September 28, 1850
I cannot imagine why I was so critical of our treatment by Sister Isobel and Sister Martha in the orphanage. In retrospect, I see that Cat and I were almost spoiled in comparison with what I am experiencing in the Kingsley household as the most junior member of the serving staff. Major Kingsley is kind enough and polite, I must confess, but since he is almost never at home, it all goes for naught. It’s Mrs Kingsley, his second wife, who gives us all our orders and she’s forever cancelling our days off.
It seems that the major suffered a tragedy which haunts him to this day. Oonagh, the other serving girl, told me the story. Oonagh is nineteen and has been here a year longer than I have. She’s from Ireland. It would appear that scores of potato famine immigrants end up in service in Upper Canada.
“Ooooh,” Oonagh wailed one day as she burst into the kitchen, her eyes red-rimmed from the tears she had been shedding, “Miz Major Kingsley says I may not, may not, I repeat, have my afternoon off. The fine lady is giving a tea and she wants everything to be just so. Now, we’re to wear the uniforms she brought back from New York on her last trip and - ooooh, Darra, I needs to meet my Terry, If only we could save up enough so’s we could be married and build a little cabin somewhere.”
“There there, Oonagh, there’ll be other afternoons. I do agree. It does seem unfair, I wonder why she’s so thoughtless ... there must be some reason.”
“There is. Don’t you know the story? Why, ‘tis common gossip. The major doesn’t love her. He’s still in love with his first wife, at least, so they say.”
“His first wife?”
“Yes, a beautiful, fair young lady. They’d only been married a year and, when he was posted to the Canadas, she was big with child and couldn’t sail with him. When she did finally come to join him, she was stricken with the plague and he never saw her again. She died, and so did his baby daughter. Well, they say he never recovered from the tragedy. It’s so sad, aren’t it?”
“Yes, it is, but when did all this happen? Do you know any more of the story?”
“No, that’s all. I think she died ‘bout fifteen years ago; they say the sailings was somethin’ fierce. Storms and illness. Every ship that come in, they took off great numbers of sick and ailing passengers and left them in the fever hospitals. It was just like here in Kingston, but it were earlier. Very few survived the quarantine.”
“When did Major Kingsley marry Mrs Kingsley?”
“You mean this one? Only ‘bout five years ago. I hear tell he was so shaken with the news of his first wife’s death, he didn’t take kindly to the idea of marrying again. Then his house, the one he was building for the first Miz Kingsley, it burned to the ground. So he had to start from scratch and build a new one. He moved into barracks for a while but, finally, some of the officers’ wives persuaded him to start attending their social events again and he decided to build another house. More of an interest than anything else at the time, or so they say. He was a very handsome man ten to fifteen years back and lots of gentlewomen were anxious to see their daughters make his acquaintance.”
“Yet you say he remained a bachelor, or a widower, for a whole ten years?”
“That’s the story, although I did hear that he had a little arrangement on the side with a French lady in Montreal. But nobody knows if that’s true.”
“How did he meet Mrs Kingsley?”
“Agatha.”
“Is that her name?”
“That’s what he calls her, Agatha, and he met her in New York. She comes from a very refined background, so they say. She’s a real social type. So she’s good for him in that way. But we hear she’s barren, poor soul, and that’s why there’s no babes.”
“Well, we can sympathize with her then, Oonagh. At least, she seems to enjoy planning parties; she’s been trying to persuade Major Kingsley to have a ball in the spring and she wants to decorate the gardens and have it outside.”
“It’ll probably rain.”
I picked up the silver tea service which I had been polishing for the past half hour, set it on its large ornate tray and prepared to return it to its position on the tea wagon. If only I didn’t feel so down all the time. I knew I should be grateful to the Kingsleys for giving me the opportunity to work in their beautiful home, but my heart wasn’t in it. I missed Cat too much. I’d written her letters and I knew she must have written to me too, but somehow the deliveries must have been delayed. I knew that Tudhope, where Cat was sent to care for Mrs Dunne and her brood of children, was in a remote farming area quite distant from Kingston, but I didn’t expect this sort of irregularity in the messenger service.
I even inquired of Mrs Kingsley why I hadn’t received a letter from my sister, and she replied that any number of things could have gone wrong. She also reminded me that there was no rural mail delivery and, therefore, I would simply have to wait until someone from the farm came into town before I could expect news of my sister.
