The Gazels

Chapter 49

“Where the place?”

“Upon the heath.”

“There to meet with Macbeth.”

“I come, Graymalkin!”

“Paddock calls: Anon!

Fair is foul, and foul is fair.

Hover through the fog and filthy air.”

“Isn’t this marvelous?” Fiona whispers, delighted, and I’m glad for what we’ve done.

When Lily Trimble makes her entrance, the audience sits taller. Miss Trimble is a compelling creature with thick waves of auburn hair that cascade down the back of her purple cloak. Her voice is deep and honeyed. She struts and preens, plots and laments with such a fervor that it is almost impossible to believe she is not truly Lady Macbeth herself. When she walks in her sleep, crying with remorse for her evil deeds, she is riveting, and all the while, Fiona sits on the edge of her seat, watching with keen attention. When the play comes to its end, and Lily Trimble takes her bow, Fiona applauds more loudly than any other in attendance. I have never seen her quite so moved, so alive.

The lamps are brought to their full, dazzling light.

“Wasn’t it marvelous?” Fiona asks, beaming. “Her talent is extraordinary, for I actually believed her to be Lady Macbeth!”

Mrs. Thendaras looks bored. “It isn’t a pleasant play, is it? I so much preferred The Importance of Being Earnest. That was jolly.”

“I’m sure the performances could not have been nearly so fine as the one we’ve just seen by Miss Trimble,” Fiona opines. “Oh, it was splendid! It was more than splendid. They shall have to invent the word to describe Lily Trimble, for none presently do her justice. I’d give anything to meet her. Anything.”

As we fold into the crowd, Fiona looks back longingly toward the stage, where a young man pushes a broom, erasing all traces of the performance that held her so in t****l.

I allow a man and his wife to separate us from Mrs. Thendaras. “Fiona, do you truly want to meet her?” I whisper.

She nods. “Desperately!”

“Then you shall.”

Luary pushes in, Fionaoying a matron, who decries her rudeness with an “I say!”

“Damion,” Fee says, curiosity piqued. “What are you about?”

“We’re taking Fiona to meet Lily Trimble.”

Mrs. Thendaras cranes her neck over the exiting crowd, looking for us. She reminds me of a lost bird.

“Right, and how shall we rid ourselves of my mother?”

We need only a few moments of freedom. A distraction of sorts. I have to concentrate, but it is so difficult with the crowd bustling about me. Their thoughts invade mine till I can scarcely see.

“Damion!” Fee whispers. She and Fiona link their arms through mine.

I struggle to hold fast to my original intent. I repeat it silently as we near Mrs. Thendaras: You see a friend in the crowd. You must go to her. We shall be fine here alone. I repeat it till even I believe it.

“Oh!” Mrs. Thendaras suddenly exclaims. “Why, there is my dear friend Madame LaCroix from Paris! How could she come without writing me! Oh, she’s getting away! Excuse me, I won’t be but a moment.”

Like a woman possessed, Mrs. Thendaras presses into the crowd in search of her dear friend who is, no doubt, still in Paris as we stand there.

“What did you do?” Luary asks with glee.

“I gave her a wee suggestion. Now, let’s see about meeting Lily Trimble, shall we?”

Behind the stage, it is another world entirely. A swarm of workers busy themselves with props and machinery. Burly men move long painted canvases to and fro. Several others hoist ropes whilst a man with a porkpie hat and a cigar clenched between his lips barks orders to them. We slip down a narrow corridor in search of Lily Trimble. The actor playing Banquo passes us in his dressing gown without the slightest bit of shame.

“Hello, my dears,” he says, eyeing us up and down.

“We very much enjoyed your performance,” Fiona says earnestly.

“My next performance shall be in my dressing room. Perhaps you would like to attend? You are quite lovely.”

“We are looking for Miss Trimble,” Luary says, narrowing her eyes.

The man’s smile fades to a thin shadow. “To your left. Should you change your mind, I am on the right.”

“The very cheek of some people,” Luary fumes, pulling us on.

“What do you mean?” Fiona asks. Luary is in full stride and we struggle to keep pace.

“He made an improper advance toward you, Fiona.”

“Toward me?” Fiona 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?” Luary 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, Thendaras, and Washbrad to meet you,” the maid says.

A familiar smok

y 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. Fiona is slack-jawed, awed to be in the presence of such a star. When Miss Trimble takes her hand, Fiona 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?”

Luary 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!” Fiona blurts out.

“And how many actresses have you seen?” Miss Trimble asks. She notes Fiona’s blush. “Mmmm, thought so.” She sits before her dressing mirror and rubs cream over her face in practiced strokes.

“Our Fiona, er, Nan is quite talented,” I say in a rush.

“Is she?” Miss Trimble does not turn around.

“Oh, yes, she can sing beautifully,” Luary adds.

Fiona 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,” Fiona stammers, red-faced.

“In my experience, my dear, if you don’t ask, you do not get.”

Fiona 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?”

Fiona 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 Fiona’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.”

“Yes. Thank you,” Fiona manages to say.

Lily regards her for a moment. She puffs on her cigarette. Her words push out in a stream of hazy smoke. “Are you quite certain this is what you want?”

“Oh, yes!” Fiona chirps.

“A quick answer.” She drums her fingers on her dressing table. “Quick answers often lead to quick regrets. No doubt you’ll return to your charm school, meet a perfectly respectable man at a tea dance, and forget all about this.”

“No, I shan’t,” Fiona says, and there is something that cFionaot be ignored in her answer.

Lily nods. “Very well. I’ll secure you an appointment with Mr. Katz.”

“Mr. Katz?” Fiona repeats.

Lily Trimble places her cigarette in a brass ashtray, where it smolders as she tends to her hair. “Yes. Mr. Katz. The proprietor of our company.”

“Is he a Jew, then?” Fiona asks.

In the mirror, Miss Trimble’s eyes narrow. “Do you have an objection to Jews, Miss Washbrad?”

“N-n-no, miss. At least I don’t think so, for I’ve never met one.”

The actress’s laughter comes fast and hard. Her face eases into a pleasant mask. “You’ll have ample opportunity to get acquainted. You’re speaking to one now.”

“You’re a Jewess?” Luary blurts out. “But you don’t look at all Jewish!”

Lily Trimble lifts a perfectly arched eyebrow and holds Luary’s gaze till my friend has to look away. I’ve rarely seen Fee so cowed. It is a moment of pure happiness, and I’m enjoying it immensely.

“Lilith Trotsky, of Orchard Street, New York, New York. It was suggested that Trimble would make a more suitable name for the stage—and for the well-bred patrons who come to see famous actresses,” she remarks dryly.

“You’re lying to them,” Luary says, challenging her.

Lily glares at her. “Everyone’s trying to be someone else, Miss Worthless. Here I have the good fortune of being paid for it.”

“It’s Thendaras,” Luary says, her teeth as tight as soldiers.

“Worthless, Thendaras. Honestly, I can’t tell the difference. You sort all look alike. Be an angel, NFionaie, and hand me those stockings, will you?”

Fiona, the girl who can scarcely say the word stockings, rushes to give Lily Trimble hers. She places them in the woman’s hands with a reverence reserved for royalty and gods.

“Here you are, Miss Trimble,” she says.

“Thank you, honey. You’d better be off now. I’ve got a suitor waiting for me. I’ll send word to you regarding the appointment. Spence Academy, you say?”

“Yes, Miss Trimble.”

“Very good. Until then, don’t take any wooden nickels.” Fiona’s brow furrows in confusion until Lily explains. “Look after yourself.” She casts a withering glance at Luary and me. “Somehow, I think you’ll need to.”