Read Online Memory's Embrace by Linda Lael Miller - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Linda Lael Miller
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Tess responded evenly. “Now, hush up and watch the show!”
And what a show it was. It began with a colorful song and dance number, the music supplied by a small orchestra seated on a balcony at the back of the salon, with Roderick Waltam as the central performer. He sang and played a banjo quite creditably, his face painted black, while a bevy of women in similar makeup danced and sang all around him.
Following that was a Parisian number—surely these were different players, for there had not been time for them to change their costumes and remove their greasepaint—and then a skinny little man in a plaid suit and a bowler hat comically like Joel Shiloh’s came out onto the stage and told stories that made the women titter and the men guffaw.
And after the jokester came a woman dressed in glowing velvet and wearing pearls in her hair. She was Anne Boleyn, locked in the Tower of London, facing her imminent execution with a bemused sort of valor that brought tears to Emma’s eyes, and to Tess’s.
The doomed queen received three curtain calls, along with several coarse proposals from the back of the salon, and the audience did not like parting with her. They were of a somewhat grudging mind when a perfectly groomed Roderick reappeared, without his greasepaint and cotton eyebrows, to sing a series of touching Irish ballads.
His voice was a clear, heart-wrenching tenor, and one look at Emma told Tess that if this showboat didn’tchug away down the Columbia soon, there would be trouble of a serious nature.
As the lights came up, indicating that the show was over, the applause was thunderous. Tess clapped halfheartedly, watching Emma instead of the players taking their bows. She had decided to enlighten her friend, with regards to Roderick Waltam, and was just opening her mouth to do so, when a heavy hand fell upon her shoulder.
Tess turned, startled, and looked up into the face of Mr. Wilcox, the millworker who boarded at Derora’s.
“Miss Bishop,” he began, drawing his hand back at the sudden realization that he’d taken an improper liberty. “Miss Bishop, I brought a message for you, from Juniper. She says come home, right away quick, because Mrs. Beauchamp’s done hurt herself and she’s askin’ for you.”
Tess swallowed hard, bolted to her feet. “How badly is my aunt hurt, Mr. Wilcox? What happened to her?”
Sympathy moved in Mr. Wilcox’s face, gentling his coarse features somewhat. “I don’t think it’s real bad, Miss Bishop—there’s a lot of carrying on, though, that’s for sure. Near as I could tell, Mrs. Beauchamp fell down some stairs and twisted one ankle.”
For all the quiet antipathy that kept Tess and her aunt at an emotional distance from each other, Tess was frightened and worried. “Come on,” she said to Emma, impatiently. “We have to go.”
Emma chose then, of all times, to be stubborn. “Not me. I’m staying.”
“Emma Hamilton, I have no time to argue with you! You come with me or I swear I’ll send word to your papa that you’re here!”
Emma folded her arms. “Do your worst, Tess Bishop. I’m seventeen years old and I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. If you tell my papa, just don’t expect to call yourself my friend ever again.”
Tess had no time, or patience, to stand there arguing with Emma, and no desire to lose the only real friend she had. “Promise me that you’ll stay away from that actor!” she pleaded, and then she rushed out of the salon, Mr. Wilcox clearing the way through the crowd ahead of her. She hadn’t been able to extract a vow from Emma; she would just have to trust the fates to watch over the little idiot.
Derora was pale and pinched, her swollen ankle propped up on a stack of pillows. At the sight of Tess, she ordered the fluttering Juniper out of her chambers.
“Are you all right?” Tess asked, standing beside the bed where her aunt was ensconced like an ailing queen. “What on earth happened?”
“I
And what a show it was. It began with a colorful song and dance number, the music supplied by a small orchestra seated on a balcony at the back of the salon, with Roderick Waltam as the central performer. He sang and played a banjo quite creditably, his face painted black, while a bevy of women in similar makeup danced and sang all around him.
Following that was a Parisian number—surely these were different players, for there had not been time for them to change their costumes and remove their greasepaint—and then a skinny little man in a plaid suit and a bowler hat comically like Joel Shiloh’s came out onto the stage and told stories that made the women titter and the men guffaw.
And after the jokester came a woman dressed in glowing velvet and wearing pearls in her hair. She was Anne Boleyn, locked in the Tower of London, facing her imminent execution with a bemused sort of valor that brought tears to Emma’s eyes, and to Tess’s.
The doomed queen received three curtain calls, along with several coarse proposals from the back of the salon, and the audience did not like parting with her. They were of a somewhat grudging mind when a perfectly groomed Roderick reappeared, without his greasepaint and cotton eyebrows, to sing a series of touching Irish ballads.
His voice was a clear, heart-wrenching tenor, and one look at Emma told Tess that if this showboat didn’tchug away down the Columbia soon, there would be trouble of a serious nature.
As the lights came up, indicating that the show was over, the applause was thunderous. Tess clapped halfheartedly, watching Emma instead of the players taking their bows. She had decided to enlighten her friend, with regards to Roderick Waltam, and was just opening her mouth to do so, when a heavy hand fell upon her shoulder.
Tess turned, startled, and looked up into the face of Mr. Wilcox, the millworker who boarded at Derora’s.
“Miss Bishop,” he began, drawing his hand back at the sudden realization that he’d taken an improper liberty. “Miss Bishop, I brought a message for you, from Juniper. She says come home, right away quick, because Mrs. Beauchamp’s done hurt herself and she’s askin’ for you.”
Tess swallowed hard, bolted to her feet. “How badly is my aunt hurt, Mr. Wilcox? What happened to her?”
Sympathy moved in Mr. Wilcox’s face, gentling his coarse features somewhat. “I don’t think it’s real bad, Miss Bishop—there’s a lot of carrying on, though, that’s for sure. Near as I could tell, Mrs. Beauchamp fell down some stairs and twisted one ankle.”
For all the quiet antipathy that kept Tess and her aunt at an emotional distance from each other, Tess was frightened and worried. “Come on,” she said to Emma, impatiently. “We have to go.”
Emma chose then, of all times, to be stubborn. “Not me. I’m staying.”
“Emma Hamilton, I have no time to argue with you! You come with me or I swear I’ll send word to your papa that you’re here!”
Emma folded her arms. “Do your worst, Tess Bishop. I’m seventeen years old and I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. If you tell my papa, just don’t expect to call yourself my friend ever again.”
Tess had no time, or patience, to stand there arguing with Emma, and no desire to lose the only real friend she had. “Promise me that you’ll stay away from that actor!” she pleaded, and then she rushed out of the salon, Mr. Wilcox clearing the way through the crowd ahead of her. She hadn’t been able to extract a vow from Emma; she would just have to trust the fates to watch over the little idiot.
Derora was pale and pinched, her swollen ankle propped up on a stack of pillows. At the sight of Tess, she ordered the fluttering Juniper out of her chambers.
“Are you all right?” Tess asked, standing beside the bed where her aunt was ensconced like an ailing queen. “What on earth happened?”
“I
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