The Kingsley house is quite magnificent compared to the orphanage where we were brought up. The rooms are large with high ceilings and long rectangular windows. Mrs Kingsley had crystal chandeliers shipped from New York for both the dining room and the parlour. Downstairs there is a bigger than average foyer with a cherrywood wardrobe by the door to hold the outer clothing. There is also a long low parson’s bench on which sits a silver dish where Mrs Kingsley collects her neighbours’ calling cards.
The parlour houses all the best furniture, every piece imported from England, I think, and there are several oil paintings on the walls too. There is a fireplace in the centre of one wall with a marble mantelpiece. Mrs Kingsley ordered it from New York but originally it came from Italy, she says. The dining room table is long enough to seat twelve people for a formal dinner party, and it has an enormous buffet and hutch to match. Mrs Kingsley’s bone china with the gold band around the edge is the best, naturally, and her heavy crystal glassware, which she keeps locked up in a corner cupboard with glass panels, looks perfect when set out on one of the damask linen tablecloths.
The kitchen, where Oonagh and I spend most of our time alone with the cook, when we’re not working elsewhere in the house, that is, is vast with two open fireplaces for the cooking and preparing of meals. The maids’ quarters are attached to the rear side of the kitchen, so we’re close enough to be always on call.
Upstairs are three bedrooms, two of enormous size and one smaller. Oonagh told me that the third one was meant to be the nursery. Since Mrs Kingsley hadn’t gotten in the family way during her first three married years, she turned it into a sewing room. Although there are two double beds, one in each of the two larger bedrooms, and another extra single bed in Mrs Kingsley’s room, she always refers to the major’s room as his dressing room. That’s because she wants people to believe that they share the connubial bed. Oonagh and I know, however, that, most of the time, Major Kingsley sleeps in his dressing room because, when he’s at home, his bed is in constant need of making up.
I feel very sorry for Major Kingsley. It must be terrible knowing that your wife and only child perished at sea or died of the plague somewhere along the St Lawrence River. Then, when he finally got around to remarrying, he managed to choose a woman who couldn’t carry on the family line. No wonder the poor man never smiles.
I’ve been here with the Kingsleys for nigh onto three months, the same time Cat has been at Tudhope. Now that the end of September is nearing, I am hopeful that she will come to town for supplies and we will see each other again. I have never known time to pass so slowly. Especially since I’ve received no word from her. If she doesn’t come soon, winter will overtake us, she’ll be snowbound and I shan’t see her till spring.
I don’t know how much longer I will be able to tolerate this way of life. Next week is my half day off and I want to go to the theatre again. I’ll go backstage and this time I’m determined to meet Trevor Vaughn and find out how I can become an actress. Yesterday, when I was dusting in the parlour, I looked in the Literary Garland for theatre news. It was an out-of-date issue, as might be expected, but, although there was nothing about the travelling actors, there was some of Mrs Moodie’s poetry in it. I memorized some of the verses and practiced a recitation on Oonagh in the kitchen later. She loved it. I hope Trevor Vaughn will be as impressed by my delivery.
Whenever I read any of the stories and poetry in the Kingsley’s parlour, I think of poor Cat, hidden away in rural Tudhope. She went off so optimistically, but I can’t believe she could’ve been properly prepared for the hardships of caring for a farmer’s sick wife and his brood of children. I’m certain she must be starved for books and I suspect that by now she will be thoroughly exasperated.
September 28, 1850
Major Kingsley arrived back this afternoon only a half hour before I left the house on my day off. Since he wasn’t expected, Mrs Kingsley was instantly thrown into a pique. She cannot bear to allow alterations to her plans.
“Edward, couldn’t you have managed to let me know you were going to be coming home a day earlier than expected? You know how it upsets me to have to alter the arrangements for the day.”
“I’ve already said I was sorry, Agatha. But you needn’t put yourself out for me. I shall make no extra demands on your time nor on the dining schedule. Please don’t excite yourself.”
Oonagh and I could hear her exaggerated sighs right out in the kitchen.
“Oh-oh. Watch out for the sparks now. You’d best hurry up, Darra. Get your bonnet on and fly, or you’ll be held back for sure.”
As she spoke, the door to the kitchen opened and a red-faced Mrs Kingsley entered.
