Love's a Stage by Laura London Page A

young women on the stage must be auditioners also, decided Frances. Their poise bespoke The Professional. And their appearance? It bespoke a word Frances was much too inhibited to have ever uttered. Red-tipped toenails peeped from the glittered thongs of their sandals, though the theater was cold and haunted by sucking drafts. Rouge was smeared gaudily across the young women’s cheeks and their eyelashes were suspiciously profuse.
    Mme. Dominique—ignorant that Frances would wear one of her creations to audition for London’s most prominent theatrical company—had dressed Frances more à la jeune fille than femme fatale . Frances’ own gown of lemon India muslin with a skirt embroidered in white was pretty in its way, but it was neither so startlingly low cut nor so gracefully clinging as the gowns of the women before her. Some of the young women had gone so far toward the display of their charms that they appeared to have worn nothing at all beneath their gowns! Frances was forced to avert shocked eyes. The young actresses had carefully fashionable coiffures that were styled with crimped curls stacked high at the crown, testimonials to the talents of their hairdressers. Frances knew her own long soft brown hair tied neatly with a yellow satin ribbon must look dowdy and childish in comparison.
    It was not surprising that Frances began to wonder what naïve confidence had encouraged her to hope that she could gain admittance to so rarefied and alien a world as the London theater. A few of the actresses had turned to direct curious hostile glances at her, and well they might! Who was she? A parson’s daughter from a fishing village whose most outstanding public appearance had been caroling on Christmas Eve. She had nothing to offer this intense breed of artistic sophisticates. In over her head, Mr. Rivington had said, and he had been right.
    A loose-limbed man in his early thirties crossed the stage from the opposite wing. He talked to one of the actresses, bending forward to hear her replies and nervously stroking his lank dark hair off his forehead. After a moment, he gave the girl a familiar pat on an area objectionably low on her back and walked over to Frances.
    “Everyone I expected to come has already come,” he said. “So. I’m Charles Scott, assistant manager. Who are you?”
    In yesterday’s unmerited spirit of optimism, Frances had planned to use a false name on the theory that if it somehow came to pass that she was introduced to Edward Kennan, he wouldn’t (if he were, in fact, the Blue Specter) be able to connect her with the man that he had caused to be falsely imprisoned. Brightcastle was the name she had chosen, Miss Brightcastle being the maudlin heroine in the serialized romance from Lady’s Monthly Museum that Pam read to keep her sisters amused during Tuesday evening mending. Easy enough to think of a pseudonym yesterday. Today under the skeptical gray eyes of Charles Scott, Frances felt like a fool and an imposter to give it utterance. Still, she screwed her courage to the sticking point and said:
    “Frances Brightcastle.”
    “Well, well. Brightcastle. Never heard of you, my dear,” he said shortly.
    “John Rawson sent me.” John Rawson was the theater manager who had been, according to Mr. Rivington, recuperating from influenza at his country home in Surrey. It was safe enough, surely, to give his name.
    Scott raised his eyebrows cynically. “I had a letter from him this morning and he didn’t mention you.” His tone made the words a challenge.
    Rivington, predicting some variant of this reaction, had advised her to shrug. She did so, feeling awkward.
    “Little liar,” observed Scott. “But I don’t care. It’s nothing to me, if you want to parade your stuff on the boards. You can go on last. Don’t get your hopes up, though. We’ve about made up our minds to give the part to Theresa Sea—the redheaded piece who’s singing.”
    He left her abruptly. Frances took several steps