LILLIAN STROLLED along Larimer Street. The central thoroughfare of Denver, it was lined with shops and stores, banks and newspaper offices, and all manner of business establishments. She turned into Mlle. Tourneau’s Dress Shop.
The shop was airy and pleasantly appointed, with a large plate glass window fronting Larimer Street. Dresses were displayed on mannequins, and from the rear, behind a partition, she heard the whir of sewing machines. A small woman with pince-nez glasses walked forward as the bell over the door jingled. She nodded amiably.
“Good afternoon,” she said with a trace of an accent. “May I help you?”
“Are you Mademoiselle Tourneau?” Lillian asked.
“Oui.”
Lillian thought the accent was slightly off and wondered if the woman was really French. She smiled politely. “The manager at the Brown Palace told me you are the finest dressmaker in Denver.”
“M’sieur Clark is very kind,” Mlle. Tourneau said. “And whom do I have the privilege of addressing?”
“My name is Lillian Fontaine.”
“Enchanté, Mademoiselle Fontaine. How may I serve you?”
“I’m in desperate need of some gowns. I hoped you might design them for me.”
“But of course, with pleasure. What type of gowns do you require?”
“Stage gowns,” Lillian replied. “I’m an actress and a singer. I open tomorrow night at the Alcazar Variety Theater.”
Mlle. Tourneau laughed coyly. “There is much talk about you, I believe. You are the one called the Colorado Nightingale. Non?”
“Well, yes, that is how they have me billed.”
“How very exciting! I will be honored to design your gowns.”
Mlle. Tourneau began spreading bolts of cloth on a large table. As she prattled on about the quality of the fabrics, Lillian ran her fingers over the material, pausing to study various colors and textures. Finally, hardly able to choose from the delicate fabrics, she made three selections. The bolts were set aside.
Scarcely drawing a breath, Mlle. Tourneau pulled out a large pad of paper and a stick of charcoal shaved to a point. She began sketching gowns, rapidly filling in details as the charcoal flew across the paper. One was to be done in embroidered yellow tulle, another in Lyon silk with white lace trim, and the third in pleated ivory satin with guipure lace. She completed the last sketch with a flourish.
“Voilà!” she announced dramatically. “C’est magnifique!”
Lillian studied the sketches. She had given considerable thought to remarks made by both theater owners and stage performers over the last several months. The more discreet had alluded to the aura of innocence she projected onstage and how irresistible that was to men. The more plainspoken advised naughty but nice, a peek here and a peek there to heighten the sense of mystery. She decided now that some of both would enhance the overall effect.
“Here,” she said, a fingernail on the sketch. “Perhaps we could lower it slightly … to here.”
“Ahhh!” Mlle. Tourneau peered over her pince-nez. “You wish to accentuate the décolletage. Tres bien!”
“And here.” Lillian pointed to the bottom of the gown. “Perhaps we could raise this just a … touch.”
“Mais oui! You wish a tiny display of the ankle. How very daring.”
“Nothing vulgar, you understand.”
“Non, non! Never!”
Mlle. Tourneau led her to the fitting room. Lillian disrobed to her chemise and the dressmaker began taking measurements. She ran the tape around hips, waist, and bust, and her eyes went round. She clucked appreciatively.
“Extraordinaire!” she said merrily. “You will look absolutely lovely in these gowns. I predict you will break hearts. Many hearts.”
“Well …” Lillian studied herself in the full-length mirror and giggled. “I’ll certainly try.”
“Fait accompli, mon cher. Men will fall at your feet.”
“I have to ask you a favor, mademoiselle.”
“Anything in my power.”
“The ivory gown …” Lillian waited until she nodded. “I’ll need it by tomorrow evening. I just have to have it for my opening show.”
“Sacre bleu!” Mlle. Tourneau exclaimed. “Tomorrow?”
“Won’t you please?”
Lillian looked at her with a beseeching gaze. Mlle. Tourneau’s stern expression slowly gave way to a resigned smile. Her eyes blinked behind her pince-nez.
“How could I refuse you? I will work my girls throughout the night. You must be here first thing in the morning for a fitting. But you will have your gown. Certainment!”
“Oh, thank you! Thank you!”
The measurements completed, Mlle. Tourneau suggested an accessory to complement the outfit. She carried a line of low-cut slippers with a medium heel, which she could cover in the same fabric as the gown. She laughed a wicked little laugh.
“Show the shoe, show the ankle. Eh?”
“I think it’s perfect!”
A short while later Lillian left the shop. She returned to the hotel, tingling with excitement at the thought of her new gown. When she entered the suite, her father was slumped in an easy chair, a bottle of whiskey at hand on a side table. His jaw was slack and his eyes appeared glazed. He lifted his glass in a mock toast.
“Welcome back to our cheery abode, my dear. How went the shopping?”