“Darra. Oh, there you are. Thanks be I caught you before you were gone. The master has arrived home unexpectedly. You’ll have to stay. The dinner menu must needs be changed. Now, what was on the list for tomorrow?”
“Agatha.” It was Major Kingsley and his voice was unusually angry, “Don’t be foolish. I beg of you. Let the girl go. Is it your afternoon off, Miss? I’m so sorry, I seem to have forgotten your name.”
“It’s Darra, Sir,” I said and made him a pretty curtsey.
“Yes, Darra. Well now, you just run along and enjoy yourself.”
“No, Edward. I won’t have it. You simply must not interfere with my household staff. Go at once Darra, and change back into your uniform.”
I hesitated, looking from one to the other.
“Off you go now, Darra. There’s a good girl,” As he spoke, Major Kingsley stepped forward with determination and clamped his hand on his wife’s arm. “Come, my dear, we must needs talk,” and, as she struggled to take over and resume her command post, he propelled her from the kitchen, “Agatha, when will you ever learn not to raise your voice or disagree with me in front of the servants?”
Oonagh looked at me and giggled, I giggled too.
“Hurry up, Darra,” she said, and I picked up my bonnet and fled out the back door.
I was already late when I had begun my preparations to leave and now I had been delayed again. I would have to run all the way to the theatre if I was to arrive before curtain time.
Butler’s rarely gave matinee performances. This was an exception and it was only because all the tickets had been sold out for the evenings. The play was one I’d never heard of before but the British Whig said it was a closet drama, whatever that might be, and that Charles Maire had first been popular in it. I knew also that Trevor Vaughn was acting in it. The newspaper critic had given a glowing account of his acting, comparing him to Charles Heavysedge, who apparently used to be famous for his imitations of Shakespearean characters.
By the time I arrived at the theatre and claimed a seat as close to the stage as possible, I was breathless and flushed. I tried to control my breathing and to look as unconcerned as the rest of the audience, but it was impossible. For me, the stage and the drama acted upon it were the most exciting events in life, I balled and unballed a small cambric handkerchief, a gift from Sister Martha, between the palms of my hands. All of a sudden, the heavy stage curtain parted and rolled away, I leaned back and prepared to bask in the fairytale atmosphere unfolding before me,
Trevor Vaughn stepped on the stage from the left rear entrance and the audience fell into a frenzy of wild applause. I sat bolt upright in my seat, staring at the magnificence of the actor. He was bowing to the left and bowing to the right, acknowledging the adulation as his due, and then he looked straight at me. I gasped. My hands rose to press my burning cheeks and Trevor Vaughn smiled right into my eyes.
The drama from that moment onwards passed in a blur of ecstasy. I felt certain that Trevor Vaughn was acting for me alone. I held onto his every word, savouring his voice inflections and drinking in his poetic speeches. He was far superior to the visiting priests or even the bishop! When it was all over, I continued to sit, drained of every ambition and of all will. Long after the rest of the audience had risen and staggered out of the theatre, I sat on, trying to exit from my dream and return to reality.
“Excuse me. Miss.” A young boy stood before me, a bit of paper held in his hand. I started, at first not seeing him, so lost was I in my imaginary world.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said.
“Mr Vaughn sends his compliments and says will you be so kind as to visit him backstage.” Again, the boy proffered the message towards me.
Somewhat more aware of my surroundings by this time, I accepted the paper and thanked the boy.
“Exquisite one, be assured that I await your presence in my dressing room. Your beauty, your hair like the sunset, your lips like the rose at dawn, your fair form have combined to stir my heart to everlasting admiration. Yours, Trevor Vaughn.”
I was astonished. I read it again and felt my cheeks grow warm once more, this time with blushing. The great American actor, Trevor Vaughn, and he wanted to meet me, Darra!
I folded the note carefully, tucked it inside my bodice next to my heart and stood up.
“Will you please direct me to Mr Vaughn’s room?” I asked the boy.
“Right this way, Miss.”
Trevor Vaughn was undeniably handsome. It wasn’t just his shoeblack curly hair and beard, nor was it his mellow Shakespearian voice either. He turned out to be not nearly as tall as I had thought from his pictures or from seeing him on the stage. Nevertheless, he did have broad shoulders and an appearance of strength.
“Ahhh, so you’ve come.” The moment I stepped inside his doorway, he crossed the space between us and took my hands in his. As he gazed down on me, fixing my eyes with his own, I understood what it was about him which was so compelling and I had a dangerous feeling that led me to believe that I would do as he asked, no matter what the request might be.
