New Albion by Dwayne Brenna

crinolins. She seemed newly aware of her surroundings, of all the people present, of the inappropriate things she had said. “Please, I beg of you, not a word of this to anyone outside this room. Not even to your husbands. It would be a fatal blow to Eliza’s reputation as an actress and as a lady, if anybody knew.”
    Every woman in turn was made to promise that this business would remain extremely confidential, whereupon Mrs. Wilton returned to her former self and began ordering her dresser about. “Bring me some facial cream,” she said, “all those tears are enough to make parchment of my cheeks.” She was helped out of Lady Hatton’s gown, which she then tossed into a corner on the floor. “Tell Mrs. Hayes from me that I will personally throw her next sewn costume on to a nearby dungheap if she can do no better than this.”
    At last, Mrs. Wilton was gotten into a presentable state, and she left the theatre in a public carriage. Mr. Wilton had remained at home for the evening.
    Apparently, the oath of confidentiality had been sworn with fingers crossed. The rest of the company was happily jabbering about it a quarter of an hour later as they left the theatre. Nothing is confidential at the New Albion.
    The magnitude of these events continues to impress upon me that I am a lucky man. I have four lovely daughters. I stayed at home late this morning and wrote in my journal and ate my breakfast as Sophie prepared sandwiches for a picnic in Greenwich. Hortense was playing “Fur Elise” on the piano. Davina was busy with her diary, as all young women seem to be these days. Little Susan was still in bed, her soft blonde curls pressed against the coverlet of her pillow, when I found that I could not tarry longer and that I had to depart for the theatre. I am a lucky man indeed.
    Wednesday, 30 October 1850
    More scandal and sadness!
    Eliza Wilton returned to the theatre today, looking pale and withdrawn. Mr. Wilton had sent a note down to inform me that she would be dancing after the interval tonight.
    Mrs. Toffat was the first to console the young girl. She sidled up to Eliza while she was waiting backstage to rehearse The Murder House . I heard Mrs. Toffat say something to the effect of: “He’s a wicked boy. Nobody should treat a respectable young lady like that.”
    Her eyes welling with tears, Eliza replied, “But I love him, Mrs. Toffat, I love him.”
    Mrs. Toffat took the innocent in her arms and murmured, “There, there, my girl. Love is a hard thing. Do you observe my customary suit of black?” Mrs. Toffat stepped backwards into the wings to show off her dress, which resembled the broad black flag of a pirate ship.
    Eliza looked at her quizzically. “I do.”
    “I have buried three husbands,” said Mrs. Toffat, her lips pursed and her jowls shaking ominously. “I have been where you are.” She embraced Eliza again. “If you choose to go through with this, then so be it. But if I were in your place, I would find a worthy apothecary to free me of it.”
    Miss Wilton emitted a startled little cry and stepped back from Mrs. Toffat’s motherly embrace. “Mrs. Toffat,” she said, her young face hard, “I am surprised. I’m sure I wouldn’t think of such a thing.”
    At that moment, Mr. Farquhar Pratt came up from the stage door minus his habitual greatcoat. His shirt was open nearly to his waist, revealing the gray hair on his weak chest. He looked as though he had been running; he was frantic and out of breath. His eyes darting wildly about, he confronted those actors present and shouted, in a strange, high-pitched voice, “They’re out to get me! They’re out to get me!”
    My first impression was that Pratty was somehow playacting and having the rest of us on, although such an activity would be foreign to his otherwise staid nature. “Mr. Farquhar Pratt,” I said. “Is this a joke of some sort?”
    “Yes,” he said, again in that weird high pitch, “joke all you like, but you won’t fool