Tell Me, Pretty Maiden (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #7)

“And you were her nurse, so she tells me,” I said.

“I was. I raised her from infancy onward. And I cherished her, too. It broke my heart when she ran away from home like that. I worried about her more than they did, I think. And it was the happiest day of my life when she came to find me again.” When she smiled, she looked just old and kind. But the smile quickly faded. “Of course I didn’t approve of what she had become. Taking her clothes off in front of men—and those songs. I couldn’t blame her family for disowning her. But I stuck by her, and now, as you see, she’s as respectable as a lady can be in her profession.”

“How long have you been with her then?”

“Well, it must be at least twenty years since she found me in Massachusetts and brought me down to New York to be her dresser.”

Which made Miss Lovejoy close to forty. This show must have been a last attempt to play the romantic lead and obviously it was vitally important to her that she succeed in it.

“So tell me, Martha,” I began cautiously, “do you have any thoughts yourself about this ghost? You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”

“I wouldn’t say yes or no to that,” she said, again nodding in birdlike fashion. “I’ve not come face-to-face with a ghost personally in my life, but I’ve met some people who would swear that they have. And all I can tell you is that Miss Lovejoy is very nervous. It’s got her good and rattled, I can tell you—and she’s come through a lot, my darling Blanchie has. It takes a lot to get her rattled.”

As she was finishing this speech I heard the sound of footsteps coming toward us along the passage and suddenly the door burst open. Blanche Lovejoy came in, looking as out of breath as I had been a few minutes earlier.

“Any sign of her yet, Martha?” she demanded, then saw me. “Oh, there you are, Miss Murphy. I was wondering if you’d changed your mind and weren’t going to show up.”

“Not at all,” I said.

“I was expecting you to come through to the stalls so that I could introduce you to Robert and Desmond.”

“Henry said you were having a meeting, but I didn’t know whether you’d welcome my presence,” I said. “I thought you might find me awkward to explain, so I came up here to wait.”

“Ah, well, can’t be helped,” she said. “I’ll just have to make a general introduction at the cast meeting. But I’ve warned the boys that you’ll be joining us.”

“You’ve decided how to explain my sudden appearance then?”

“Brilliant, my dear.” She gave me her most dazzling smile. “I had the most brilliant idea. I’m slipping you into the cast because I owe Oona Sheehan a favor and you are her cousin, just arrived from Ireland and seeking a theatrical career. Isn’t that perfect?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” I said.

“Of course, I’ll drop Oona a note, just in case anyone asks her,” she went on, pacing the room like a caged tiger and waving her arms as she spoke, “and I’ve even found a good way to have you onstage most of the time—and get us an extra laugh as well. Guess what, Molly—I’m going to make you a bluestocking. We’ll find you an ugly wig with pigtails and give you glasses, and you’ll be the pupil who never joins in the fun. In every scene where the girls are onstage, you’ll stand in a corner with your nose in a book. You can even wander across the stage with your nose in a book during scenes in which the girls aren’t present. And I’m going to add lines. When I dismiss all the girls, you’ll stay where you are until I say, “Come along, Josephine,” and you’ll look up with exaggerated surprise and follow the rest of them. After the first time that should get us an extra laugh, don’t you think?”

I smiled and nodded, although the reality of being onstage, in the spotlight in front of hundreds of people, was just dawning on me and making my stomach clench into knots. I could never admit to being shy, but I’ve never appeared in public either. I had no idea what it might feel like to be expected to perform.

“But isn’t it to die for?” she continued, still pacing. “Sometimes I surprise myself with my own brilliance, don’t I, Martha?”

“You do indeed, my angel,” Martha replied, although I couldn’t tell whether sarcasm was involved. It was impossible to know what she was thinking or feeling.

“It’s a perfect little setup,” Blanche went on, undaunted. “You’ll be onstage with nothing to do but pretend to read, and you’ll have all the time in the world to observe. If there’s a scene in which your presence on stage would be quite wrong—the love scenes between me and Arthur, for example—then you can wait in the wings, with your nose still in the book. They’ll all know that you are my new protégée so they won’t dare to move you.”