“Your hair is like spun gold with a blood-red sunset kindling it to flame.” As he spoke these romantic lines, he held a lock of my hair between his fingers and stroked it. I stood stock still, not daring to move so much as an inch.
“I enjoyed your performance, Mr Vaughn,” I finally managed to mumble. “I’ve been waiting for a long time to see you.”
“Thank you, my dear. Never were words so comforting to an old ham like myself,” and he chuckled, “Now, tell me your name that I may remain in ignorance no longer.”
“Darra is my name, Sir.”
“Darra? Darra who?”
I gazed at the floor for what must have seemed long minutes. I did not wish to tell this handsome stranger that I was an orphan and, therefore, had no legal surname, so I said what I had been practising since the first moments of embarrassment.
“Darra St Joseph,” I said.
“What a pretty name. Indeed, I like it muchly.”
“Thank you, Sir,” I said aloud, and to myself, “Please forgive me Father,”
“I would be happy if you would share my midnight supper with me. Miss St Joseph, Do you think that might be possible?”
“I regret to say that I do not believe so, Sir,” My heart was pounding as I tried in vain to think of some way in which I might escape the Kingsley household and thus join Trevor Vaughn.
“My mistress would be much distressed if I were to be absent from the house at such an hour.”
“Then we must make special arrangements. I have another performance to give this evening. So, as you see, I cannot be free until past eleven,” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture, “Be independent. Miss St Joseph, tell your mistress that you must, simply must join Mr Vaughn at midnight; better still, say nothing and come away in secret. How will she know if you do not tell her?”
He smiled persuasively and, before I was able to answer, he stepped forward and took me in his arms. Seeking my lips with his, he kissed me urgently and I knew that I would be powerless to deny him his request. The thick expanse of hair surrounding his mouth and mine surprised me with its softness. Somehow I had expected his beard to be scratchy, the way the stable boy’s chin had been. Caught within the circle of his arms, I thought for a moment I might swoon, such was my excitement, Trevor Vaughn, however, loosed me quickly and, setting me on my own two feet, he asked me again to join him at midnight. It was then that I made the decision which was to alter my entire life.
“Yes,” I whispered somewhat hoarsely, “I’ll come, I don’t know how I’ll manage but, somehow or other, I’ll meet you,”
“Come to Iron’s Hotel on Ontario Street, do you know it? Slip in the side entrance and speak to Stephan Irons, He’s the proprietor and a friend of mine. He’ll conduct you to my private room where I entertain after theatre performances. I’m so pleased you can come, Miss St Joseph. I look forward to furthering our acquaintance,”
“Thank you. Sir,” I managed to say, all the while wondering how I was going to contrive the scheme.
Trevor Vaughn kissed me once more, lightly on the cheek, before sending me off. I rushed home as quickly as I had sped to the matinee earlier, my head bursting with new ideas and emotions. Arriving at the Kingsley house, I ran round to the back and hid beneath the overhang of the carriageway long enough to assure myself that Mrs Kingsley was nowhere about. The last thing I wanted was for her to discover that I had come home early. Quietly I let myself into the house and tiptoed into the room which I shared with Oonagh.
I had not been there long before Oonagh entered our room. “Whatever are you doing, Darra?” she gasped, seeing me stuff a packsack with clothing.
“Ohh, Oonagh!” I hadn’t heard her come in, “You frightened me. Where is everybody?”
“Major Kingsley had a disagreement with Miz Kingsley. I thought for a few minutes they was going to have a real drag-down fight, but the major’s a gentleman, you know, and before Miz Kingsley could get things going too much, he announced that he was leaving. After he’d gone, Miz Kingsley got into a real tizzy and retired upstairs. In about half an hour, she rang her bell, told me she had a frightful headache and for me to bring her some camomile tea. She’s still up there now.”
“Praise be. Then I won’t have any difficulties with her.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oonagh, I’m so excited. I simply can’t tell you. I met Trevor Vaughn - you know, the actor - and he invited me to have midnight supper with him at Irons’ Hotel.”
“But Darra, you can’t! The missus would never stand for you to be out past midnight.”
“She’s not going to know, Oonagh - that is, I’m certainly not going to tell her, and I don’t expect you will.”
