Daughter of Deceit by Victoria Holt Page A

astounded.
    “What will he think?” she went on. “He probably won’t come.”
    “Why did you?” I asked.
    “I just had a feeling that I needed in the audience all the friends I could muster.”
    “You’ll be all right,” I said. “I wonder if he’ll come.”
    “He did say he was sorry he missed my performance before.”
    I really could not give my attention to much except what was wrong with my mother. I wished I could talk to Martha about it. Charlie wasn’t in London at the time. He would have been very understanding and would have helped us to find the right specialist. For to a specialist we were going. Martha had made up her mind about that … and so had I.
    I was glad of Robert that night. It was his custom to take a box for as long as the play should run for all my mother’s shows, so we were able to use it whenever we wanted to. It was most convenient.
    Robert was very concerned about my mother, and I felt I could talk to him as openly as I could to Charlie.
    He said: “This is most disturbing.”
    I told him that we were going to insist on her seeing a specialist tomorrow. We didn’t think Dr. Green was good enough.
    “You think it is something really bad?”
    “Well, it has happened three times, all within a short space of time. She has to feel really ill to give up a night’s performance. It can’t go on. We are wondering if there is some reason for it … something wrong … internally.”
    “She always looks so … how do you say it? … so full of the good spirits.”
    “Healthy! Vital!” I supplied. “I wanted to stay with her but she wouldn’t hear of it. She said Lisa would need my support.”
    “That is what she say to me. Dear Desiree, she think always of the others.”
    “Yes. And I’m terribly worried about her.”
    He took my hand and pressed it.
    “We will do something,” he promised.
    I looked down below. In the tenth row of the stalls I saw Roderick. He looked up at the box and waved. So he had come to see Lisa.
    I was wondering what would happen when Dolly came out onto the stage and said his piece. The audience listened aghast, then the murmuring started.
    Dolly looked distraught, his hand to his brow, his pose one of acute melancholy. He faced them bravely.
    “Desiree is desolate. She hopes you will forgive her. Believe me, if she were fit to stagger onto this stage, she would have done so.”
    One or two people walked out. We waited in trepidation for more to follow. There were some anxious moments, and then they settled down.
    They had come to see a show. It was an evening’s outing, and although it might not be what they had expected, they would stay.
    The curtain went up; the chorus was singing; it parted and there was Lisa. “Can I help you, madam?” She was giving it everything she had. I thought she was good.
    Let them like her, I prayed.
    Dolly came silently into the box and sat down, watching the audience rather than the stage.
    After a while the tension eased. It was not going too badly. I felt even Dolly relax a little, but he was still watchful, still alert.
    In the interval he left us.
    Robert said: “It goes well, eh? Not bad? The young girl … she is no Desiree … but she is good, eh?”
    I said: “Yes. It’s the third time she’s done it and she improves every time.”
    “It is a trial for her.”
    The door opened and Roderick looked in.
    “Hello,” I cried. “I saw you below. Robert, this is Roderick Claverham, Charlie’s son. Roderick, Monsieur Robert Bouchere.”
    They exchanged courtesies.
    “It was good of you to come,” I said. “Lisa will be pleased.”
    “How is your mother?”
    “It’s another of those horrible attacks. We’re going to make her see a specialist. Martha is going to insist, and I agree with her. She can’t go on like this. How are you enjoying the show?”
    “Very much. I am somewhat far from the stage, but it was the best seat I could get at such short notice.”
    I looked at Robert. I said: “This is