“Nonsense. You’re the bright light of the show and don’t you forget it. I haven’t worked my fingers to the bone to get you taking second place to Jeffry Collins.”
“Jeffry thinks he’s the one who pulls them in.”
“Well, let him. No one else does. Let’s have a look at that button. Oh, that’ll soon be put right for tonight.”
“Oh, tonight … it starts all over again tonight. I hate matinees.”
“Well, Noelle’s here to go home with us.”
“That’s nice, darling. Had a good afternoon?”
“Oh yes … very good.”
“Lovely to have you here.”
“And,” said Martha, “we’d better get a move on. Don’t forget there’s a show tonight.”
“Don’t remind me,” sighed my mother.
There were one or two people at the stage door, waiting for a glimpse of Desiree. She was all smiles and exchanged a few words with her admirers.
Thomas helped her into the carriage and Martha and I climbed in beside her. She waved gaily to the little crowd and, when we had left them behind, leaned back with half-closed eyes.
“Did you buy anything nice?” she asked me.
“No … nothing at all.”
I was about to tell her of the meeting with Roderick Claverham when I restrained myself. I was not quite sure how she had felt about my bringing him to the house. She had laughed it off, but I fancied she had found the situation embarrassing.
She had lived her life free of conventions and she had given so much to others. She had chosen to live as she pleased, and I had heard her say that if you don’t hurt anyone, what harm can you do?
As long as Lady Constance did not know of the rather special friendship between her husband and the famous actress, did it matter? To moralists, yes, it did; but Desiree was never one of those. “Live and let live,” she used to say. “That’s my motto.” But when Charlie’s secret life and his conventional one touched, perhaps that was time to pause and consider.
I was unsure, so I said nothing of the meeting with Roderick.
I led her to talk of the afternoon’s performance, which she was always ready to do; and finally we turned into the road and the horse pricked up his ears as, to our amusement, he always did, and would have broken into a gallop at this juncture if Thomas had not restrained him.
My mother said: “The darling knows he’s home. Isn’t that sweet?”
We were about to draw up when it happened. The girl must have run right in front of the horse. I wasn’t sure what happened exactly. I think Thomas swerved to avoid her and then she was lying stretched out on the road.
Thomas had pulled up sharply and jumped out. With my mother and Martha, I followed.
“Good heavens,” cried my mother. “She’s hurt.”
“She dashed right under Ranger’s feet,” said Thomas.
He picked her up.
“Is she very badly hurt?” asked my mother anxiously.
“Don’t know, madam. But I don’t think so.”
“Better bring her in,” said my mother. “Then we’ll get the doctor.”
Thomas carried the young woman into the house and laid her on the bed in one of the two spare bedrooms.
Mrs. Crimp and Carrie came running up.
“What is it?” gasped Mrs. Crimp. “An accident? My goodness, gracious me! What it the world coming to?”
“Mrs. Crimp, we need a doctor,” said my mother. “Thomas, you’d better go. Take the carriage and you can bring Dr. Green back with you. Poor girl. She looks so pale.”
“You could knock her down with a feather by the looks of her, let alone a horse and carriage,” commented Mrs. Crimp.
“Poor girl,” said my mother again.
She put her hand on the girl’s forehead and stroked her hair back from her face.
“So young,” she added.
“I think a hot drink would do her good,” I suggested. “With plenty of sugar in it.”
The girl opened her eyes and looked at Desiree. I saw that expression which I had seen so many times before, and I felt proud that even at such a time she could be aware of my mother.
Then I recognized her. She was the girl I had seen standing outside the house when we had come home from the theatre after the first night.
So … she had come to see Desiree. She was another of those stagestruck girls very likely—one of those who adored the famous actress and dreamed of being like her.
I said to Desiree: “I think she is one of your admirers. I’ve seen her before … outside the house … waiting for a glimpse of you.”
Even at such a time she could be pleased at public appreciation.
The hot tea was brought and my mother held the cup while the girl drank.
“There,” she said. “That’s better. The doctor will soon be here. He’ll see if there is any harm done.”
The girl half raised herself and my mother said soothingly: “Lie down. You’re going to rest here until it is all right for you to go. You’ll be very shaken, you know.”
“I … I’m all right,” said the girl.
“No, you are not … at least not for going off. You are going to stay here until we say you may go. Is there anyone you would like a message sent to … someone who will be anxious about you?”
She shook her head and in a blank voice which betrayed a good deal said: “No … there is no one.”
Her lips quivered and I saw the deep sympathy in my mother’s eyes.
“What is your name?” asked my mother.
“It’s Lisa Fennell.”
“Well, Lisa Fennell, you are going to stay here for the night at least,” replied my mother. “But first we have to wait for the doctor.”
“I don’t think she has been hurt much,” said Martha. “It’s shock. That’s what it is. And you have a show tonight. You know how rushed these matinee days always are. Matinees ought to be abolished, if you ask my opinion.”
“Nobody is asking your opinion, Martha, and you know how necessary it is to squeeze every penny out of the public if we are to carry on.”
“I reckon we could do without matinees,” persisted Martha.
“Think of all the people who can only get away one half day a week.”
“I’m thinking of us, ducks.”
“Our duty in life is to think of others … particularly in the theatre.”
“Can’t say I’ve noticed it.”
The girl on the bed was listening avidly. I had come to the conclusion that she was not badly hurt.
When the doctor came he confirmed this.
“She only has a few bruises,” he told us afterwards. “She’s shocked, of course. She’ll be all right in a day or so.”
“I propose to keep her here for the night,” said my mother.
“That’s a good idea. What about her family?”
“She doesn’t appear to have any.”
“Well, in that case it would certainly be best for her to stay. I’ll give her a mild sedative, which will ensure a good night’s sleep. Give it to her when she’s ready to settle down for the night. Just let her rest till then.”
“And now,” said Martha, “we’d better be getting ourselves ready or we’ll be disappointing our audience. They’ve come to see Madame Desiree, not understudy Janet Dare.”
“Poor Janet,” said my mother. “She’d love a chance to show what she could do.”
“We all know what she can do and it would not be good enough.”
After my mother had left for the theatre, I went to our guest and stood by her bed.
She said: “You have been so good to me.”
“It was the least we could do. How did it happen?”
“It was my fault. I was careless. I was so eager. I didn’t realize the carriage was still moving. I admired D6siree so much. I’ve seen Countess Maud three times … up in the gallery, of course. I couldn’t afford anything more. It is so maddening when someone big and broad gets in front of you. She is wonderful.”