“Well, of course not,” she replied indignantly. “Ooh, Darra, what will you wear? Have you got anything grand enough?”
That was a problem, I had to admit, but I had no intention of letting it stand in my way.
“I’ll wear my best worsted. It’s all I have and it’s too chillsome to wear cotton.”
“If Miz Kingsley weren’t in her bedroom, you might have sneaked one of her gowns.” Oonagh ventured.
I was aghast.
“I wouldn’t wear anything Mrs Kingsley owns. I’d rather just wear what I have.”
“The doors’ll be locked up when you return, Darra. I’ll unbolt the back door before I retire for the night but you can always knock on the window if you run into any trouble.”
“Thank you, Oonagh.” I didn’t tell her that it was not my intention to return. Ever. It was too great a secret and would be too much risk for her to be burdened with.
When I had finished dressing and styling my hair in an elaborate manner, I picked up my bag, kissed Oonagh fondly and bade her farewell, letting myself out into the dark night. As I ran along Brock Street past all the fashionable houses which stood side by side with the Kingsleys’, I could not prevent a shudder from passing through me. I was leaving the security of the Kingsleys’ home for I knew not what, and if, for some reason or other, Trevor Vaughn refused to allow me to accompany him on his theatre tour, I had no idea what I would turn to next. I knew I was stretching my luck but saw no other means of accomplishing my ambitions. The hardest thing about it was to keep the faces of Sister Martha and Sister Isobel resolutely chained in the back of my mind.
My arrival at Irons’ Hotel coincided with the departure of a coach and four, so I hastened to make inquiries of the frecklefaced lad who was handing the reins to the driver as he made ready to leave.
“Excuse me, Boy” I called.
“Yes, Miss. I be Caleb McBaine. May I help you?”
“You may, if you please, direct me to your master, Mr Stephan Irons.”
“Yes, Miss, right this way, please,” and he led me by a side door into the warmth of the inside.
After I had made Mr Irons’ acquaintance and explained my purpose at this late hour, he led me silently through the inn to a room situated near the rear of the hotel. A table was laid with fine linen, silver and glassware. Elaborate candelabra and a bowl of late roses graced the table’s centre. Wicker baskets filled with flowers and greenery stood in formal array in one corner of the room. A settee upholstered in royal-blue velveteen and two leather armchairs lined the walls and, off at one end, was an archway leading, I had no doubt, to the bedroom and the usual four-poster bed.
“Thank you, Mr Irons,” I said and placed my valise on the floor beside me.
“I’ll light the fire for you,” and so saying, he kneeled to set the logs and coal aglow. “Is there anything I can bring you while you’re waiting the arrival of Mr Vaughn?”
“Oh, no, thank you. You’re very kind.”
“Not at all. Then, if that will be all, Miss, I’ll return to my duties.”
As he turned to leave, I could not help noticing how he stared at me with curiosity, in that strange manner men have when they are calculating in their minds what the situation might be. I knew that he thought I was a paid harlot, but I didn’t care. I was going to join the theatre and nothing was going to stand in my way.
It was past midnight when Trevor Vaughn finally made his appearance.
“Ahhh, my dear, you are a delight to this tired old man,” and with that introductory statement, he placed his hands on my two breasts and kissed me on my forehead. If the sisters could see me now! I lowered my eyes that I was able to restrain a smile at the thought.
Fast on his heels, a serving cart arrived and was wheeled into the room. I could not help but note the large number of covered dishes and the savoury odours emitting from them. A short, slight waiter with polished hair and a skinny moustache drew the cork from a champagne bottle. Trevor Vaughn deftly filled two fluted glasses with the golden bubbling wine and handed one to me.
“To a perfect evening,” he said and clinked his glass with mine.
I tasted cautiously, having never experienced such an exotic luxury and, to my surprise, found it slightly acid but not unpleasant. It reminded me of ginger beer, not that I had had that more than once. Still, once tried, I was not likely to forget it. By the time I looked up from my wine, Trevor had dismissed the waiter, filled his own glass once again and was standing before me, bottle in hand.
“Drink up, my lovely,” and he gestured towards my scarcely touched wine goblet.
I took a sip, and then another and finally, a gulp, Trevor smiled and refilled my glass to the brim. He then sat down beside me and, placing his once more half-empty goblet on the table beside mine, began to trace the contours of my face with his forefinger.
