getting restless. She fussed in her chair, rearranged her hair, and smoothed out her dress, then got up suddenly. I’ll be going now.

Can’t we first fit you for the dress? Mrs. Potterlane asked, confused.

I just remembered an engagement. Another time, Mrs. Bennett answered coldly, and left the room, followed by Mr. Wade.

Taking advantage of the small commotion that followed their departure and of Mrs. Potterlane turning toward the irons, Lily stepped out of her hiding place. At Ruby’s astonished glance, she lifted a trembling finger to her lips. Mrs. Potterlane spun around. And where have you been? she said with a frown.

Lily froze, but Ruby stepped in. Please don’t scold her, Mrs. Potterlane. She’s been at the washroom; she’s on her monthlies. Lily felt the blood rush to her face, but Mrs. Potterlane was not moved. You ladies and your poorliness! When I was young, we were only allowed to the outhouse twice a day, monthlies or not. Now, get to work, we’re behind. She held up the iron for Lily to take, but then changed her mind. No, first you will run after Mrs. Bennett and give her her scarf. I don’t want it lost in this room. Lily stood stock-still. Go on! No more silly excuses.

Lily took the red silk scarf and hurried out of the room through the dark corridors. She knew Mrs. Bennett would most likely be at the main