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Authors: Frances Vernon
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other. He turned away, put his monocle in his eye, and whisked Kitty’s evening dress off the bedroom screen.
*
Lady Blentham’s vision of Kitty’s physical appearance was remarkably accurate. She guessed at the large breasts, black hair, little features and big dark eyes, but in her imagination the actress was not a small creature, but as tall as her son. She could not quite decide whether Kitty would have some influence over Edward or would, one day, be a whining overweight crying at her husband’s every subtle snub.
Diana, who had gone to visit her mother in her boudoir after Edward’s quitting the house, and had been allowed to stay, watched Angelina making little dabs at her blotter with a dry pen. She herself was sitting as upright as her mother, with her hands folded in her lap. They had barely spoken and did not intend to speak; Diana because she did not know where it would be tactful to begin, and Lady Blentham because the subject of actresses and Edward could not be discussed with a girl. If Diana tried to talk about it, she would have to be silenced. In spite of this, the two women did not want to separate, and they continued to sit in silence, thinking about Kitty.
Diana’s picture of Edward’s wife did not resemble Angelina’s. She imagined her to be fair and slim and graceful, with a light foreign accent and deep grey eyes. The question of whether Edward was to rule Kitty, or the other way about, did not occur to her: she thought only of how brilliantly charming thewoman must be to marry above her station at her age. Diana wanted quite fiercely to meet and impress her, but she knew she would not for years, unless her mother gave way.
Idly, but almost seriously, she considered becoming an actress herself. It must really be possible to run away and go on the stage, as Kitty Dupree must have done. She was learning, she thought: it was not, after all, like going to another planet. Diana’s lips formed the words, ‘I would be good at it’, but not enough sound came out to distract Angelina.
For years, Diana had happily imagined herself running off to sea disguised as a boy, or fighting in an old-fashioned battle without guns, or becoming a second Miss Nightingale; and her picture of herself as a very dashing actress had been much like these other visions: shining, but suitable only for bedtime. She had never seen any play but an undistinguished matinee performance of Macbeth, of which she had not understood the whole though the roll of the words had inspired her to write several poems. The real theatre had seemed a rather dull place in a way; for she had heard too many rumours of the stage’s being golden, wicked, and gay, to be altogether pleased with acted Shakespeare.
Now someone from that other theatre-world, which it seemed did really exist, had stepped into her family; and the thought could only elate her. Smiling awkwardly at her mother’s back, grateful to Angelina for allowing her to be there, Diana enjoyed a realistic fantasy of finding out where Kitty lived with Edward, of slipping out of the house, taking a hansom and going to call on her alone. ‘I will,’ she whispered.
Angelina turned. ‘Did you say anything, Diana?’
‘No, Mamma!’
Angelina thought of asking her to go and do something suitable, but she was so much distressed at the moment that no occupation for Diana came quickly to mind.
She remembered the scandal there had been last year, when Lord Dunlo had married an actress and his father Lord Clancarty had hired detectives to try and prove that the woman was not only fallen before marriage, but an adulteressas well. No one had admired his behaviour: Angelina herself had thought him vulgar and tyrannical. Her hand trembled, as she wildly imagined being vulgar, hiring detectives herself.
She had read a few detective stories by Arthur Conan Doyle in the Strand Magazine, and rather enjoyed them in spite of her proud out-of-date suspicion of all that was made up. Now she
*
Lady Blentham’s vision of Kitty’s physical appearance was remarkably accurate. She guessed at the large breasts, black hair, little features and big dark eyes, but in her imagination the actress was not a small creature, but as tall as her son. She could not quite decide whether Kitty would have some influence over Edward or would, one day, be a whining overweight crying at her husband’s every subtle snub.
Diana, who had gone to visit her mother in her boudoir after Edward’s quitting the house, and had been allowed to stay, watched Angelina making little dabs at her blotter with a dry pen. She herself was sitting as upright as her mother, with her hands folded in her lap. They had barely spoken and did not intend to speak; Diana because she did not know where it would be tactful to begin, and Lady Blentham because the subject of actresses and Edward could not be discussed with a girl. If Diana tried to talk about it, she would have to be silenced. In spite of this, the two women did not want to separate, and they continued to sit in silence, thinking about Kitty.
Diana’s picture of Edward’s wife did not resemble Angelina’s. She imagined her to be fair and slim and graceful, with a light foreign accent and deep grey eyes. The question of whether Edward was to rule Kitty, or the other way about, did not occur to her: she thought only of how brilliantly charming thewoman must be to marry above her station at her age. Diana wanted quite fiercely to meet and impress her, but she knew she would not for years, unless her mother gave way.
Idly, but almost seriously, she considered becoming an actress herself. It must really be possible to run away and go on the stage, as Kitty Dupree must have done. She was learning, she thought: it was not, after all, like going to another planet. Diana’s lips formed the words, ‘I would be good at it’, but not enough sound came out to distract Angelina.
For years, Diana had happily imagined herself running off to sea disguised as a boy, or fighting in an old-fashioned battle without guns, or becoming a second Miss Nightingale; and her picture of herself as a very dashing actress had been much like these other visions: shining, but suitable only for bedtime. She had never seen any play but an undistinguished matinee performance of Macbeth, of which she had not understood the whole though the roll of the words had inspired her to write several poems. The real theatre had seemed a rather dull place in a way; for she had heard too many rumours of the stage’s being golden, wicked, and gay, to be altogether pleased with acted Shakespeare.
Now someone from that other theatre-world, which it seemed did really exist, had stepped into her family; and the thought could only elate her. Smiling awkwardly at her mother’s back, grateful to Angelina for allowing her to be there, Diana enjoyed a realistic fantasy of finding out where Kitty lived with Edward, of slipping out of the house, taking a hansom and going to call on her alone. ‘I will,’ she whispered.
Angelina turned. ‘Did you say anything, Diana?’
‘No, Mamma!’
Angelina thought of asking her to go and do something suitable, but she was so much distressed at the moment that no occupation for Diana came quickly to mind.
She remembered the scandal there had been last year, when Lord Dunlo had married an actress and his father Lord Clancarty had hired detectives to try and prove that the woman was not only fallen before marriage, but an adulteressas well. No one had admired his behaviour: Angelina herself had thought him vulgar and tyrannical. Her hand trembled, as she wildly imagined being vulgar, hiring detectives herself.
She had read a few detective stories by Arthur Conan Doyle in the Strand Magazine, and rather enjoyed them in spite of her proud out-of-date suspicion of all that was made up. Now she
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