Joy V. Sheridan writes

Charity Amour

CHAPTER NINE

Her heart was hammering like the tongue of some heavy bell inside her chest. Beyond the curtain, she could hear the cat calls, jeers and restlessness of the disorderly and raucous audience. 

The first three acts of this night’s main presentation had not gone well and Charity wondered at the omens of ill humour which seemed to fly and flit about the draped and darkened stage. How would they take to her performance? For she was indeed representing not only her own talents, but those of Lord Seyton Clover’s also. 

How would she fare? Would they both be acclaimed at the conclusion or thrown into the refuse pit of obscurity? She could hear the chords of instruments as musicians in the pit orchestra tuned their instruments to the right pitch. She glanced, almost hysterically, to the left and right of her, searching for Lord Seyton Clover’s form, trying to thrust from her the murk of shadows and apprehensions which threatened to stultify her into perpetual somnambulism. He was nowhere in evidence and she knew that very soon she should have to walk the boards. 

Panic threatened to overwhelm her again. What was her cue? 

What her words? Would she remember the actions, attitudes she must adopt? Was it also a fact that the King and various members of his family were this very night in the audience? Charity fiddled with the strands of pearls and jewels hanging about her slender, white throat, her own reflection staring vividly ashen white, back from a mirror. The snowy powder, lit with minute garlands and butterflies of gems, sparkled in the dappled density of her wig. 

Her low-cut gown was spangled with subtle designs; the cloak and high collar - reminiscent of the Elizabethan age - forming a rising backdrop for the stark alabaster beauty of her bared throat, her shoulders. Her beautiful full bosom had been hauled, so it seemed to Charity, so that it looked twice its normal size: large, luscious fruits they were, and not many to the pound at that! 

The stage had been hung in luxuriant fantasies of drapes and curtainings: all in medieval richness. The raised dais which supported the gold brocaded and tasselled couch (upon which she must pose) was surmounted by a black urn standing on a pedestal, whereon was displayed a cluster of pure white orchids and lilies. 

There was the whisper of a curtain being hastily pushed to one side and Lord Seyton Clover was in front of her. She chewed nervously upon the vermillion painted lips, looking bewildered: she stared with intensity into his strangely transfigured face. “I, I, I am .... nervous, Your Lordship.” 

“And with good reason, my fair damsel, for there are royal personages upon the premises tonight. Do not worry, for I feel utterly confident that you will be superb. SUPERB!” 

Charity found herself further at a loss, for in the first half of the sentence he breathed upon her, he was saying she had good reason to fear, and with the remainder, he was encouraging her as only he could. She stared deep into the velvety depths of his shimmering eyes. Dare she ever pull her own stare away from his gaze? “You...will not....be...far... away, Your Lordship?” “Not indeed! For do not forget: I shall be conducting the orchestra. It will be after all, Charity, only a performance of a few minutes. But, believe me, you shall bring the house down!” 

The audience was becoming increasingly impatient, judging from the hullaballoo they were creating. Obviously they considered that they were being asked to wait an inordinately long stretch of time for what was, after all, only a Bill Filler. “Who in hell’s teeth,” had hissed Lord Fitzroy Rispian, “is this ‘Hélène de Noir' anyhow?” 

None, as far as he could construe, had ever heard of her before. He had some familiarity with the theatres of Paree and it was not a name which fell with seasoned ease from his lips. Lord Rispian was all set for heckling. That surely, was half the enjoyment of attending the theatre, the opera house. What! What an excuse, also, for a roughing-up of those you didn’t like or couldn’t stomach! Yes, a chap had to enjoy himself the best he could and if blooding the noses of a few jumped-up worthies added to the entertainment, then that was the sort of work he was set about enjoying! Not to mention the pinching of a few ample bottoms, nipping a flowing bosom here and there. 

At length, silence was called for by the owner of the theatre and an uneasy quiet it was which enshrouded the playing house. 

The curtains rose slowly upon a darkened stage. Some devilishly clever technician had been to work: for a subtle spotlight of candle flames transfused the wispy silhouetted figure who stood to the left of centre stage, back turned towards the audience. The conductor’s baton rose and hauntingly beautiful yet melancholic music flooded from the pit into the auditorium. 

The figure turned slowly to face the audience, a domino of some black material - with the hint of rainbow-coloured gems flashing along the upper rim, - covering the eyes. The singer opened her mouth, the words were low at first, then rose to an incredible soprano, soaring high into indescribable crescendos. 