“You are a beautiful sylph,” he exclaimed, stroking the bones which outlined my eyebrows and my cheeks. “Your eyes are orbs of green crystal dotted with flecks of cinnamon. Your lips? How can I describe your lips adequately? Cherries? Strawberries? The wine of Mount Olympus? Ah ..., permit me to drown in their dew.” Having uttered all these nonsensical and poetical phrases, he settled his lips on mine as though intent on drawing from me a response filled with I knew not what.
As abruptly, he drew back. “Drink up,” he said, “Let us eat.”
There was enough food to feed a family of eight: a tureen of heavily peppered cabbage soup, potatoes, carrots, turnips and creamed onions, all served in separate bowls, and the main dishes: a stew of venison, squabs surrounded with more carrots, and some coarse white fish. I was taken aback when Trevor Vaughn began filling my plate, piling it with large servings from each of the dishes and set beside it a bowl of the soup. I averted my gaze lest he catch the look of amusement which flickered across my face. Never had I been served such a vast amount of food, all at one time. I could only suppose that acting was an appetite-building activity.
The fact that I merely nibbled on the portions allotted me did not appear to concern my dinner partner in the least. He tucked a large napkin round his shirt collar and, without undue haste, shovelled bite upon bite into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as he did so before scooping up more. I watched with fascination the pattern emerging on his beard as stray bits of food settled there. All the while, he continued to fill and refill our glasses. When the first bottle of champagne was emptied, he promptly opened another which was chilling nearby.
Hours seemed to pass before we had finally done with the food. Cheeses, a steam-pudding and some autumn fruit appeared after the first courses. To my amazement, Trevor Vaughn managed to eat some of each dish. He leaned back against his chair at last, mopped his mouth and beard with his napkin, and sighed. Indeed, if more gaseous exclamations had escaped from his lips, I would not have been taken by surprise.
“There,” he said, smiling roguishly at me, “that’s better. And now for a digestive.” He reached beneath the serving cart’s covering and drew forth a bottle of cognac. Again, without asking me, he poured equal amounts into two brandy snifters and handed one to me. By this time, befuddled as I was with all the food and drink, I did not even attempt to refuse the offering. I had never tasted brandy, indeed, I was under the impression that it was a beverage consumed by men only.
At that moment, Trevor rang a bell, discreetly hidden beneath the table. A waiter appeared as if by magic to wheel away the cart and, all at once, we were alone.
“And now, my precious girl,” he spoke slowly, deliberately, staring straight at me, “it is your turn.”
“My turn?” I was bewildered.
“But of course! I have performed. Now it is your turn. You did not think I was merely a kind old gentleman who had decided to feed you a meal, did you?”
“I ... I...,” I was at a loss as to what to answer. “I am very flattered, Sir, that you deigned to invite me to your table.”
At that, he roared with laughter. “You didn’t think I meant to seduce you, perhaps?” Again he looked me straight in the eye.
“I, I - hadn’t entertained that idea,” I replied, although I knew, as I said it, that it was untrue.
“First, Darra, that’s your name, isn’t it? Darra, now tell me, and tell me true. Why did you come here? What are your motives?”
In that moment, I had made up my mind to confess all. After all, what did I have to lose?
“When I told you that I had always dreamed of seeing you on the stage, I meant it, Mr Vaughn.”
“Call me Trevor,” he interrupted.
“Yes, Trevor. Well, I first read about you two years ago, when I was an orphan girl in St Joseph’s convent school. I always wanted to be an actress. That’s why I came to your room at midnight.”
“Aha, so you want to be an actress, do you? But can you act? That, my pretty one, is the question.”
“Oh yes. Sir, I can act, I know I can. The sisters always said I read the scriptures and our Latin studies well, and I can memorize readily. Shall I recite for you, Sir?”
Trevor was looking at me as though he was thinking up some kind of devilish scheme to test my words. Frantically I racked my brain to seize upon a poem or quotation which might please him and convince him that I was not lying,
“My dear little baggage, I am going to give you a test, a test to determine your acting abilities. Now do you agree to my suggestion?”
“Most certainly, of course, Sir, anything!”
“Do not forget, Darra, what you have just said - anything. Was that what you said?” He chuckled with amusement.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Yes, Trevor.”
“Yes, Trevor,” I repeated obediently.
