Page 5

Story: Welcome to Gothic

Hazel’s nursemaid still stood, watching the play, not noticing that her charge had been gone or returned.

Wendy carried Hazel to her, tapped her on the shoulder, and when the young woman turned, Wendy used her friendly but firm teacher voice. “Hi, I’m Wendy. You are?”

“I’m Betty.” She looked like a twenty-year-old, uncertain why Wendy had interrupted her viewing of the play, and glancing over her shoulder to watch the stage.

“Betty, I’ve been taking care of Hazel. I’ve had her outside, and since you didn’t notice she was gone, I’m a little worried about your lack of attention to a toddler.”

Betty snapped to attention. Her eyes narrowed. “Hazel’s fine. She always is. She’s so friendly, everybody likes to hold her and that gives me a minute to watch Mr. Cap . . . the play.”

“Do you know everybody here is trustworthy? There are people in this world who hurt children justc because they can.”

“You know, no one asked you to—”

“Do your job? No.”

“Everyone’s afraid of Miss Lindholm, so nobody’s going to hurt her daughter!”

“Miss Lindholm is rich, isn’t she?”

With a wealth of hostility, Betty said, “Yes. So what?”

Wendy delved into the depths of her American history to recall a relevant example. “Have you heard of the Lindbergh baby?”

“Of course I’ve heard of—”

“Charles Lindbergh, the wealthy aviator—his child was kidnapped for ransom and killed.”

Betty stared at Wendy, then what she was saying clicked and she reached for Hazel. “Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m the stuntwoman.” Wendy yielded Hazel. “It’s a little late to be suspicious of me. But word to the wise, keep close track of a child, even one as well-liked as Hazel. If nothing else, she could climb a ladder and fall.”

“She’s a dainty little girl. Not a tomboy!” Like you. The words hung unspoken on the air.

Wendy didn’t smirk about what was obviously a pre-WWII insult, but barely. “Kids will be kids—and it’s not a good time to be unemployed.” Because if her recall of history was right, in 1940 the Great Depression still roared on.

Someone touched Wendy’s arm.

She turned to see a plump, smiling woman with sleek dark hair who gestured and said, “I’m Beatrice, Miss Lindholm’s dresser. Come on back and I’ll fit you into your frock.”

“My frock?” Wendy didn’t remember ever having a frock before, but she followed Beatrice toward a door decorated with a silver star and the scrawl of Lindholm.

“Miss Lindholm told me your performance pleased her, and to fit you into one of her old gowns.”

Wendy hadn’t worn a gown since her high school prom, and like this one, that dress had been used, so she went along for the ride. “When did she have time to tell you that?”

“Anytime she’s not onstage, I’m fixing and pinning.” Beatrice looked Wendy up and down. “Course, you’re about six inches shorter than Miss Lindholm, and she’s a lot more voluptuous than you. That woman is a giantess in all the ways. But I picked out a bodice with a bustier and ripped out the whalebones, and I’ve already started hemming the skirt. I’ll be done by the time you’re finished with your bath.”

Wendy looked at the froth of shimmering ice-colored silk that made up that frock. “You’ll be finished all that by the time I . . . My bath?”

“Right through there. I ran your water and laid out your undergarments.” Beatrice indicated an open door. “Be generous with the scented soap. You can’t go to the party smelling of sweat. And use some of that Mum. You don’t want to offend with a lack of daintiness.”

“Daintiness.” What was Beatrice talking about? Wendy ducked into the bathroom, which was almost as big as the dressing room, and searched the shelves until she found a jar labeled Mum. She started laughing. “It’s a deodorant! My daintiness! Who calls it . . . ?” Then she thought of Hugh.

On second thought, she would use the Mum. But first . . .

She stripped down and sank into the bath. The footed tub wasn’t deep, but the water was warm and bubbly and smelled of orange blossoms, and as instructed she used soap generously. When she got out, she toweled herself off, rubbed herself with an orange blossom scented lotion and, of course, utilized the Mum.

Using Miss Maeve Lindholm’s space had its advantages.

Then Wendy had to figure out what to do with the undergarments. The tap panties, sure. But the garter belt? And the silk stockings? She understood the theory, but getting them on took skill and delicacy. Then she looked around, opened the door a crack and called, “Beatrice, where’s the bra?”

Beatrice chuckled.

Wendy thought she hadn’t understood. “You know, the brassiere?” They called them brassieres, didn’t they?

“Brassiere,” Beatrice scoffed. “You don’t need no brassiere with this gown. You got tiny titties—” Okay, fine, rub it in “—and it’s double lined. Just don’t dance the Lindy Hop. Come on now. Come out. You haven’t got anything I haven’t seen before.”

“You’ve never seen mine!” Wendy hesitated, then whipped out of the bathroom.

Beatrice surveyed Wendy’s mostly bare figure, then looked at the silky confection in her hands. With the satisfaction of a talented seamstress, she said, “This is going to look so good on you. You don’t even need the girdle.”

