The Healing Season by Ruth Axtell Morren

glass from its silk ribbon from one hand. It swung back and forth, tapping against the shiny black half boot. Something in the expression of his eyes challenged Ian.
    “Very well,” Ian replied, turning his attention back to Mrs. Neville. “I’ll wait here while you change.”
    “You are a dear.” She gave him a sweet smile. At the protest of the lounging dandies, she blew them a kiss and exited the room.
    Ian walked away from the group and stood near the entrance. He watched the antics of the other actresses with the wealthy young men. One by one he could see arrangements being made. D’Alvergny ignored the other young women. After a moment he unfolded himself from his chair and stood, and Ian could appreciate what a large man he was. He exited through the doorMrs. Neville had taken. Ian tensed, tempted to follow him out.
    He stopped himself. What business was it of his? Mrs. Neville was an actress, he reminded himself. She’d doubtless had many liaisons with these society men.
    Disgusted at his own weakness for accepting Mrs. Neville’s invitation, he turned his back on the company and studied a playbill on the wall. He was no better than any of those men present, he told himself. Why had he come tonight?
    When Mrs. Neville returned, Ian looked at her closely, to determine if d’Alvergny had addressed her. He could discern nothing from her features, but he was relieved to find she had washed all the makeup from her face. The ringlets were gone, and her hair was gathered simply beneath her bonnet.
    “Come, my carriage is at the rear.” She put her hand in the crook of his arm and directed him out the back. They walked down a shadowy corridor directly behind the stage. Discarded scenery lay stacked against the wall, and stagehands were busy putting things away.
    “Good night, Eleanor,” said several workers, and she bade each one good-night.
    “Have you ever been on a stage?” she asked him.
    He shook his head.
    Before he knew what she was about, she led him through an arch and he found himself at the rear of the stage. She walked forward with him.
    “Watch your step. There are trapdoors and grooves for the scene flats.”
    He looked down and saw what she meant. There were large slits in the floor where scene backdrops were raised and lowered.
    She took him to the forestage where the actors habitually stood. It thrust out with columned doors at either side. In front of it lay the orchestra pit, with the galleries and boxes surrounding them at either side.
    Although the seats were empty, he felt the sensation of being exposed to many eyes.
    “What does it feel like addressing a crowd?” he asked.
    “Tonight was nothing. We’re almost at the end of our run. But when the theater is full, as on an opening night, it is quite heady.” She let his arm go and took a step forward, facing the nonexistent audience. Clearing her throat, she began:
    This Comic Story, or this Tragic jest,
    May make you laugh, or cry, as you like best;
    May exercise your good, or your ill-nature,
    Move with distress, or tickle you with satire.
    Her voice was rich and carried easily across the auditorium. With a flourish, she turned to him and smiled.
    He couldn’t help smiling back, beginning to understand the draw she held for the audience. “What was that from?”
    “Gay’s The What D’ye Call It, an early burlesque comedy.”
    “Is that what you were doing this evening—making the audience laugh?”
    “Or moving them to distress,” she added significantly. “I’m sorry if you were displeased.”
    He shook aside the apology, preferring to forget the play. “Shall we go and dine?”
    “Yes, I’m famished!” she replied with another captivating smile.
    He followed her out, amazed at how easily his scruples disappeared when he was in her company. All it took was one smile from her, and he was willing to be led anywhere.
     
    They sat in a noisy oyster house on the Strand. “I so adore oysters, don’t you?” she asked