Page 18

Thirteen

The large building was four floors tall and seemed to expand infinitely on either side.

Even though the tall and heavy double wooden doors were closed, lively music trickled outside to them.

On a wooden sign above the door, the word Wilton’s was written in red paint.

The ground floor windows were covered with red shutters to hide whatever was happening inside from those who hadn’t paid for their ticket.

Carved plaster panels on either side of the door had been installed backward, so that pineapples hung upside down from their stone dishes.

Eliza wondered if the quirk had been intentional.

A man in a dark green suit with red piping guarded the door.

He called out to them when he saw their interest and promised an evening of music and delightful exhibitions.

Simon paid their admittance fee and he opened the door for them.

The building’s rather plain exterior had not prepared her for what was inside.

The entrance hall had a very high ceiling with frescoes of what looked to be cherubs, Shakespearean scenes, and mythological creatures all making a home for themselves on a sky blue backdrop.

The music hall was a flurry of activity.

To the right, the hall opened up into what appeared to be a pub.

Several men stood at the bar, others sat at small tables eating, while others stood along the wall drinking and laughing.

The theater was up ahead, and that’s where Simon led her.

The corridor opened into a huge room that soared several stories overhead.

A giant chandelier hung from the high ceiling and lit the space with hundreds of little gas flames and thousands of dangling crystals.

A gallery encircled the area above with hundreds of people seated there.

Hundreds more crowded the main floor, which was set with long tables and chairs all around them.

Behind them, chairs were set up in rows on the wide steps that led to the upper area.

A man on the stage in formal evening wear was belting out a tune she could barely discern over a boisterous orchestra.

She caught the words “Call me Champagne Charlie” as he popped the cork on a bottle of the stuff.

People applauded as the liquid spewed out in a fountain and he held it off the side of the stage so the people seated there could catch it with their glasses.

A man in a uniform matching the red and green of the man at the door indicated they should go to the left.

There were other couples sitting at tables where Simon found two seats for them.

“Do you want a gin?” Simon asked near her ear.

She’d never had gin, but she nodded and he ordered two from the waitress who had hurried over to them.

The crowd and the heat from the overhead lamp had her slipping out of her cloak before she sat down.

Simon took it from her and pushed her chair in before taking his own seat next to her, the cloak folded over his lap.

His eyes were glued to the man onstage. “George Leybourne, the Champagne Charlie,” he leaned over to say in her ear.

“That’s George Leybourne?” She’d heard of him. Some of the music halls back home advertised his songs on playbills out front. She was so accustomed to other people singing his music that it hadn’t occurred to her that the performer might be the man himself.

Simon nodded enthusiastically, excited that she knew who he was. “He performs here regularly. A few times a year at least. I see him when I can.”

“Did you know he was here tonight?”

“Happy accident,” he said.

She meant to go back to watching Mr. Leybourne, but Simon’s profile arrested her.

His face was lit up in pure happiness. She couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t tense.

Even when he laughed with her, he gave the feeling that it was pulled out of him reluctantly, despite all the million things that pulled at him.

Perhaps he needed this night of adventure as much as she did.

Without thinking, she reached over and placed her hand in his where it rested on her cloak.

Startled, he looked at her and she squeezed gently.

A thank-you for the evening. He squeezed back and held her gaze until she managed to look back at the stage.

She thought it was the happiest of accidents that she’d run into him in the service corridor at Montague Club.

She was supposed to return to her life after this night was over, but she couldn’t imagine not seeing him again.

What would her seeing him again look like? She couldn’t turn up at Montague Club again. Someone was bound to find her there. He couldn’t come to see her—not that he would.

Mr. Leybourne finished his song with a crescendo that had him drinking directly from the bottle of champagne before tossing it to a man in the audience who eagerly caught it to uproarious applause.

Though Simon laughed along with everyone else, he didn’t let go of her hand.

Even when the barmaid returned with their tin cups of gin, he raised his cup with his right hand and she with her left.

He toasted her silently and she clinked her cup to his.

Then she took a swallow of the gin and her tongue caught fire.

Her eyes watered and she sputtered as the liquid burned all the way down to her stomach where it simmered like a banked lump of coal.

“Have you never had gin before?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement.

“Never,” she said when she could finally talk. Several of the people near them looked over, probably in annoyance.

“Goes down something fierce the first time, but gets smoother as you go.”

She eyed it dubiously. Onstage, the man announced in his booming voice that it was time for someone named Flying Myrtle to entertain them.

The crowd applauded and Eliza looked for her onstage, but the thick velvet curtains never parted.

Finally, she realized that most people were looking up, so she did, too, and saw a woman standing dangerously perched on the outside railing of the gallery above.

