Don Gutteridge - Vital Secrets

Jeremiah drew a piece of chalk from a big pocket in his smock and wrote something on the slate: “My name is Jeremiah Jefferson.” Then he held the slate out to Major Jenkin, who erased what was there with the sleeve of his tunic, and wrote: “I am Owen Jenkin.” and accompanied her command with several intimidating hand-signs. “You got props to get ready for the farce tonight.”

Jeremiah did not seem to take offense at this rude outburst. He merely bowed his head and backed into the storeroom, but what lay behind the mask of his eyes and his practised public demeanour could only be guessed at. In the room behind him, they saw a straw pallet surrounded by half a dozen steamer-trunks.

“You brought all this with you?” Rick said with enough interest to have Tessa pause and lean against his nearest shoulder.

“Those are trunks with the props and costumes we’re gonna need in Detroit next week but not here. There’s one or two more downstairs somewheres that Mr. Merriwether’s plannin’ to send back to New York-stuff we used in Buffalo but don’t need no more.”

“But how on earth do you haul all of this stuff?” Jenkin asked, his quartermaster’s curiosity piqued. “Not over our roads?”

Tessa gave him an indulgent smile, glanced at Rick, and said, “Our stuff comes down the Erie Canal on a barge and then up from Buffalo by boat on the Welland Canal. That’s what we got Jeremiah for-to ride with it. And, of course, to protect us from dangerous strangers.” She batted her near-invisible lashes at Rick.

“But he’s deaf,” Rick said with real concern.

“He sleeps right there at the top of them stairs with the door open all night. The teensiest vibration will wake him up straightaway.”

Jeremiah was busy opening one of the trunks as they turned to move farther along the carpeted hallway.

“We each got a trunk in our rooms. We’re responsible for our own costumes once they get here, though we do help each other dress.” She checked out Rick’s response to this double entendre, and was not disappointed.

“Who does the repair work?” Jenkin asked, ever interested in the care and deployment of uniforms. He stumbled for a second over a decorative spittoon near one of the doors, righted himself, and continued: “You must have a lot of it with all the costume changes.”

“Thea does the little bits of stitchin’ an’ patchin’. She’s real handy with a needle. But if we’re stayin’ put for a week or so, like here, Mr. Merriwether finds us a local seamstress.” They were moving down the hall now, where doors on either side indicated the sleeping chambers of the cast. Tessa revelled in her role as tour-guide, with Rick at her elbow endeavouring to bump against her at every opportunity. “This here’s Clarence’s room and that one’s Mr. Armstrong’s,” she said, pointing to the next two rooms on the right, and then putting a forefinger against her pretty lips. “They like to have a snooze after the afternoon rehearsal.”

“And where is your room?”

“Here at the end,” Tessa said, “across from Mr. Merriwether’s.”

As Tessa opened the door on the left, Marc glanced out the dusty window onto Colborne Street, and noted that the balcony which adorned the front of the Regency Theatre was indeed a false one, making it a dubious escape mechanism for those fleeing a sudden fire and a precarious perch for would-be Juliets.

“The maiden’s bower!” Tessa gushed as they followed her inside.

Marc had to admit that the room was nicely decorated, with lavender wallpaper aflutter with sprites and fairies, a thick carpet in some neutral shade, a commode-and-vanity with tilting oval-mirror, a quaint Swiss clock, a settee embroidered with daisies, and a four-poster bed swathed in pink. On a night-table, a decanter of sherry winked at the interlopers.

“Mrs. Thedford insisted I take this room. Usually I have to share with Thea.”

“Where does Thea sleep?” Rick asked. “With Mrs. Thedford?”

“Lordy, no. Annie always stays by herself. Thea’s sleepin’ on her own in a little room in the Franks’ place. Annie’s afraid the rest of us might catch whatever she’s got.”

“You’ve a fondness for sherry,” Jenkin said with a smile.

“Oh, that. It’s somethin’ Mrs. Thedford taught me-to have one or two small glasses after a performance to help me sleep.” Giving Rick a sidelong glance, she added, “’Course I do share it once in a while.”

“Well, that leaves us with all but Mrs. Thedford accounted for,” Jenkin said in what he intended to be a disinterested tone.

“We’ve gone past her rooms,” Tessa said.

“Rooms?” Jenkin asked, intrigued.

Tessa led them back into the hall and pointed to the door next to her own room. “I’ll just give a tap an’ see if she’s still up.”

“Oh, please don’t disturb her,” Rick said.

But Tessa, who apparently liked to have her own way whenever it could be arranged, had already rapped, and a moment later the door opened.

“Oh, do come in, gentlemen,” Mrs. Thedford said. She stood tall and elegant in the doorway, clad only in a satin kimono, her coiffed hair almost touching the lintel above her. “I heard you in the hall and was about to step out and invite you in.”

Jenkin demurred. “We don’t wish to disturb you at your …”

“Toilette?” She laughed, giving the word its French pronunciation. “Don’t worry, sir, you’re not invading milady’s boudoir.”

As they followed her in, they realized that the owner-operator of the Bowery Touring Company had a suite of rooms befitting her status. After introductions were made and requisite courtesies completed, Mrs. Thedford offered them sherry, sat them on her comfortable chairs and settee, and regaled them with witty tales of theatre life in New York. Marc noticed two things: Owen Jenkin was quite taken with the woman, and she herself appeared as regal, confident, and genuine as the image she had projected from the stage. Nor did she seem to be playing a role, of which she was perfectly capable. And if she were, it was one she believed in.

At one lull in the conversation, she looked at Marc and said, “Edwards … my, what a fine English name.”

“I can’t take credit for having applied it to myself,” Marc said, and it was plain from her approving expression that Mrs. Thedford-who slept alone in the adjoining bedroom and was, according to her story, long a widow-appreciated the witticism and the lineaments of the man who’d made it. Good Lord, Marc thought, surely I’m too young for her attentions. Besides, it was Major Jenkin who was paying court to her with all the Welsh charm he could muster.

“I noticed the lovely lilt of your accent,” the major said gallantly. “Do I detect a shadow of English in it?”

Mrs. Thedford gave him a smile worthy of Cleopatra.

“The merest shadow, Mr. Jenkin. My father was English, but he brought me to Philadelphia when I was still a toddler. I have, alas, no memory of my birth-country, only a few of the unconscious traces of its glorious speech.”

“Which is no drawback in the theatre,” the major replied.

“Those pieces on your commode there look very English,” Marc remarked, admiring a pair of silver candlesticks. “I remember seeing something of that design in London.”

“You are very observant, Lieutenant. In fact, the hairbrushes, hand-mirror, and the candlesticks were especially made for my parents as a wedding gift, a matched set. Or so my father told me when I was old enough to understand. They are all that I have left of them-or England-and I bring them with me everywhere.”

“Aren’t you afraid they’ll be stolen?” Rick asked.

“Not with Jeremiah nearby, I’m not. And as he’s been complaining of a toothache all day, I expect he’ll be more vigilant than usual at his post tonight.”