Saturday, September 22, 1888
“Seems a little unfair that we had to pay full price to see our own troupe perform,” Everett said as we grabbed a table a few rows back from the audience. Just as he spoke, a man with a glass of beer in each hand bumped into the back of Everett’s chair, a bit of froth sloshing over the rims.
“Not to worry,” I said, my pursed lips curling into a coquettish smile. “We will have plenty of money soon. Think of this as an investment.”
Everett quickly wiped at the bit of beer foam on his shoulder, frowning at the man as he carried on to his table.
The drumroll began, announcing the presence of the first act of the evening.
“The biggest voice in London from the tiniest woman in England,” the announcer roared, “Miss Minerrrrrrrvaaa Bauuuudelaaaaaire.”
The curtains whipped open, revealing Miss Baudelaire in a glittering costume, an oversized collar of emerald and sapphire-hued peacock feathers around her neck and shoulders, a matching fan clutched in one of her small, delicate hands.
A piano that sounded like it desperately needed a touch of maintenance sang out from the side of the stage as Miss Baudelaire launched into her first song—a bawdy tune about a rather buxom pirate woman who, well, enjoyed herself at every port in the West Indies. The audience joyfully sang along, not letting a small thing like not knowing all the lyrics stop them. They went wild as her enormous voice filled the packed room. Her vocal range was truly impressive—vast with a fruity sweetness to it. I would never have guessed that sound would come from her as she spoke quite differently off stage—always even, firm, and authoritative.
As the cheering from the audience calmed slightly, Miss Baudelaire placed her hand on her chest. “Thank you, everyone. We’re going to have so much fun tonight!” The cheers exploded once more, reaching up high into the rafters. “We’ve got your favorite Spaniard and some of his shiny and very, very sharp friends.” A woman a few tables over wolf whistled. “We’ve got the dazzling Jezebella, the most flexible woman this side of Paris.” With her hand on her hip, she winked as she said ‘flexible,’ and strutted the front of the stage, encouraging the audience to take that as innuendo. “And, of course, we’ve got some fantastic new tricks from Magni the Magnificent!”
As the crowd cheered, Miss Baudelaire hurled herself into another go at the chorus of the song she had just finished. By the time she skipped backstage, my ears were ringing from the volume.
My eyes suddenly felt dry as I had forgotten to blink.
I wanted that. I wanted that. I wanted that sound, that excitement, that exaltation, that joy, that admiration. I wanted all of it. I wanted people to love me as much as they loved Minerva Baudelaire and her risqué songs. I wanted people to know my name. I wanted people to be jealous of my immortality.
I looked at Everett, my face warm with the rush of the realization. As Diego and Bella took the stage together, a man slid a glass of wine onto our table, a note tucked neatly underneath.
I held up the note. “Care of Magni the Magnificent,” I whispered, the hall around us having gone very quiet suddenly.
Everett rolled his eyes. “He’s likely never tried wooing a woman without the assistance of liquor.”
On stage, Bella stood against a wooden board in various poses while Diego, his back turned to her, flung knives at her, using only a small mirror to aim and, hopefully, not injure or kill her. He took his time between throws to build the audience’s anticipation, and each time he threw the crowd gasped and then cheered as the knife whipped by Bella’s limbs, striking the board with a sickening thud. She seemed so comfortable up on that stage, not even flinching as knives flew by her bare arms.
Bella took a bow and disappeared backstage as Diego began juggling three knives, then four, then five, the gas lights of the music hall glinting off the smooth metal blades. I had never seen Diego shirtless before, so I had no idea his torso was almost completely covered with tattoos, even some poking out from over the top of his striped trousers. As he wrapped up his act a large hoop lowered from the ceiling, and Bella returned to the stage in her acrobat costume. Before the hoop reached the floor, whoops and excited shouts began, soon joined by a brisk melody on the nearby piano.
Her blonde curls were pinned in a tight bun behind her head, and white stockings covered her strong, defined legs. Her costume was a formfitting frilly thing that only covered her torso, shimmery silver fringe framing the curve of her hips and waist. Although she was petite and young-looking in everyday dress, the costume especially accentuated her perfect hourglass figure. Sheathed in silk slippers, her tiny feet skipped lightly across the stage as she flung herself through the hoop, somersaulting to the edge of the stage before walking on her hands, her dainty toes pointed in the air above her. The audience loved that. She hurled herself onto the hoop, climbing up it and hanging from it using only the muscles in her thighs. She crossed her arms while hanging in the air like that and yawned, making the audience laugh. She hung from it, swung from it, and climbed over it in every possible way. When no one was expecting it, the hoop raised higher off the stage and Bella dangled from it by only her ankles. Finally, she flung herself off the hoop, cartwheeled across the stage and posed on the floor—her big finish. She bowed low as the hoop disappeared into the rafters.
Magni made his grand entrance onto the stage next, his eyes looking like balls of ice framed by dark makeup. He plucked his tall top hat off and pulled several silk scarves from within it, ending with a colorful pile of them on the floor of the stage. Finally, at the bottom of the hat, he located a deck of cards, and put his top hat back on.
“You there, the lovely lady in the blue dress,” he said to a woman at a table near the front. “Would you care to pick a card from the deck? You can shuffle them first if you wish before you pick one, doesn’t matter. Memorize the card, show it to anyone around you, and then put it back in the deck.”