“Good, come closer.” I rose from my chair and complied with his request. “That’s better. Now, Darra, you must remove all your clothes for me, but you must do it in a provocative manner. Think of it as an acting test. Convince me as you disrobe that you harbour a deep desire for me. By the time you stand naked before me, I should feel that your only wish is to be ravished by me. You must accomplish this without touching me. You may touch yourself, of course, any way you think will inflame my ardour. I shall be both audience and critic for your one-act drama. How you conduct this test will signal failure or success.”
Trevor smiled in that devastating way of his when he addresses his public, leaned back in his chair and sipped from his brandy snifter.
I was speechless, so amazed was I at what had transpired in the last few minutes; I was unable to think whether I should fly from this spider’s web or attempt Trevor’s shameless test. My ambitions decided the matter. Since I was still a virgin and had little or no experience in the art of seduction, I would have to use my imagination (of which I had much) and trust my natural instincts. Surely it would be an improvement over being Agatha Kingsley’s maid. I took a swallow of brandy to bolster my spirits and prepared to abandon the moral upbringing of my youth.
Hail Mary, full of grace, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. As I turned my back on Trevor, the familiar rosary repeated itself in my head. Then I pivoted slowly, slid my palms upwards till they rested on my bosom and, hands shaking, began unhooking the fasteners which held my bodice together. Once my cotton camisole with its pink-ribboned laces was revealed, I turned to unfasten the hooks and eyes that held the sleeves of my frock in neat array. It was then an easy matter to wriggle out of the upper half of my clothing. Oh, whatever would Sister Isobel say if she could see me now?
Dallying over the unlacing of my camisole, I planned my next move: to dangle the garment provocatively before Trevor’s eyes, then to drop it into his lap. That evening I was girded with more petticoats than usual, the reason being that wearing them proved more practical than carrying them in my bag. When I left the Kingsley’s, my idea had been never to return although, if I were to fail in my present act, all would be lost. Placing my hands at the back of my waist, I proceeded to unfasten the first of my five petticoats. Each time one dropped to the floor, I stepped gracefully aside and allowed it to flutter onto a heap with my other clothing. The moment soon arrived when there were no more petticoats to remove.
Now I stood before Trevor Vaughn in naught but my long ruffled drawers and immodest camisole and, if the truth be known, I sincerely wished there were some way I could conclude this play other than stripping further. I paused, but Trevor gestured for me to continue. It was the first sign he had made to indicate that he was paying any attention. So began the finale and I soon stood tall before the famous man, cupping the curves of my naked breasts with my hands to prove I was not ashamed of my womanliness. That left only my pantaloons. I untied the tape at my waist. Nude, the candlelight flickering brightness and shadow across my skin, I attempted to hide my flaming bush beneath my hands.
Trevor was sitting up straighter now. He crooked his finger at me. “Well done,” he said, “You might succeed, after all,” As he beckoned, I knelt by his side and held my breath as he stroked me with his tapered fingers, never lingering longer in one area than in another,
“The bed’s yonder,” he said, pointing in the direction of the archway.
Hastily, I gathered up my discarded garments, bundling them in front of me. Once inside the bedroom, concealed by curtains across the doorway and a canopy over the bed, I pulled a high-necked, long-sleeved flannelette nightdress over my head. Hastily I crept beneath the coverlets which were piled high on top of the mattress. I should have been warmed from the food, the wine and my emotional performance but, to my surprise, once I lay prone on the bed, my body shook and shivered as though I had contracted the ague. I wondered how soon Trevor would join me and hold me in his manly arms.
The minutes crept by and, at every creek and groan of the hotel’s walls and joists, I stiffened, alert to the sound of his footsteps which would signal my initiation into womanly maturity. Briefly I surrendered to an overpowering fatigue, but a loud bang brought me back to my present situation. I waited, tossing and turning, trying to imagine what might have delayed him. Finally, unable to keep my eyes open any longer, I succumbed to sleep.
The room was still dark when I awoke in the early hours and, thinking that I was back in the Kingsley household and that it was time to rise and prepare the morning tea, I forced myself to sit up and throw the blanket back. Instantly I recalled my whereabouts and the events which had led me to my present position. I breathed deeply and glanced around the room. Where was Trevor Vaughn? Fearfully I searched beside me in the bed, thinking that he must have joined me after I had fallen asleep. But the bed was empty of any presence on the opposite side. Still tired, I curled up once more and allowed myself the luxury of extra slumber.