“I would hope not!” A hundred crunches a day were good for something besides strengthening your core.

When Wendy stepped in front of the mirror, she agreed—she did look good. “This is amazing. How did you alter it so quickly?”

“I’m an old stagehand. Gotta be fast!” Beatrice consulted the watch that hung around her neck, a watch that looked remarkably like Minnie’s. “Listen to the cheers. The play is over. The actors are taking their bows. Sit down at the dressing table. We’ll style your hair back, slick from the face. It’s not the most popular style, but with your cheekbones you can carry it off, and we’ll add a chiffon scarf wrap. I guessed your shoe size.” Beatrice indicated the pair of two-tone stiletto platform heels.

Wendy looked at Beatrice. “Where did you get shoes?”

“It’s the theater. Never know when someone’s going to break a heel dancing, and you’ve got to have a replacement. Now try `em on!”

In other words, they were like bowling shoes. Everybody got a shot at wearing them. Wendy slipped into them, got her balance and said, “Women dance in these?”

“I’m not saying the chorus line wouldn’t rather be barefoot and in leopard print loincloths,” Beatrice allowed. “Now I’ll apply your face paint and mascara. Haven’t got time to pluck your eyebrows.”

Remembering the other women’s pencil-thin brows, Wendy muttered, “Good thing.”

“Then I’ll be ready for Miss Lindholm when she comes in, bursting with excitement and ready to party.”

“I can do the makeup.”

Beatrice pushed her down in the low stool in front of the dressing table. “I can do it faster.”

When Wendy saw the pots and paints and brushes, she realized it was true. Nothing looked like it did in the twenty-first century. “This is so last year,” she murmured, and sat still while Beatrice covered her in a swathe of linen and applied makeup with a delicate hand.

“Wow.” Wendy looked both dramatic and understated. “That’s not what I expected at all.”

Beatrice wiped her brushes on a stained towel. “I know the difference between stage paint and evening makeup.”

“You’re like a modern makeup mirror.”

“You’re a very odd girl. You might want to keep those comments to yourself.”

“You’re probably right.” Wendy didn’t want to be burned as a witch in her own delusion.

The door opened and Maeve Lindholm sailed in carrying an armful of flowers and wearing a big grin. “That was a triumph!” She caught sight of Wendy. “So’s that.” She turned to Beatrice. “You were absolutely right about the dress. It never looked that good on me! Wendy, right? That’s your name?”

“Yes, I’m Wendy.”

Maeve Lindholm bore a striking resemblance to Angelica Lindholm, her great-great-great-granddaughter, or maybe she should say Angelica bore a striking resemblance to Maeve.

“The wrap party’s up at my home, The Tower. Make sure you enjoy yourself, and make sure you spend time with Hugh. I saw the way he looked at you, and that’s the first time since the tragedy that he’s shown a spark of interest in a woman.”

“The tragedy?”

“You know, the wife and child.”

“Right.” Wendy wanted to delve deeper, but she didn’t feel right gossiping behind Hugh’s back, plus she really, really wanted to know if Maeve meant what she said about the way Hugh looked at her. “You think he’s interested in me?”

“Hugh’s a great actor—but no one’s that good. You swung off that platform and into his arms, and when he looked into your face and saw you for the first time, every woman in the audience swooned.” Maeve took a deep breath. “Hell, I swooned and I’ve got a good guy.”

“A few of the men swooned, too, I’ll bet.” Beatrice took a matching chiffon scarf and tossed it loosely around Wendy’s head, fastening it into the preset buttons on the bodice. She stepped back and nodded. “I do good work.”

“You do,” Wendy assured her. “Thank you. I’ve never felt so glamorous.”

Beatrice handed her long cream silk gloves, then moved to answer a knock on the door. “Miss Lindholm, look who’s here. It’s your precious girl come to say good night.”

Maeve dropped the flowers on the dressing table and rushed to take her daughter from Betty. “Are you ready for bed, little one?”

Hazel shook her head stubbornly and rubbed her eyes. “No, Mommy. Stay with you, Mommy.”

“Of course you’re not ready to go to sleep, but why don’t you go for a ride with Betty.” Maeve exchanged a significant glance with Betty. “Clarence will drive you, and I’ll be home to kiss you good night.”

“Mommy.” Hazel thumped her head on Maeve’s shoulder.

Maeve closed her eyes and swayed with the child, a mother in tune with her baby.

Wendy relaxed. Hazel was headed home where she would be safe and nobody, certainly not that weird Bill guy, could do her any harm. She didn’t even know why he worried her, but something about him was off. If she could just put her finger on what was wrong . . .

Wendy glanced at Betty and discovered the young woman glaring steadily and jealously, which confirmed how nice Wendy looked. Wendy decided to relieve Betty of her need for constant animosity and slipped from the room.

Backstage was flooded with actors, dancers, stage crew, all milling around, congratulating each other on a successful final performance, making plans to go to the wrap party. It was loud and raucous. The smells of face paint and warm human bodies filled the air . . . but Wendy saw only one man towering above the rest.