She did as he asked, and he made a show of shuffling the cards between his hands, sending the cards in a high arc between his hands. He did a few more card shuffling tricks before sitting at the edge of the stage, his legs dangling off the side. He lifted his top hat from his head and plucked a single card from inside his hat, holding it up for the woman in the blue dress.
“That’s my card!” she shrieked.
The audience cheered and Magni hopped to his feet again, performing several more card tricks in quick succession and a few sleight of hand illusions.
I did not manage to see all of these because I was too busy watching Everett. His eyes were locked onto the face of a man sitting at a nearby table. I could only see him from profile—a thick-necked, broad-shouldered laborer type. His beefy torso hardly fit inside his shirt. He and his friends at his table cheered and pointed as Magni continued his act.
The man must have felt himself being watched and he eventually turned to see Everett. He blinked a few times, wincing, before he smiled wide. He immediately left his seat and advanced on our table, ignoring the calls from behind us for him to get out of the way of the stage. Not only was he well-muscled, he was also especially tall.
He grabbed Everett’s hand, pulling him up out of his chair and embracing him heartily. “Everett! How are you? It’s been too long!”
Everett looked far less thrilled about seeing this behemoth of a man. “Hi, it’s nice to see you.”
Finally noticing the persistent and vexed yells from around us, he crouched down by our table.
“I never thought I’d see you in a music hall again,” he said. “I thought you had left England, old boy.”
Everett shrugged. “Didn’t quite make it.” He looked at me. “Mrs. Pringle, this is my cousin, Neil. We grew up together. Neil, this is my—” he hesitated “—friend, Mrs. Pringle.” He gestured to the stage. “We’ve recently joined Minerva’s Marvels. Mrs. Pringle is a spiritualist.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, missus.” He looked back at Everett with a knowing smirk before turning back to me. “Are you performin’ tonight?”
I had only been allowed to perform two séances at The Hemlock so far. Miss Baudelaire had not given any hints at when I may be allowed on a stage, but I was getting anxious.
“Not this evening,” I said.
As the two of them chatted quietly together, I looked back to the stage as Magni performed what was likely his final trick of the evening: displaying an empty box to the audience, saying a few specially chosen phrases, and then opening the box to reveal Miss Baudelaire inside. Miss Baudelaire’s final song was just as indelicate as her first but this one was about a man from Bethnal Green who finds out his wife made him a cuckold and gave him a most unfortunate rash. The lyrics were full of innuendo and Miss Baudelaire played up every pun with a wink and a jut of the hip. The audience laughed like they had never heard anything so hilarious. She gave a deep curtsy and the crowd were on their feet, shouting and asking for an encore. Like the professional she was, Miss Baudelaire gave her fans what they begged for, retaking the stage with a smile.
As we walked back to The Hemlock after the performance, the cool night air felt refreshing on my skin and the subtle breeze reminded me that autumn would be arriving soon. Minerva, Bella, Magni, and Diego had taken advantage of the free drinks provided by the music hall and were singing a jolly tune on their way to a pub.
I looked up at Everett, strolling beside me. “Did you say Neil is your cousin?”
“Yes.”
“Were you close growing up?”
“Like brothers.”
“Really? You have never mentioned him.”
“You never asked.”
He was right. Still, I did not like being reminded of what a useless friend I was to him.
“I suppose I haven’t,” I said.
I heard Everett let out a quiet, tired sigh. “His father was my father’s brother.”
“Oh,” I said. “The cruel one?”
“Yes, that one.”
“Was he kind to Neil?”
“The only person Henry Rigby was ever kind to was a barkeep or perhaps the proprietor of a gin palace or anyone who handed him a bottle, really.”
When I was silent for a moment, Everett went on.
“He managed a couple music halls and small theaters. I grew up learning how all the pieces fit together, how to repair costumes and do lighting tricks and mend props. A few performers taught me how to do different speaking styles and it turned out I had a knack for mimicry.”
“I am quite familiar with your talent for voices.”
“Indeed.”
“You still use that voice though, for the most part,” I said. “You know you do not have to anymore—”
“I do have to,” he cut in. “I feel powerless without it.”
We were both silent for a moment.
“How long ago did your uncle die?”
“He lived by the bottle,” he said, staring straight ahead as he walked, “and then died by the bottle when I was fourteen.”
I caught myself staring at his sad eyes, unable to look away from them. The life he had lived was so different from mine and yet, there we were, thrown together by the fates. He looked down at me and his stern gaze softened. I wanted to take his hand in mine, slip my fingers between his, and tell him he would never again be under the thumb of another unkind man.
Before I could, Magni yelled over his shoulder, “Mrs. Pringle, you are coming with us, right?”
I could not help but notice the invite was only directed at me and not for both Everett and I.
“Oh,” I said, startled by the invitation. “No, that is a generous offer—”
Miss Baudelaire, her cheeks rosy, stopped and turned around. “Minerva’s Marvels are going to a pub tonight. Are you or are you not one of Minerva’s Marvels?”
I exchanged a look with Everett. He gave an encouraging nod. I had hoped he would not want me to go. I did not wish to part from him just then.
“Yes, I am one of Minerva’s Marvels,” I said brightly, skipping ahead to take Diego’s arm.
The five of us turned and I looked back at Everett, his hands in his pockets, walking alone back to The Hemlock.