The song was a tale of love and abandonment, of disaster and death. All eyes were fixed upon the tragic figure as she swayed and moved about amidst the shadows and rays which kaleidoscoped the stage. 

Abandoning her cape, she cast herself into the pool of its luxuriant mystery, pulling the fabric closer about herself. Rising, it fell into fluidic drifts away from her. Her monumental bosom heaving, she sank to the dais, singing like a nightingale – rising to dance like a swan - before sinking again into a swoon upon the couch, imitating death upon the golden brocade of that support. 

As though to add an extra dimension to the performance, the air was heavy, redolent with the scents of flowers. The audience was startled into awed silence. Then, as the heavy curtains rolled down, thunderous applause flooded throughout the theatre. An emotion, hitherto unknown, came to Lord Rispian, filling his breast with desire for the enchantress. He was filled with the yearning to possess that enigmatic and entrancing dame - completely to hold her in the breech of his own sturdy arms, to savour her complete fantasy, to know her in total! 

The audience, seeming with a singular mind, begged that curtain to be raised and that the mysterious ‘goddess’ show herself one more time to their impassioned view. Even the King himself was sitting, enraptured, his hands beating together in applause, just like any common or garden patron. The curtain drew up, showing the stage to be bare. She appeared, still masked, her head bowed to accept the rapturous ovation which she had earned. Then, obeying Lord Seyton Clover’s exact instructions, she moved rapidly off stage and hurried into the cubicle he had reserved for her. She bolted the door and quickly removed all traces of make-up and the disguising brunette wig. Off came the gown, the cloak, rolled into small parcels: they were pushed into a valise-type container. She rubbed some powder over the still faintly crimsoned lips, to pale them down. She hid her own blonde locks behind a spangled net. Hearing heavy footfalls treading their way towards her secret changing room, she thought, eyes shining with excitement, that it could only be her mentor, Lord Seyton Clover. 

Reverential to the genius he so obviously possessed and which she echoed in her own loving depiction and characterisation of his masterpiece, she went forward to open the door. Call it a strange flash of intuition or of some other, niggling, apprehension, but as her hand rested upon the bolt, she withdrew back into the room. The hand which had all but opened the door was shaking with a molten trepidation; her heart was pounding again as she pressed herself flush to a wall in this room scarcely bigger than a hat box. 

She listened. Yes! Now she heard the hurrying footfalls of a lighter body. Lord Seyton Clover’s voice, faint, but authoritative, hailing whoever was outside the door. “My dear Fitzi, how very cheerful to see you. But tell me, old son, whatever are you doing this side of the pits?”  

There was, noted Charity, a forced gaity in His Lordship’s voice. At the name of ‘Fitzi’ she shrank back: it could be none other than Lord Seyton Clover's cousin, Lord Fitzroy Rispian - her chief tormentor! 

Her face pale beneath the effervescent evidence of where powder had been applied, she pressed a gloved knuckle into her mouth. 

That this reprehensible rake should, at this instance, be immediately outside of where she was, made her blanch even deeper with fear. She could guess only too acutely the reasons for his questing! 

“C’mon old fellow, let us take an ale and we can - seeing as the play's not to your liking - take a little canter outside in the fresh air for distraction’s sake.” 

Without further ado, Lord Seyton Clover had taken his cousin through the arm and was walking him off. Had Charity been able to see through the thin partition which separated her from him, she would have seen the dumb, bulldoggish look of flushed near-apoplexy which lathed his features. “Oh, I dunno ol’ man,” Lord Rispian drawled in that booming voice of his, "Thought I might jus' chase up the little gel who delivered such an earth-shattering performance!” 

When he heard these words, Lord Seyton Clover drew his cousin on at a brisker trot through the corridors. “Truly magnificent: but tell me, coz, what made you think you should find her in that room? For ‘twas most assuredly deserted and probably a broom cupboard into the bargain!” 

Lord Rispian scratched his large, cauliflower-like ear, “Dunno, but one of the hands - once suitably oiled, that is; - jus’ squeaked out that that was the place to locate the little lady.’Twas he who directed me yonder, the varlet! Wait til I get me hands ‘pon him! Fetching piece, though, if you get the drift, old man. Lucky the fellow whose bed she warms of a night! 'Struth though, have you ever seen such big uns? Fair made me mouth salivate. 'Tis funny; though she was well-masked, I had this odd feeling that I have made her acquaintanceship somewhere before.” "I should doubt that! 'Tis smitten, that's what you are, dear coz. Well, if there is some mystery, I am sure it can all be unravelled in time."  

