Massonville 1878
The owner's office was located on the left side of the lobby, a narrow hallway and a second door separating it from the backstage. The chamber itself was decorated in an older style: the woodwork was dark, and the wallpaper was covered with a green leaf and stem design that Juliet thought quite ugly. There were no windows, but a vent in the ceiling kept some air flowing through the room. One wall was given over to shelves full of books and bric-a-brac. The furnishings consisted of a large desk with an equally large desk chair upholstered in a green fabric, two smaller chairs—someone had thrown a handsomely worked afghan over one of them—and several small tables. Against the back wall was a carved circular stairway, which, Cornelia had confided, led to the family quarters above. Leaving Romie and Juliet in the office, she hurried up to the apartment to fetch her husband and his stepmother.
Not having been told to sit, Juliet stood in the middle of the room, but Romie sprawled out on a low step of the staircase. When she'd found her brother in the boardinghouse, he had not yet been to bed. She did not want to know the specifics of the night he had spent.
“Stand up,” she hissed over her shoulder at him. Much would be forgiven an actor who had made a big hit, but it would be better if he did not appear to be insolent. From behind her she heard the sound of her brother pulling himself to his feet. She resisted the temptation to look at him. When Romie was in one of his defiant moods, it was usually best to disregard him.
“ ‘I am the monarch of the sea, / The ruler of the Queen's Navee,’ ” he sang softly.
Gilbert and Sullivan were all the fashion in New York, and Romie had wanted to include H.M.S. Pinafore in their repertoire, even going so far as to obtain a pirated version of the work, since it had not yet been produced in the United States. Juliet had pointed out that neither of them were singers, and her brother now demonstrated that fact by warbling in an off-key baritone, “ ‘But when the breezes blow, / I generally go below.’ ” Then, having forgotten the lyric, he filled in with a series of “tum, ti tum”s until she could not bear it any longer. She whirled around to see him posed on the staircase as if singing to a large chorus, the afghan wrapped around him like a cape. He was grinning, but there was something horribly sad about him, and his expression caught at her heart. They had been victorious the night before; why couldn't he be as happy as she was? Why couldn't they share it? For a moment, she felt lost. Seeing how hurt she was, he quickly unwound himself from the afghan and went to her. “Poor Jule,” he said softly. “Is it really so important to you that we impress these provincials?”
“It's important that we have an engagement for the rest of the season,” she said tartly.
“And then what? Where do we go next?”
She didn't know. If only we had a theater of our own. If only we could go back to the way it used to be.
“Jule, we've failed. Our tour is a failure. They want stars on the road now.”
“But if Mr. Honeycutt offers—”
“If he offers to extend our engagement, we will thank God and stay. But it will only be postponing the inevitable.” He hesitated, and then he said the words she feared most. “We're going to have to go to New York, Jule.”
“Is that what you want?” she asked in a choked voice.
He couldn't meet her eyes; he knew as well as she what a move to New York would mean. “I want to work,” he said finally. “I want to act. Wherever I can.”
“Papa used to say, ‘Le bon Dieu will provide for the future if we provide for the present.’
He turned to her then, and stroked her cheek tenderly. “Papa is dead, Jule,” he said.
Cornelia entered the room, followed by a man in his early thirties. This was the elusive owner of the opera house. “My husband, Mr. James Honeycutt,” Cornelia announced. But as Juliet came forward to acknowledge the introduction, she thought she understood at last the source of the sorrow she'd seen in Cornelia's eyes.
Juliet had not led a sheltered life; like most actors, her brother and her father were not strangers to the tavern, and she and Maman had helped them both to bed on more than one occasion. But unless she misread the case, James Honeycutt was not an occasional imbiber. His reddened eyes, florid cheeks, and sour breath that no amount of peppermint lozenges could mask completely, told the tale of one who, if he was not yet a dipsomaniac, was on his way to being one. No wonder Cornelia's people knew all the saloons on the riverfront. Mr. Honeycutt barely acknowledged Romie and Juliet as he made his way into the room.
