What is he doing here?
Julian may have been a regular attendee of the theater. Or like the Saxbys, he had heard a similar rumor of Nora’s performance tonight. I wished either to be true, yet by the way he stared at me from across the pit, I had a sneaking suspicion he had come for other purposes. Even at a distance, I could make out the hard set of his mouth that bespoke of a simmering anger. Henry showed no sign of seeing him, which I hoped remained the case as we already had enough to deal with for one night.
My gaze slipped to the empty stage. Thick velvet draperies hid the players and any last minute adjustments from view. I tried to imagine Nora costumed as the wanton Polly Peachum, and what she must be feeling at this moment. My imagination refused to move past the conservative Quaker garb I had known all my life. Her feelings were another matter. If my nerves felt disturbingly stretched as a spectator, Nora’s must be strapped to the rack.
Her most treasured dream was about to come true. After just one week of rehearsal, I fervently hoped she was as prepared for the task as Justine believed. What if my great aunt was mistaken? What if Nora froze up at so large an audience? I glanced again at the hundreds of people packed into the playhouse. Most players began their careers as members of the chorus, not the beloved heroine. How would Nora respond to so much attention at once? The sharp taste of anxiety mixed with the lingering sweetness of my violet mouth rinse. I would personally snatch Justine bald if Nora suffered the slightest embarrassment tonight.
Dear Lord, I silently prayed. Please let her be a smashing success...Please don’t make me have to kill Justine...
A hush fell over the audience as two men came forward, a player and a beggar, to deliver the introduction. The seconds seemed to creep by, then speed off at a dash. I hardly heard a word of their dialogue before the overture sounded and the curtains opened to reveal Mr. Peachum seated at a large table, hunched over a ledger.
Tick...tick...tick...more seconds passed, more players moved about the stage. Mrs. Peachum and the servant, Mr. Filch, with the chorus in the background. My heart pounded and the blood seemed to leap at every sweaty pulse point. Any moment Nora would walk on stage and her life would be irreversibly changed.
Henry leaned toward me. “Are you intent on breaking my hand this evening?” he asked good-naturedly. “If so, the left one will cause the least amount of inconvenience.”
I dropped a startled glance to find my fingers clenched around his in a death grip. “Sorry,” I muttered, forcing the muscles and tendons to release.
He rested his other hand on top of mine. “Don’t worry, Selah. Nora will be brilliant. Justine would never have let her take the role otherwise.”
Even the pretense of a smile proved too much at the moment. “I pray to God you’re right. Heaven forbid I should have to—”
A collective intake of breath from the audience cut my threat short. Jerking my eyes back to the play, I saw Nora standing center stage just as Justine had done on my previous visit.
“Oh, my,” Henry said with quiet admiration. Forgoing words altogether, James and Andrew Saxby simply sighed their approval.
“Now there is a sight I never imagined,” Cate whispered to me.
I could do nothing other than nod a response, my eyes two enormous circles of surprise as I stared at Nora. The bulk of her long, brown hair had been pinned in a loose knot just below the crown, while the remainder fell in soft ringlets around her face. Paint enhanced her full lips, brown eyes and fair skin. She wore a gown of golden peach silk with a light smattering of dark pink and green flowers. The full skirts emphasized her narrow waist, and though not nearly as busty as Justine, the stays and low neckline revealed the right amount of cleavage.
Two thoughts struck me at once: This was the first time I had ever seen my dearest friend dressed in anything other than drab grays and browns. And that she had never looked more beautiful. There was no sign of the self-depreciating Quaker, nor the wry, no-nonsense Samaritan. A handsome young actress stood in her place, ready to delight in a debut performance as Miss Peachum.
Nora looked out over the pit, her face lit with excitement. Mesmerized, I stared unabashedly, just one small part of what must have appeared a thousand-eyed monster. Anticipation hung in the air for her to speak, to break the brief pause that threatened to stretch into an uncomfortable silence. I leaned forward, staring so hard my eyes stung for lack of blinking. It was then that I saw the first hint of panic manifest in a twitch of nerves around her mouth. The line of her lip quivered to a subtle frown that set to flight a hundred small birds in my stomach.