The splendid auditorium was packed. Tier upon tier of eager, animated faces were turned to the stage. Here and there a fan fluttered, shimmering in the dimmed gaslight that gleamed too upon the brilliant white of an elegant ruffled shirt, glowed upon the soft skin of a woman’s bared shoulders, struck fire from a jewelled throat or wrist.
The terrifying rumours were true then; every seat in the house was taken.
‘There’s nobs in,’ someone had said in the dressing room, suppressed excitement in the words, curiosity in the eyes that had flicked to Kitty.
Upon the stage, sequins glittering, the acrobats tumbled with professional grace from their pyramid, landing lightly, smiling their bright, empty smiles across the footlights. From where Kitty stood, transfixed with the paralysis of terror, she could see the sweat that shone upon their skin, smell its rank odour. Applause lifted and then died to an expectant silence as the orchestra struck a chord that slipped into a muted drumroll.
God in heaven, she must be mad. What had possessed her ever to believe that she could step out onto that stage alone, face those avid, inquisitive eyes, fill that vast silence with the lift of her voice? Her throat was dry as dust, her heart thundering louder than the rattling drum.
Upon the stage a cat-like young man in spangled silk panteloons stood poised upon a swaying tower, arms above his head in the manner of a diver, every eye upon him. His handsome face was arrogant. This was his moment. Kitty tried to clear her throat, swallowed a choking cough as silence fell upon the opulent gilt and gold palace that was the New Cambridge Theatre. It seemed to her that the air that entered her lungs was dry as dust, hot as a furnace.
Along the great shingled stretches of beach that were the Suffolk coastline the air on this fine autumn evening would be cool; cool and sea-washed and stirred as always by the fresh salt breeze—
The tower swayed. The onlookers gasped. Perfume drifted heavily upon the smoky air. From where Kitty stood she could quite clearly see the occupants of one of the boxes that abutted the stage. An impeccably dressed young man, a long-stemmed glass in his hand, leaned negligently in his chair, a half-smile on his face, as his eyes ran over the lithe body of the scantily-clad young girl acrobat who posed with a dramatic flourish near him. The eyes of the other three occupants of the box – an older man and two women, magnificently dressed, with almost identical nodding ostrich plumes adorning their piled, jewel-decked hair – were fixed in fascination on the handsome figure upon the tower.
The sun would be gone, the vast, empty, light-washed sky still showing its glow in the west whilst the sea-horizon darkened to night—
The young man lifted his head and closed his eyes.
Kitty gagged on an agonized, nerve-induced cough. The muscle in her left leg, pulled painfully during yesterday’s last, gruelling and all but disastrous rehearsal, twitched and throbbed. What was she doing here? How had it happened? Her almost paralyzed brain refused to relinquish the vision it had conjured up of far-off peace, of the unchanging world of the Suffolk countryside.
In a blur of shimmering, vivid movement the young man launched himself into the air, somersaulting once, twice, three times. As he landed upon the boards, before the applause could start he leapt once more, tumbling and spinning at dizzying speed. The orchestra picked up the tempo of his movements as he circled the stage like a child’s brilliant coloured spinning top, the strength and agility of his body apparently defying the common laws of gravity that bound other mortals to the earth. The excited audience were clapping now in time to the music, urging him on to greater efforts. With a facile grace that belied the sheen of sweat, the corded, strained muscles, he flipped from hands to feet, spun in the air, faster and faster. Kitty averted her eyes, the flashing movement deepening the chill, nervous nausea that threatened to betray her.
‘’Ere – ’ave a sip o’ this—’ Pol’s voice, Pol’s square, roughened hand thrusting a glass at her. Gratefully she took it. On the stage the last flamboyant somersault brought the audience to its feet with a crash of applause.
Damn him! She had to follow that—! Suddenly, beneath the sick apprehension, something else stirred, heartening and familiar. She squared her shoulders, took a breath, gave the glass of water back to Pol with a perfectly steady hand. The customers had not come to see a brash young circus performer, however much of a showman he might be. They had come to see Kitty Daniels. And now, suddenly, the inspiring excitement seeped into her veins, coursing through her body, steadying her nerves, clearing her head. The acrobats streamed past her, chattering and laughing, pleased with their success. One or two sidelong, curious glances were thrown. Kitty ignored them. The audience had quieted. Pat Kenny was on her feet.
‘And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, the moment you’ve – the moment we’ve all – been waiting for—’
The nerves that just moments before had threatened to incapacitate her were gone. She stepped into the lights.
‘—It’s my pride – my privilege – my happy prerogative – to present—’
She swaggered forward, saw the impeccably dressed gentleman’s eyes open wide, caught the titillated, half-shocked gasps of the ladies.
‘Miss – Kitty – Daniels!’
Above the applause the orchestra struck up the familiar introduction. And – would it have happened? she found herself wondering as she stepped to the centre of the stage – would I have been here if they had not died—?