Behind him was what could only be described as a vision. She was young—it would have stunned Juliet to have learned that she was more than thirty—and so beautiful that she seemed unreal. Shiny golden curls cascaded from a pretty ribbon at the back of her head. Her delicate little nose and shapely mouth complemented her pink and white complexion, and her sky-blue eyes were partially hidden by thick lashes. She was slender, and short enough to flatter most men by having to look up at them. But the heavily draped mauve mourning gown—the color was lovely with her eyes—revealed a womanly figure. This, Juliet and Romie were told, was Lavinia Honeycutt, widow of the late Cecil Honeycutt and stepmother to James.
Juliet felt something twist inside her. What I could do if I had that face! she thought. What an Ophelia I could play. And … what a Juliet! And the worst of it was, the little innocent probably didn't even realize what a gift she had.
The widow floated into the room. At her side, Juliet heard Romie draw in a breath, and she felt another twist. “ ‘Nymph, in thy orisons / Be all my sins remember'd,’ ” Romie murmured. The widow heard him, but instead of blushing as one would have expected, she turned and examined him coolly from head to toe. Finally she rewarded him with a ravishing smile that displayed two rows of pearl-like teeth. So she wasn't an innocent, after all. And she was well aware of her gifts.
James was not impressed by Romie's charm or his ready use of Shakespeare—a misuse of it, under the circumstances, but let that pass. Juliet studied the man who held their fate in his hands. Looking past the bloodshot eyes and florid cheeks, she saw an anger in him, and an air of defeat that made her uneasy. How had Cornelia ever come to marry him? He seated himself carefully in the green chair behind the large desk, waved his wife and his stepmother to the other chairs, and left Juliet and Romie standing. Under his breath, Romie sang so softly only Juliet could hear him, “ ‘I am the monarch of the sea …’ ”
“I am sorry I have to inform you that I will be terminating your engagement at the opera house by the end of next week,” James Honeycutt said.
The walls seemed to spin around Juliet. Romie ceased his sotto voce concert. “But—but last night …,” Juliet stammered. “But last night … we had a big success. Weren't you there? You must have seen—”
“Jule, don't,” Romie said under his breath.
But she had to go on. “We have a fine company, and you will not find a more comprehensive repertoire. I promise you, we will bring in the public—”
“That is immaterial now. In a month's time the opera house will no longer be here,” James Honeycutt cut in.
“Oh, James!” cried Cornelia. “You can't tear it down!”
He was going to tear down this theater? It was like hearing that he planned to slaughter a living being. It took all of Juliet's self-control to keep herself from shouting, “No!”
“Cornelia,” said her husband, “this is hardly a discussion to be having in front of strangers.”
“Ah, think of us as furniture,” said Romie. He smiled at Lavinia, who giggled back, the little fool. Juliet longed to shake her until those blue eyes bulged. This beautiful theater was going to be rubble, and she was flirting with Romie. Not that it would do any good. Her brother limited his amours to females who could not by any stretch of the imagination be called respectable. And even though Juliet suspected that Lavinia Honeycutt had more than a little in common with such females, in the eyes of the world the widow was a respectable woman.
Meanwhile Cornelia continued to plead with her husband. Heedless of her audience, she moved to him, and tried to take his hand, but it was pulled back. “We do well with the hotel, James. And the theater could be profitable.” She paused. “It was your father's dream.”
James rubbed his head—his aching head, from the look of it—and turned away from her. “Father had nothing but dreams,” he said.
“You think you can make more money with a mill, but you know nothing about manufacturing—
“I am going to restore my family to its rightful place!” he said. His face turned red, his chin jutted forward, and his eyes were blazing with some deeply buried emotion Juliet could only guess at. “I cannot do that with the paltry sum I will earn from a damned playhouse!”
The curse hung in the air—James Honeycutt was not the kind of man to use such language in front of his womenfolk—but he did not apologize. All eyes turned to Cornelia for her response. Cornelia drew in a breath, and even in the midst of this collapse of all Juliet's hopes, the actor in her could not help appreciating the theatricality of the moment.
Cornelia decided not to challenge her husband. She returned to her seat, folded her hands in her lap and cast her eyes down. “Of course, my dear,” she said.
James faced Romie. “As you will have gathered, it is my intention to demolish the opera house and build a cotton mill on this land. With such proximity to the river and the wharves, I am assured that it will be a successful venture. I regret that I must end your engagement earlier than you had anticipated, but it is only by a week, after all.”
