Lucy Lane and the Lieutenant. Helen Dickson
he thought it strange that Lucy had ended her friendship with Katherine and for this reason he would have to keep the identity of the woman he had to rescue secret until Lucy had agreed to work with him and they had arrived in Portugal.
His memories of their time together had never left him. A softness warmed his eyes as he remembered the long summer afternoons they had spent together and the nights, long and filled with loving. He remembered the mornings when they had wakened side by side and she had smiled at him, glad to have him with her. She had been soft in his arms, her lips eager for his kisses, her eyes slumberous and warm with her love.
Cursing softly, he quickened his step, unwilling to contemplate the idea of failure. He had to persuade her. Too much hung in the balance. He had a job to do. Lucy’s obstinacy could not be allowed to get in the way.
* * *
The first of Lucy’s creditors to present an unpaid bill arrived at her door two days later. He was soon followed by another.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Lane,’ the man collecting for the milliner said, his voice neither sympathetic nor accusatory, ‘but Mr Matthews insists that the bill has to be paid. He’s been lenient, giving you more time, but that time’s up. He needs to be paid now.’
Lucy stared at him numbly as an embarrassed redness suffused her face. She managed to scrape up enough money to pay the bill outright, but when the chemist came asking her to settle up for Aunt Dora’s medicines, she could only pay half.
And so it went on. The house came under daily siege as angry tradesmen and women clamoured for payment of their accounts. They gathered like noisy vultures, ready to pick what remained of her assets down to the barest bones. Lucy felt herself plummeting to near despair. To make matters worse, rehearsals for The Merchant of Venice had begun and her financial worries were getting in the way. She had read and memorised the script and would be word perfect on the opening night. Unfortunately, on several occasions she was late at the theatre, which did not go down at all well with Mr Portas. He commented on her tardiness and told her in no uncertain terms that he would not stand for it.
For want of money to meet her obligations, Lucy had to do something. Her pride forbade her to turn to Jack for help. There was only one thing for it. She would have to ask Mr Portas for an advance. The production was due to open one month hence and, as far as Lucy was concerned, she hoped it would run and run.
If Mr Portas refused to give her an advance on her future earnings, she would have no choice but to move out of her rented house and go and live with Aunt Dora. But even then she would need money to continue living.
* * *
The next afternoon she left the house and headed towards Covent Garden. It was a wonderful neighbourhood with a magical, carefree air and on any other day she would breathe deeply the better to absorb the smells, the sights and sounds as she entered the market. It was a noisy, crowded place with an aura of decadence, but Lucy loved it. The market was the very heart of Covent Garden, which, along with its mellow buildings, the piazza and arcades and the theatres, gave it such flavour and vitality.
But today she had too much on her mind to appreciate any of this as she walked quickly through the labyrinth of cobbled streets towards the Portas Theatre. Having grown up surrounded by people who were the theatre’s lifeblood, it had always been an enchanted place for Lucy. Whenever she entered the foyer of the Portas Theatre, with its enormous gilt mirrors adorning the walls, along with posters advertising whatever was playing at the time, she always felt as if she had been transported into another world. Golden cherubs were set into the vast ceiling and huge scarlet curtains hid the stage and matched the material on the seats.
But today as she entered by the stage door at the back of the theatre, she saw none of this. The interior was dimly lit with coils of rope on the floor, discarded scenery and props littered about and racks of old costumes dusty with age. Stagehands hurried about their business, preparing for the evening performance. Some greeted her cheerfully and others got on with their work. She stopped a chap rushing past her carrying a Greek urn to ask where she could find Mr Portas.
‘On the stage, luv. But be warned—he’s in a foul temper today. I’d come back tomorrow if I were you when he’s calmed down.’
Lucy watched him hurry away, stepping back to avoid a man carrying a potted palm towards the stage. Mr Portas wasn’t on the stage and she eventually tracked him down in the corridor outside one of the dressing rooms. With his hair tumbling over his forehead and wearing black breeches and a white shirt with sleeves rolled up over his elbows, he was giving a man with a late delivery of theatrical merchandise a dressing down. After seeing him on his way, he turned to Lucy, his eyes flashing dangerously.
‘Miss Lane! What are you doing here? Still, I’m glad you are. You’ve saved me the trouble of sending for you. I have something I must tell you.’ He glanced at her sharply. ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked impatiently.
‘Yes—I—I find myself in difficult circumstances.’
‘You do?’ The eyes he turned on her were piercing. ‘How difficult?’
‘In the light of my new position I—I wondered if you could see your way to letting me have an advance on my future earnings. I—I wouldn’t ask, but—I am quite desperate.’
He stepped back, his expression irate. ‘No, Miss Lane, I think not. In fact, the reason I am glad you came is so that I can tell you I have hired someone else to replace you.’
With a sinking heart, Lucy stared at him, unable to believe he could do this. She could feel two spots of colour burning on her cheeks. ‘But—the part was mine. You said I was perfect to play Portia.’
‘And so you are—I mean you were. I have always admired your skill in the past, but I’m sorry, Miss Lane, I’ve changed my mind. You are always late. I cannot spare the time to wait on your convenience. I have a theatre to run, a play to get out and yet you persist on being late, which makes me think the role is too much for you.’
‘I am sorry, Mr Portas, truly. I’ve had other things on my mind of late—’
‘Whatever they are they do not concern me,’ he retorted, seemingly unmoved by her plight. ‘My priority is the production. But don’t be too downhearted. You’ll have other offers from other managers. You got good reviews from your last performance. You certainly don’t need me.’
‘No, I’m sure I don’t,’ she said, aware that others had stopped to listen. ‘I got along quite nicely for a number of years without you.’
‘There you are then,’ he said, wiping his hands on his trousers and looking about him in an agitated way. ‘I wish you luck. Now I must get on. Things to do.’
‘Yes, of course. I won’t keep you.’ She halted and half turned. ‘Do you mind telling me who is to play Portia?’
‘Coral Gibbons. She is ideal for the part. I should have seen it sooner.’
She could only stare at him, all her dreams of the future suddenly dissolving around her. At length, she said, ‘Yes, yes, she is. I see. Thank you for your time, Mr Portas. And now if you will excuse me, I am needed elsewhere.’
Lucy had to be alone. She felt suddenly numb with misery, disappointment and a growing anger. She had not realised until then how very much she had depended on playing Portia. If her replacement had been an inconsequential supporting player going on thirty-five and losing her looks, she wouldn’t be so angry.
But Coral! Her closest friend! She was lovely, a perfect replacement, and Lucy had no doubt she would be a resounding success.
With the witnesses to her downfall slinking into the shadows, Lucy swept towards the exit with her head high, only to come face to face with Coral as she was about to leave by the stage door.
For one vivid instant the air between them shivered with tense friction.
‘Lucy—oh, Lucy...’
‘What have you done? Can you not see...?’