Her smile disappeared. From elation came the dragon of despair. She felt it choking her. Would she ever get a standing ovation as her mother had?
Would she ever be as good as her mother?
“Jane, darling, you were wonderful!”
Jane managed a smile for Robert Gordon’s benefit. He was beaming, and he hugged her soundly. It felt good, and Jane clung briefly.
He was middle-aged with graying hair and a mustache. He gave her a searching glance, then swept her into her dressing room. Jane dropped down on the dark-red velvet love seat, feeling the drain now, as Robert popped open a bottle of champagne. He handed her a glass. “You were wonderful, Jane,” he said levelly.
She looked at him, her eyes big and blue amid the white stage makeup, her lips rouged, cheeks flushed the color of ripe strawberries. “So you say.”
“Jane.” It was reproving. Jane sipped the champagne and closed her eyes, head back. “You are very talented,” Robert continued. “We’ve only been running three weeks, and London loves you! The performance tonight was nearly sold out!”
Jane opened her eyes. “But it will be the same tomorrow, won’t it, Robert? They’ll say I am quite talented, especially for one so young. Then they’ll wonder—will she ever reach the grandeur of her mother?” Jane suddenly set the champagne flute down with force. “I’m tired of being compared to my mother! Tired of it!”
Robert came to her and put his arm around her. “Youareyoung. Youaregood. Give yourself time.”
Jane rubbed her eyes. “I’m just tired, Robert, forgive me.” She stood and walked to the dressing table and began to remove her stage makeup with Pond’s cream and cotton. Robert left her. When she had finished, she released her hair from its chignon and tied it back in a simple tail. Robert returned with his arms full of roses. Jane had to smile.
“Do you want to see the cards?” he asked.
“Are they all amorous?” Jane returned.
“Of course.”
Jane laughed, shaking her head. “I’ll take the flowers home.” She glanced around. “There’s no place here for any more.”
And there wasn’t. Roses in vases were everywhere: upon her dressing table, on the butler’s table, on the side tables by the sofa. At least in this one respect she was similar to her mother, Jane thought. She had many admirers, not that she cared. Nor did she even care to know who they were.
They went out the back entrance, to avoid a few men who were waiting in front of her dressing room, hoping to catch a glimpse of her and have a few words. It was that way every night. At first Jane had been flattered, then amused. Now she accepted the attention and admiration as a part of her celebrity, as she did the appellation “Little Angel.” Apparently someone had remembered that she had been called “Sandra’s Angel” as a child and had been too glad to revive the nickname. She was glad they had dropped her mother’s name; the cross would have been too much to bear.
They had avoided the busy mobs and traffic on Picadilly Circus where the Criterion Theatre was located; the street out back was silent and nearly deserted. The Criterion had been built only two years before as an annex to the popular Criterion Restaurant. Things had changed. All of London’s theaters were now booking long-running performances, instead of troupes that had a variety of acts in their portfolio. Troupes no longer traveled about England and performed, and the companies changed when the performances did. It made more sense, as evidenced by the popularity of the play Jane was acting in now, James Albery’s comedy,Pink Dominoes.
Jane sat with a shawl around her shoulders in Robert’s coach. There was still a bite in the air in the evenings, even in mid-June. She was very tired from her performance, and Robert understood, as he always understood, and he said nothing. Impulsively Jane reached out to squeeze his hand, and he squeezed hers back. Jane didn’t know what she would have done without Robert.
Not how she would have survived, but how she would have lived after leaving the Earl of Drag-more.
Robert had still been at the Lyceum almost two years ago, and Jane had found him instantly. Her world was still intact, shattered but intact, because she expected the earl to come claim her. Not out of love, but out of duty. Yet deep inside her soul, deep within her heart, she had the fantasy that he would chase her because he realized, at that last moment, that he loved her and could not live without her. But he hadn’t come.
And then her world had shattered like crystal glass. For he hadn’t come.
Robert picked up all the pieces. Jane stayed with him, grieving, her heart broken. He encouraged her to come to the theater with him, and after a few months of serious depression, Jane found her heart again in her love of the stage. And she began to smile once more; the tears came less.
She just wished she could hate him, and knew she never would.
Jane had a small town house on Gloucester Street. Originally she had stayed with Robert, but soon both deemed that arrangement inappropriate. The apartments were small and three-storied, plaster over yellow brick, in a modest but fresh neighborhood filled with shady elms. She even had a small yard in the back in the Mews with daisys and black-eyed Susans and a swing. One of the stagehands had painted it for her, a pretty shell pink.
“Robert, I’m very tired,” Jane said, hoping he wouldn’t want to come in.
“I know. I’ll come by in the morning.” He looked at her.
Jane gave him her cheek, and he kissed it, his mouth lingering. “Good night.” She flashed him her smile, the one everyone said was so angelic. Then she slipped out of the cab and through the wrought-iron gate to the house.
Molly was waiting. “Evenin’, mum, more flowers?” A merry grin split her face. “How was it?”
Jane smiled. “Good. Here, take these, please.”
Molly laughed at Jane’s tone, taking the armload of roses. “I’ve got roast beef still warm in the oven, mum.”
