I trail her down the hall, to a room near the end. She grasps my hand and pulls me inside, her eyes luminous in the half-light pouring through the heavy drapes. “Do you trust me, Lillian?” she asks. Only her voice has changed. The lilting tone is gone. Alex’s crisp British tenor has replaced it.
Before I can gather my wits, the curtains open, sending a blinding wash of yellow light into the room. I gasp, blinking. Alex stands before me, in Varina’s rose-colored gown, a blond wig in his hands, his dark hair wild about his face. He gives me an impish smile with his rouged lips, and gestures around the room, which is filled with racks of costumes and gowns. Wigs of every imaginable color and style sit on wire forms.
“As I told you, I’m not a doctor. Nor am I the charming Varina,” he says, his accent shifting once more, to one touched with a hint of Carolina hill country. “I’m all of them. And none of them. I’m an actress, Miss Carmichael. A rather good one, if I do say so. And my real name is Kate O’Malley.”
I stand there, stunned, for at least a full minute. “How did you ...” I whisper.
Kate/Alex/Varina smiles at me and closes the distance between us. “You’re not angry, are you? Perhaps I went too far with my dramatic reveal.”
“I don’t know what to think. To say.” I sink down on a nearby divan, flummoxed.
“You were going to find out eventually, you know. Alex is just an invention to keep outsiders from prying too closely into my life. It’s much easier to navigate this world as a man. You know that. It’s why you were pretending to be a boy.”
“I suppose you’re right.” I find I can’t look this person in the eyes—this person I was fully convinced was a man. One I’ve all too quickly become infatuated with.
“I know you’re disappointed. You had an idea of who I was, and now I’ve shattered that. But Alexander Mayhewisme. All of my characters are me, my dear, whether male or female. And if you truly want to fool people into thinking you’re Mary Jones, or whoever else you’d like to be, you need to inhabit her completely, just as I do with Alex and Varina. Because what you’re doing now ... it isn’t deceiving anyone, I’m afraid.”
I sit there, still in shock. I’ve been tricked. Played for a fool. I can’t quite parse how I should feel about it. But I was a liar, too. Pretending to be someone I was not.
“You need to know everything about Mary Jones,” Kate continues. “Who she loves. Her favorite color. What she eats for breakfast each day. Just as if you’vebeenher your entire life. That’s how you sell your act. Whether you’re performing for an audience of one or a thousand.”
The next words pour from me, without thought. “Did your Lucrezia know? That you’re really a woman?”
“Yes. And Lucrezia taught me almost everything about acting. She was once an opera singer. A prima donna. That’s where her husband met her—at the theater. It scandalized Charleston when he brought her home as his wife. A wealthy planter marrying a foreign actress? Unheard of.”
“You said you were in love ...”
“We were.” Kate’s blue eyes crinkle at the corners. “Now you’re well and truly scandalized.” She clears her throat. “Not only is shenota man, ladies and gentlemen, she’s a follower of Sappho.” Kate gives a crisp bow, and I can’t help the smile that jumps to my lips. “I can goback to being Alex,” she says. “If it makes you more comfortable. Your dashing British gent.”
I look at Kate and consider my words carefully before I say them aloud. How many times have I pretended to be someone I’m not, even before now, wearing the mask others expected? To gain acceptance and love, I’ve spent my whole life appeasing. Placating. My fawning nature nearly destroyed me. How on earth can I ask the same of this person I’ve only just met, merely to continue my girlish infatuation? It would be selfish. Wrong.
“No. I don’t think that would be fair of me, would it? I’m very pleased to meet you, Kate,” I say, offering my hand.
“Likewise, Lillian.” She takes my hand and quickly releases it. “Now, let’s find you a proper costume. I need to go to town tonight to perform as Varina, and I don’t want you doing anything foolish while I’m gone. You’re coming with me.”
Three hours later, we’re strolling slowly along the Battery, arm in arm, two well-dressed ladies out for an evening constitutional. The first hints of springtime are in the air, and the days are getting longer. Even at six o’clock, the sun’s muted glow still casts soft light over the harbor.
I catch a glimpse of myself in a window—I’m adorned in green shot silk of middling quality, my shorn hair covered with bouncing auburn curls. The wig itches terribly, though Kate told me I will grow used to it. I don’t recognize myself. I doubt my own mother would.
Every few feet, my leg reminds me of my injury, my calf muscles pinching as we turn the corner and walk up a small incline. Though my range of motion is improving every day, and I can manage long, flat distances with relative ease now, any sort of rise is still a challenge. Kate slows, allowing me to rest. “The teahouse where I read fortunes is just ahead,” she says. “You can find a table and sit to rest your leg. If you order a cup of tea, Mabel won’t mind if you stay there all night.”
“That’s how you make money, then? Reading fortunes?”
“Yes. I read tea leaves and then perform. I provide the odd tincture and tonic to the locals out in the marsh, but this work is my real bread and butter. I play in the occasional operetta at the theater, too, and entertain at private parties. Those pay the best.”
“I see.” It explains her array of costumes and wigs ... and makes me wonder just how many characters live underneath Kate’s skin.
“You’re judging me, aren’t you?” she says, her chin tilting up. “You think my work tawdry.”
“No ... not at all. Besides, I’m hardly in a position to judge anyone.”
“You’re right about that,” she says rather smugly. “Be mindful, tonight. Most of Miss Mabel’s patrons are ladies, and polite gentlemen, but there’s the occasional blackguard with wandering hands who likes to try his luck.”
“I’ll do my best to avoid attention.”
She nods and pulls me toward a café, its flagstone patio lit with oil lamps. With bow windows trimmed with blue sashes, it has a vaguely Parisian feel (although I’ve never been to Paris, so I can’t say for certain). A sign hangs above the door, etched with gilded blossoms:Mabel’s Tearoom. I walked these streets countless times in my free years and never noticed it, tucked away in this little alley off Gibbes.
Some of the ladies sitting at the outdoor tables wave at Kate as we cross the patio. Regulars, then. One of them tugs her aside—a pretty, portly young woman wearing a cheerful, striped dress. “Varina, you must know,” she rasps conspiratorially. “You were right about the sister. She isn’t really his sister. Not at all.”