Chester was seated on the divan. As she crossed the room, he looked at her with an expression of rueful concern, wagging his head from side to side. She stopped by the fireplace. “I ordered a lovely gown,” she said, forcing herself to smile. “I’ll have it for the opening tomorrow night.”
“Marvelous!” Fontaine pronounced in a slurred voice. “Never disappoint your public.”
Lillian saw that he was already drunk. He laughed as though amused by some private joke and poured himself another drink. The bottle wobbled when he set it back on the table, and he watched it with an indifferent stare. He took a slug of whiskey.
“Papa,” Lillian said tentatively. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink?”
Fontaine waved her off with an idle gesture. “Have no fear,” he said. “John Barleycorn and I are old friends. He treats me gently.”
“I worry anyway. Too much liquor isn’t good for you.”
“I am indestructible, my dear. A rock upon which a sea of troubles doth scatter to the winds.”
Lillian knew he was trying to escape into a bottle. His optimism about their prospects in Denver and his pride in negotiating such a lucrative engagement at the Alcazar—all that had been dashed by their meeting with Burt Tully. Her father had heard all over again that no one was interested in Shakespeare. Or Alistair Fontaine.
She felt guilty about her own good fortune. The accolades accorded the Colorado Nightingale, first in Pueblo and now in Denver, had pushed her father out of the limelight and ever deeper into the shadows. She suddenly felt guilty about her new gowns, for while she was happy, her father was drunk and disconsolate. She simply didn’t know how to erase his pain.
“Papa, listen to me,” she temporized. “You’re only hurting yourself, and I hate to see you like this. Won’t you please stop … for me?”
Fontaine grunted. “ ‘Men’s evil manners live in brass; their virtues we write in water.’ I believe the Bard penned the line for me. Yes, indeed, quite apropos.”
Lillian was reduced to silence. She looked at Chester, and he again shook his head in dull defeat. Fontaine downed the glass of whiskey, muttering something unintelligible, and slumped deeper in the chair. His eyes went blank, then slowly closed, and his chin sank lower on his chest. The glass dropped from his hand onto the carpet.
Lillian took a seat on the divan. She stared at her father a moment, listening to his light snore. “I feel so terrible,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes. “Surely there’s something we can do.”
“Like what?” Chester said. “You know yourself, he lives and breathes Shakespeare. Tully might as well have hit him over the head with a hammer.”
“Yes, you’re right, he was just devastated. He thought Denver would be so much more cultured. His hopes were so high.”
“Maybe he’ll sleep it off and come to his senses. He’s always bounced back before.”
“I’m not sure sleep will solve anything.”
“You tell me then, what will?”
“Perhaps Tully was wrong about the audiences. Perhaps they will appreciate Shakespeare.”
“Anything’s possible,” Chester said with no great confidence. “I guess we’ll find out tomorrow night.”
“Oh, Chet, I feel so helpless.”
“Let’s cross our fingers and hope for the best.”
Lillian thought they would need more than luck.
Denver turned out for opening night. The theater was full by seven o’clock, and men were wedged tight in the barroom. The crowd spilled out onto the sidewalk, and a police squad was brought in to maintain order. The backlit marquee blazed outside the Alcazar.
LILLY FONTAINE THE COLORADO NIGHTINGALE
Lillian complained to Burt Tully. The marquee made no reference to her father or Chester, and she was upset by the oversight. Her father had sloughed it off, but she knew he was offended and hurt. Tully told her it was no oversight and then repeated what he’d said the day before. The crowd was there to see her, not The Fontaines. She was the headliner.
Before her opening number, she stopped by the dressing room her father shared with Chester. Fontaine was attired in the costume of a Danish nobleman, and his breath reeked of alcohol. His eyes were bloodshot, and though he tried to hide a tremor in his hand, he seemed in rare form. He nodded affably and inspected her outfit, the teal gown with the black pearls. He arched an eyebrow.
“What’s this?” he said. “Not wearing your new gown?”
Lillian smiled. “I’m saving it for the closing number.”
“Excellent thinking, my dear. Contrary to common wisdom, the last impression is the one most remembered.”
“Are you all right, Papa?”
“I am in fine fettle,” Fontaine said grandly. “I shall acquit myself admirably indeed.”
Lillian kissed him on the cheek. “You will always be my Hamlet.”
“And you the sweet voice in the darkness of my night.”
“I have to go.”
“Leave them enraptured, my dear. Hearts in their throats!”
A juggler came offstage as she moved into the wings. She walked to center stage, composing herself, hands clasped at her waist. The orchestra glided smoothly into Nobody’s Darling as the curtain opened to reveal her awash in a rose-hued spotlight. Her voice brought an expectant hush over the audience.
They say I am nobody’s darling
Nobody cares for me
While others are radiant and joyful
I’m lonely as lonely can be
I’m lonely indeed without you
But I know what I know in my heart
Dreaming at morning and evening
Of meeting, oh never to part
On the last note there was a moment of almost reverent silence. Then the crowd stood, everyone in the theater on their feet, their applause vibrating off the walls. She curtsied, her eyes radiant, and slowly bowed her way offstage. The uproar went on unabated, and the audience brought her back for four curtain calls. Her face was flushed with joy when at last the commotion subsided.