It may be only a week to you, but it is a lifetime to us! Juliet wanted to scream at him.
Romie seemed not to have heard the man. How could he be so calm? He turned to Lavinia. “And what of Mrs. Honeycutt?” he asked in his silkiest voice. “Do you not have some regrets for this poor theater that is about to give its life for a cotton mill?”
Juliet expected another simper or a giggle. But Romie had sensed something about the little ninny.
“I loved the days when my husband was alive and we would have great parties with all the actors,” Lavinia said seriously. Her voice was insipid and childlike. “They were so charming,” she continued, “and, as I was Cecil's wife, they were most gracious to me.”
No, they toadied up to you, Juliet thought viciously. And little Mrs. Honeycutt had enjoyed playing the grande dame.
Lavinia was looking at Romie from under those heavy dark lashes. “Unfortunately, my husband had reverses during the war that we never knew about until after he died, and now there is nothing left of his fortune. I am to go back to live with Mama and Papa, at Rivers Edge—my old home.” For the first time something like a real emotion crossed the perfect little face. “I do not wish to go.”
“And why is that?” Romie asked.
“Papa is the only planter still living in the area. The war finished all of our neighbors.” Lavinia's voice quivered. “It's terrible at home now. There are no picnics or balls—we don't even have visitors anymore. Nothing but Mama crying because we're poor and Papa ranting about the Yankees.”
Juliet looked to her brother, expecting to see him rolling his eyes. To her surprise, Romie was gazing intently at Lavinia. “You are going to be very lonely there,” he said softly.
“I can't bear the thought of it!” The lovely blue eyes were locked with his, and now they began welling up.
“Lavinia …” James attempted to intervene. But Lavinia was past all considerations of propriety. When Romie had a woman under his spell, he had that effect.
“I will be buried alive,” Lavinia went on desperately. “And I will never find another husband because everyone who is left in the county is either poor like we are, or old. And I will not marry another sick, old—”
This time it was Cornelia who broke in. “I am sure you do not mean to say that, Lavvy!” she said sharply.
Cornelia's tone stopped Lavinia. She blinked, and wiped away her tears. But she did not turn from Romie's gaze. “James tells me the new mill will make us money,” she said to him as if they were the only people in the room. “I need money! If I have enough … I might be able to bring Mama and Papa here to live.”
“And what if the mill does not make enough money?” Romie prodded gently.
Her look of total despair was answer enough.
“I think we have nothing further to say.” James Honeycutt cut off the tête-à-tête by standing up and looking pointedly at the door. The Venables were being dismissed. As they started to leave, Lavinia moved so close to Romie that he had to brush past her, and Juliet could smell the scent she wore. It was sickeningly sweet.
“Wait, I'll walk with you,” Cornelia said to the two actors.
After the three left the office, Romie wandered back to the boardinghouse, but Cornelia and Juliet stayed behind in the opera house lobby. For a long time they were both silent, and it was as if they were trying to memorize the marble carvings and the gilt.
“I can't believe—” Juliet started to say, but she stopped herself. No matter what kind of attachment she felt for this theater, its fate was none of her business.
But of course, her companion knew what she had been about to say. Cornelia sat on the tufted ottoman in the center of the room, and motioned for Juliet to sit next to her. “Our ‘peculiar institution’—that is to say, slavery—was a great evil,” she said slowly. “It affected all of us—in so many terrible ways.” She paused. “James was reared on his grandfather's plantation. On his birthday when he was ten years old, all the people on the place were gathered together and instructed to greet him as Master Jim. It was done because one day everything his grandfather owned would be his. His father was raised in the same way, but he was a very different kind of man. He hated farming and the plantation, and we now understand that he was in financial difficulties long before the war. That merely ended what had already been started. He built this opera house with the last money he had. The hotel makes a profit, and I have a little something my mother left to me, so James and I are not in distress. But my husband can't stop remembering when he was Master Jim. The memory of all that was lost … and the need to try to regain it … It is destroying him. And that little fool, Lavinia, is so money hungry that she goads him on—” Cornelia stopped herself and looked around the lobby again. “I agree with you,” she said sadly. “I can't believe that all of this will be gone.”