Lord Rispian gave his cousin a hefty, playful poke in the ribs:  “I most certainly do intend to make sure that ALL is revealed in time!” Pretending to join him in these provocative thoughts, Lord Seyton Clover echoed his cousin’s belly laugh. Lord Seyton Clover had it in mind to get his relative in his cups and in company other than his own, and this, as swiftly as possible. 

Poor Charity Cottrell, if she had been aware of who it was outside of her door; for Lord Rispian’s reputation as a rake of the most exacting order was fast becoming the gossip of the time - she would have been mortified into a paralysis prohibiting movement. And what way out from that windowless room other than through the door? 

He pushed his way through the crowds milling about the theatre’s exits and escorted Lord Rispian to a nearby tavern, ‘The Black Swan’, just opposite the theatre’s back entrance. Fortune was favouring the composer/Lordship, for Rispian was soon surrounded by a motley assortment of his own cronies - that, coupled with the attentions of a couple of lusty, well-built tavern wenches, soon pushed any idea of chasing up the lovely and mysterious ‘chanteuse’ completely from his mind. 

Seeing that his presence was no longer required within the charmed circle, Lord Seyton Clover departed, all but imitating the god Mercury with the fleetness of foot he adopted. 

Somewhat breathless, but relieved to have thrown his cousin off the scent, he chased down the corridor to the minute dressing- room. He stopped at the door knocking urgently and lowly.

No reply. He felt a slight tremor of panic .... surely nothing untoward could have happened to Charity Cottrell during the short amount of time he had been away? 

He applied sensitive fingers to the knob and turned it. The door was unlocked and there had been no bolt across. He gave the door a slow push. It creaked open. There was not as much as a candle-stub glowing in the room, certainly no sign of his protegée. 

He scuttled back down the corridor and took a lantern off the wall, his mouth strangely acrid and dry. A sudden swish of some fabric, a gentle tap on his shoulder. Startled, he all but dropped the confounded light. “Lord Seyton Clover?” The girl’s voice whispered low, “’Tis I, Charity...” “My dear girl,” he exclaimed, “am I glad to see you! What a fright you have just given me, and that a matter of minutes after the first scare.” 

He was relieved to see that she held the small case which contained her stage clothes and make-up before her and that she was now back in the modest dress he had asked her to wear that night. He pulled the hood to her cloak up closer over her head, pushing back with a near-paternal gesture the straying wisps of startlingly beautiful light blonde hair. Her face, he noted with pleasure, was now clear of all make-up.

“Congratulations, my love, on your stunning performance this evening. There can never have been a début performance to match it! And congratulations also, for vacating the changing chamber once you realised the coast was clear. That just proves that you have a brain in that gorgeous head of yours.” 

Having to a degree been acquainted by Charity of his cousin’s earlier molestation of his young protegee and knowing full well that relation’s now mushrooming infamy, he decided against going into lengthy discussions of how Lord Rispian appeared outside of her secret dressing room. 

Charity, however, was of a different shading of mind and told Lord Seyton Clover, as they slipped quietly through the deserted corridors, how she had departed that chamber and found another close enough for her to be aware of any travellers, hence her greeting and apprehending of himself now.

"I knew that you would not desert me totally, Your Lordship, so I endeavoured to be at a vantage point to ascertain your re-appearance, or, any other’s...." 

With smiles of relief and congratulation at her quick-thinking, and with an admonishing to keep her head lowered, Lord Seyton Clover located a side exit and the talented twosome slipped out of the theatre unnoticed. 

Glad that he had used prudence earlier concerning the using of his own monogrammed chaise or otherwise, he was mollified that he had opted for public conveyancing. 

He beckoned a street urchin towards them and instructed the dusty looking scoundrel to fetch them a double-sedan chair. He patted Charity’s grey gloved hand and let it rest easily within his own arm. “You have performed splendidly Miss Charity Cottrell, I mean, urr humm, Madam’selle Hélène de Noir. Magnifique! A masterly performance.” 

“Then,” said Charity, turning to tilt her lovely face towards his, “I have to be thankful that a true master composed my music and my libretto, for ’twas that music more than anything - I am convinced - moved people’s hearts and souls this evening.” 

He looked more than moderately pleased as he lowered his noble head and uttered quietly but distinctly, "Thank you, thank you, so very much for those words. I shall treasure them, my dearest and most gifted ‘protégée’!” 

Did she, she wondered, detect some small flicker of rapturous sentiment in the veiled look which accompanied his glowing remarks?