“Yes. Well,” Hannah said. “But still, one swallow doesn’t make a summer. You’ve only gone with him once.”
“Aye,” Peggy agreed sadly. “And who knows if we’ll meet again, for he said nothing to me about it when we parted. But still, I’d this afternoon, didn’t I? And I thank you for it, Hannah, I do.”
“Don’t thank me,” Hannah began, relieved that she was “Hannah” again and not “Miz Hannah,” but Peggy interrupted her to add, “for you know I’d not have walked out with him by myself. No, even the nicest fellow can get the wrong idea of a girl that way. And if he did, why, he’d not be that nice to her anymore. ‘Tis the way of the world,” she sighed. And she said more briskly, “But now then, you and Mr. Dylan never stopped laughing. It was a treat to watch you. Are you going to see him again? What sort of fellow is he?”
“He’s a rancher, and he lives in Wyoming, and he loves the theater and he’s been to college and to Europe and he…Hannah paused, realizing that she’d laughed a great deal and had a fine time, but even after all that time in his company, she didn’t know much more about Gray Dylan than that.
“He’s a very slick character,” Hannah said finally, “and I certainly don’t expect to see him again, because I don’t believe he’s used to such tame entertainments as picnics, and not by word or gesture did I imply I was used to anything else. Quitethe contrary,” she said, remembering how she’d changed the subject whenever the conversation had drifted toward anything to do with men and women and what they did together. Then remembering how often it had, her own cheeks flushed as she added, “I’m glad I hadn’t your hopes when I set out, or I’d be very set down now. But you had better be careful of your fried-chicken-fancying, harmonica-playing Mr. Atkins if you see him again, because birds of a feather flock together, you know.”
“Och, but wouldn’t that maybe mean it’s Mr. Dylan who’s not so bad then?” Peggy answered, and Hannah was amazed, but it truly did seem as if Irish eyes did smile.
“And she’s got four brothers, too,” Royal said as he sat across the table from Gray talking about Peggy while he wolfed his dinner so that he could go on talking and still appease other more mundane hungers. “But she started sewing early and makes more money than any of her brothers now. And sends most of it home to her ma. Her ma sews, too.”
“And has a bunion on her big toe on her left foot, too, you’ll be telling me next. Lord, Royal, you know everything but her grandma’s first name—no, I don’t want to hear it if you do,” Gray said as Royal tried to speak. “She’s turned you into a regular chatterbox,” he said wonderingly. “Yet I never saw such a pair of clams when we started out. What did you do? Use sign, like Indians?”
“She just needed some warming up. She never walked out with a fellow before,” Royal said, and seeing the amusement in Gray’s eyes, added with a look in his own that would have made most men reach for their guns, “and I believe her.”
Gray held up both hands as though surrendering, and said, “I wasn’t going to say a thing. But if I was,” he added, lowering his hands as Royal lowered his lashes in embarrassment, “I’d remind you that you only walked out with her once, and that she works in the theater.”
“She sews,” Royal said flatly, addressing his steak. “Miz Roberts works there, too, and you were having a high old time with her. Near broke your neck trying to for the last couple of weeks, too, Peggy says.”
Gray had a sudden, eerie premonition that he’d be hearing “Peggy says” for a long time to come. Well, why not, he thought, she seemed like a good girl, or at least one that wouldn’t harm Royal. And for a certainty, the way Royal was talking and acting, he’d never harm her. No, his intentions were abundantly clear. Gray would have preferred Royal finding a girl from a rich family so he could improve his stake with his marriage, but he could hardly disapprove of him disregarding that, as he himself had all these years.
If he felt any slight unease, it was that his tongue-tied friend had found out his girl’s whole history down to when she lost her first milk tooth, or so it seemed, and all he himself had found out about the mysterious Miz Roberts was that she was wonderful company, very smart, had a fine sense of humor, loved the theater and distrusted him with some intensity. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t tried to discover more, but she was as adept at changing the subject as she was at making him laugh. If there was going to be any joy forthcoming from those quarters, he mused, pausing to reflect on just which quarters would bring the most joy, it would take time to discover them. Maybe more time than he had. Or at least, more than he was willing to spend, for it occurred to him that he’d all the time in the world for anything he wanted.
Royal clearly didn’t.
“I’m following along to Leadville,” he said before he took a mouthful of bread and gravy.
“You like their version ofLittle Lord Fauntleroythat much, do you?” Gray asked.