Flying Myrtle was posed in the glow of a limelight with one arm high above her head.

She was a plump woman with shining black hair tied up on her head.

She wore a gleaming silver costume with a fitted bodice and tulle skirt similar to what a ballerina might wear, but the skirt was much shorter.

White tights fitted to her legs, and on her feet she wore shoes similar to pointe shoes.

Offstage, a drummer made repeated low raps on a drum and the woman got into position with one foot out.

It was only then that Eliza realized that she meant to traverse a rope that stretched from one side of the gallery to the other.

Eliza watched transfixed as the performer made her way out over the audience.

As she walked, knees wobbling, the people under her would duck as if she was about to fall on them.

Several people shrieked in anticipation of such an event.

The musicians hidden in a pit to the side of the stage played along with her every step and seemed to even anticipate when she’d walk faster or slow down.

She moved with grace and dexterity and finally made it to the other side to hoots and clapping.

Once there, a man handed her a chair and she started the whole process again, this time with the chair in hand.

She balanced it over her head and even sat on it right in the middle of the stretch of rope before walking to the side again.

There she bowed and climbed quickly over the railing.

Other musical performances followed. There was a man with a banjo who sang about a sweetheart back home who’d run off with a railroad man.

He sounded American. He was followed by a lively performance of dancing girls with ruffled skirts and stockinged feet.

Some of the people in the audience even got up and danced along with them.

The area in front of the stage seemed to be reserved for men, and several of them got up and danced together, swinging from arm to arm as everyone clapped along.

She was struck by how lively and boisterous it all was.

The excitement was infectious. It was more thrilling than attending the theater on the other side of town with stilted social mores and no one really paying attention to the entertainment.

No one looked at her oddly for clapping along or drinking her gin.

Simon was right: it did get smoother the more she drank.

They might not be looking at her for clapping or drinking, but ever since the banjo man, several women at the next table kept glancing at her and then murmuring among themselves.

She leaned over and whispered in Simon’s ear, “Why are they staring at me?” She got a nice whiff of lemon and made a note to ask him what the scent was. It was quite appealing. Though she suspected some of the appeal was that he wore it.

He looked at her, his eyes first going to her mouth, which always sent a thrill shooting through her stomach whenever he did it, then to her hat, and then to her eyes. “It’s your hat. They know you’re not one of us and are wondering what you’re doing here.”

“My hat?” She touched it instinctively. It was a simple black hat with a narrow brim that she thought sat rather jauntily on the hair she had pinned up herself. It had a little veil that was more decorative than functional because it merely covered the front brim, and a cluster of black feathers.

“It’s not up to Whitechapel standards, I’m afraid.”

He was right. The women all wore large hats of felt and velvet with even larger flowers, plumes, feathers, and all manner of decorations.

A slow study of the other women in the crowd found them to be similar.

Only a few hats were black. Most were blue, crimson, green, and even purple, dark colors that wouldn’t easily show dirt and would wear longer.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.

“You’re not going to buy a new hat for one night out.”

“How do they know you are from around here?” she asked, mildly annoyed.

“I don’t look out of place.” He waggled his fingers at the women and they giggled and turned their attention to the show.

She sat back in her seat, but kept her hand on his shoulder.

It felt too good touching him, but also, she wanted those women to think he was hers.

She wasn’t very proud of that part of her, but there it was.

He glanced at her hand, but she couldn’t tell what he thought before he returned his attention to the stage.

Mr. Leybourne was back, this time without his champagne.

He began singing a lovely tune that she hadn’t heard before, but that everyone else seemed to know.

There was loud applause when he started, and several people tried to sing along, until their friends shushed them.

It was the love song Simon had sung the night he was inebriated. The night they had met.

If ever I cease to love,

If ever I cease to love,

May the moon be turn’d into green cheese,

If ever I cease to love.

She’s as sweet as a rosebud,

And lily flow’r chang’d into one.

And who would not love such a beauty

Like an Angel dropp’d from above.

She leaned forward again. This time she sat so close to him that her lips touched his ear when she said, “I like it better the way you sing it.”

He looked at her, surprised, his mouth so close to hers that they could have kissed.

She wanted him to kiss her right there in the theater in the middle of everyone.

He wouldn’t do it, though. She knew him well enough now.

He’d want to, but he’d talk himself out of it and think he was doing the right thing by her.

It was a good thing she was impulsive enough for both of them.

Maybe it was the gin, but she didn’t want to blame it on that.

She kissed him and he jarred from the shock of it, but he didn’t pull away.

In fact, he kissed her back. His soft lips moved over hers, parting and tasting.

The song finished, and the thunderous applause drew them apart.

Everyone rose to their feet, including them, but Simon led her out of the theater like the hounds of hell were chasing them.