Fontaine was waiting in the wings. His eyes were misty and he hugged her in a fierce outpouring of pride. She again smelled liquor on his breath, and then he marched, shoulders squared, to the center of the stage. The curtain swished open, and he raised one hand in a dramatic gesture, caught in the glow of a cider spotlight. He hesitated an instant, staring out over the audience, and launched into a soliloquy from Hamlet. His rich baritone resonated across the theater.
Neither a borrower, nor a lender be;
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry,
This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man …
The crowd watched him with a look of dumb bemusement. There was a sense of some misguided gathering come upon a man speaking in a tongue foreign to the ear. When he delivered the last line, they stared at him as though waiting for a summation that would make it all comprehensible. Then, just as Burt Tully had predicted, they sat on their hands. Their applause was scattered, quickly gone.
Fontaine took no curtain calls. The acrobats bounded onstage as he walked, head bowed, to his dressing room to change costumes. A few minutes later he joined Lillian and Chester in the presentation of the melodrama A Husband’s Vengeance. All through the performance Lillian’s concentration was on her father rather than on the play. She knew, even if the audience never would, why he had selected that particular passage from Hamlet. He wanted to deliver the one line that personified Alistair Fontaine.
To thine own self be true.
The crowd responded favorably to the melodrama. Following the performance, Fontaine’s spirits seemed somewhat restored. He changed into his street clothes, leaving Chester backstage, and moved quickly to the door leading to the theater. Lillian came out of her dressing room just as he went through the door. She was wearing her new gown, resplendent in ivory, her hair loose to her shoulders. She saw Chester standing outside his dressing room, his face screwed up in a puzzled frown. She hurried forward.
“Chet?” she said anxiously. “Where did Papa go?”
“To the bar.” Chester appeared troubled. “He said he’d watch your performance from there. He just rushed off.”
“I’m worried about his drinking. Will you find him and stay with him?”
“The way he acted, I’m not sure he wants company. He didn’t invite me along.”
“Yes, but he shouldn’t be left alone. Not tonight.”
“You’re right. I’ll go find him.”
Chester walked away. The stage manager motioned frantically to Lillian as the chorus line pranced offstage. She moved through the wings, taking her position at center stage, and struck a coquettish pose. The curtain opened as the orchestra swung into Buffalo Gals and the spotlight made her a vision in ivory. Her cleavage and the sight of a dainty ankle brought shouts from the audience. She performed a cheeky dance routine as she zestfully banged out the lyrics.
Buffalo gals, won’t you come out tonight
Come out tonight, come out tonight
Buffalo gals, won’t you come out tonight
And we’ll dance by the light of the moon
Lillian twirled around the stage, her ivory slippers lightly skipping in time to the music. Her voice was animated and strong, every mirthful stanza of the song followed by the rollicking chorus. She spun about in a playful pirouette on the last line and ended with her arms flung wide and her hip cocked at a saucy angle. The uproar from the crowd rocked the theater with applause and cheers and shrill whistles of exuberance. A standing ovation drummed on through five curtain calls.
The cast surrounded her backstage. She was jubilant with the wild reception from the audience, and congratulations from the other performers made it all the more heady. Burt Tully pulled her into a smothering bear hug and told her she would play the Alcazar forever. As he let her go, she saw her father and Chester, followed by another man, come through the door from the theater. She threw herself into her father’s arms.
“Oh, Papa!” she cried. “Wasn’t it just wonderful!”
Fontaine was glassy-eyed with liquor. He kissed her with drunken affection. “You bedazzled them, my dear. You were magical.”
“I could have sung forever and ever! And Papa, five curtain calls!”
“Yes, indeed, you brought the house down.”
“Oooo, I’m so excited!”
“I’d like you to meet someone.” Fontaine motioned the other man forward. “Permit me to introduce Otis Gaylord. I’ve invited him to join us for supper.”
Gaylord was a man of imposing stature. He was tall, lithely built, with sandy hair and pale blue eyes. He took her hand in his and lifted it to his lips. He caressed it with a kiss.
“I am your most ardent admirer, Miss Fontaine. Your performance left me thoroughly bewitched.”
Lillian smiled graciously. He wasn’t the handsomest man she’d ever seen. But he was devilishly good-looking, strongly virile, with a cleft chin and rugged features. She thought she might drown in his pale blue eyes.
“Otis favors Irish whiskey,” Fontaine said with a tipsy chortle. “I can think of no finer attribute in a friend. And lest I betray a secret, my dear—he is smitten with you.”
Gaylord laughed. “I would be a liar if I said otherwise.”
Lillian sensed they would celebrate more than her triumph tonight.