“God, no,” Royal said. “It’s poor. Poorer when you see it a few times. Though Peggy says they’ll be doingA Midsummer Night’s Dreamnext.”
“Bet you can hardly wait,” Gray said.
“Don’t care if I ever see it,” Royal answered. “But I’m seeing her again.”
Gray nodded and took a swallow of coffee, waiting to see when it would occur to Royal. It took three seconds.
“Gray,” Royal said, suddenly putting down his fork and knife, and looking steadily at his friend. “She’s a good girl a long ways from home. So, no matter what, I know she won’t come out with me alone. Can’t blame her,” he said withas much pleasure as wonder. “So…would you…? Damn,” he said when Gray only smiled at him. “I’ll ask you proper. I’d hold it a favor. So…you coming?”
“Oh. Well. Yeah. I suppose I have to, then,” Gray grumbled, delighted.
Chapter Eight
They stood on the raised wooden sidewalk outside the theater, and though it was narrow, they managed to stay in a clump together, like schoolchildren on an outing. It might have been because the gentlemen didn’t want to get their shoes ruined by the mud in the street, and the ladies wished to protect their hems, as well. But the men had boot scrapers back at the hotel, and the ladies had sewn on hem protectors. They were used to it by now, this was the West, after all, and the members of the Harper troupe were getting to be veterans here. But they stayed in a cluster, apart from the other theatergoers, because they weren’t used to being in the audience and not on the stage, and perhaps even more because they weren’t used to frequenting such theaters, onstage or off.
When they filed into the little lobby and looked up the plain high stair that led to the mezzanine floor, they relaxed. They’d heard the Tabor at Leadville was a little gem, but such alittlegem couldn’t transport them to the realms of envy they’d feared. Their theater, across the street, was no more or less than any of the other saloon theaters they’d played. But they’d got into town a day early, so someone’s suggestion of a look-see at the Tabor tonight had been met with instant approval by all.
A coach ride around town had shown them that Leadville was a booming town with its fair share of streets of fine mansions and quality stores. Civilization had come to it with a rush, along with its silver mines, for it boasted a half dozen newspapers and over a hundred saloons. But most of the sprawling town was filled with those who’d made it the success it was. A night at the theater was always preferable to any other sort of sport for most members of the troupe, but especially so here. Because a night out on the town anywhere else would mean being surrounded by thousands of miners. That hadn’t appealed to anyone but Lester Claxton, who never cared who he drank with, and as this tour had gone on, he had been drinking so much he’d never notice who he drank with, either.
“Coals to Newcastle, come along you red-hot thespians,” Lester quipped now as he led the troupe up the steep stair, and they laughed at his jest, until they gotinto the theater, and then they fell still as their faces suddenly became grave. It was a gem. They grew silent as worshippers at a shrine as they stood in the red-carpeted aisles and gazed around themselves.
Who better than they could know the charm of the raked orchestra that spread out into a fan to the back of the hall, so that despite the several white and gold supporting pillars, everyone in the house had a good seat? What other eyes could evaluate the impact of the rich gold swagged curtain that hung over the neat stage flanked by two huge birdcage-styled boxes? Who but another performer could take a comfortable seat in a flocked velvet chair with cunningly wrought-iron arms, sit back, and gaze up at the domed ceiling to see the painted cherubs cavorting in the blue firmament there, and then know, from the second the orchestra struck up, that the acoustics were made for angel choirs, or at least, could make the merest whispers sound like one? When the curtain rose, before the drama even began, there was scarcely a dry eye in Kyle Harper’s troupe—although when they saw the beautifully lit, painted backdrop, they really should have been grateful that the lights in the theaters they played were too weak to show the wrinkled, inappropriate sets they had to act before, instead of being consumed with envy and shame.
There was no sawdust on the floor. Although the audience was packed with hard-faced workingmen, most of them were sober, or if they weren’t, they didn’t keep shouting out, celebrating it. No bar girls roved the audience, distracting them. No, the prostitutes there were on a night out, too, so they sat the way they thought ladies would, and were even more postured than that, to drive home the point of their hard-earned leisure and elegance.
The play was well acted and well received. There were so many dazzling changes of scenes and sets that it was hard to tell just how good the actors were— but they were. When it was finally over, and all the encores had been called for and given, the Harper troupe applauded just like the rest of the audience. But as they filed out again, they were the only ones on the verge of suicide.
