The Glittering Lights (Bantam Series No. 12) Read online

  “I suppose the theatre management thinks the expense a good advertisement,” Cassandra remarked. “But where does she buy them?”

  “Most of her clothes come from Worth or Doucet in Paris, but Redfern of Conduit Street, where the Princess of Wales shops, makes some of them.”

  “I have often been to Redfern,” Cassandra murmured, but her Aunt was not listening.

  “Have you heard the story that Alfred de Rothschild said he would give her a dress from Doucet, and Mrs. Langtry ordered an extra petticoat with it? When the bill came he sent it on to her, saying he had offered her one dress but no more.”

  Cassandra laughed. She did not like to show her ignorance by revealing that she thought it very strange that Mrs. Langtry should allow a man to give her a gown.

  “She must be the envy of every other leading lady,” she remarked. “Where do they purchase their gowns?”

  “In ordinary and much cheaper shops,” Lady Fladbury replied, “and you may be quite sure they resent it. At the same time, I am told that Chasemore has done a wonderful job for George Edwards at the Gaiety. I have not seen the new show, but it caused a lot of comment that he gave them the chance to dress his new production.”

  Cassandra had found out what she wished to know.

  “I must go, Aunt Eleanor,” she said. “I am keeping the horses waiting, and you know how much Papa dislikes my doing that!”

  It was an excuse to which there was no reply, and Cassandra got away while she could to find Hannah waiting for her in the hall.

  Cassandra gave the footman an address and they set off down Piccadilly.

  It was a cold, blustery day, and she was glad of the warmth from her fur-trimmed jacket.

  “Where are we going, Miss Cassandra?” Hannah enquired.

  “Shopping,” Cassandra answered, “and do not be surprised, Hannah, at anything I buy. This is the beginning of the adventure about which I warned you.”

  In spite of the warning, however, Hannah was extremely surprised and said so in no uncertain terms when during the morning Cassandra purchased clothes of which the maid told her a dozen times her mother would not approve.

  “You must have gone out of your mind, Miss Cassandra!” she said in horrified tones when the vendeuse had left the Dressing-Room to fetch a seamstress to alter one of the gowns.

  There was no doubt the dress Cassandra was trying on was very different from the beautiful gowns she had previously worn.

  They had been elaborate and many of them had had a decided Parisian chic about them. But what she was wearing now was glitteringly spectacular and accentuated her flamboyant red hair and dark-fringed eyes. It was also very theatrical.

  “For goodness’ sake, Miss Cassandra, why are you wasting your money on this trash?” Hannah asked.

  “I have my reasons,” Cassandra answered enigmatically. “What do I look like, Hannah? Tell me the truth!”

  “You look like something off the Music Hall, and what your father would say about you dolled up like some fast hussy from behind the footlights, I don’t know.”

  “Thank you, Hannah, that is exactly what I wanted to hear,” Cassandra answered.

  She paid no attention to Hannah’s protests and went on ordering, to the delight of the saleswoman.

  “We made some really attractive gowns for Miss Sylvia Grey,” the woman volunteered.

  “She is in ‘Little Jack Shepherd’ at the Gaiety,” Cassandra remarked.

  “Yes, and one of her gowns, not unlike the one you have on, Madam, was written up in several of the newspapers. But it is Miss Nelly Farran who gets the applause. She really pays for dressing, and she herself said she had never worn clothes which made her look better.”

  The woman recommended a milliner who had provided the bonnets for the leading ladies of ‘Little Jack Shepherd,’ and Cassandra bought shoes and handbags to match each outfit.

  Finally Hannah announced it was long after her luncheon time.

  “And you’ll be fainting on my hands if you don’t have something to eat soon, Miss Cassandra,” she said sharply. “Come along, now. You’ve wasted enough money and a real waste it is too! I can’t see you wearing one of those vulgar garments, and that’s a fact.”

  “You will be surprised, Hannah!” Cassandra answered.

  She took one of the gowns and an evening wrap with her, and arranged for her other purchases to be delivered if not that evening, first thing the following morning.

  Then she stopped the carriage at a shop called Clarksons.

  Hannah looked up in disgust and exclaimed:

  “Theatrical wig-makers! You’re never going to buy a wig, Miss Cassandra! If you do, I’ll go straight back to Yorkshire and you’ll not stop me.”

  “No, I want something quite different,” Cassandra answered, “and you need not come in with me, Hannah. I can manage quite well by myself.”

  She went into the shop and found just inside the door there was a counter on which were displayed the grease-paint, lip-salves, powders and paints which were required by actors and actresses.

  Such things were not obtainable in any of the shops she usually patronised.

  She made several purchases and went back to the carriage.

  “I want to know what’s going on!” Hannah said. “If you want my help, Miss Cassandra, you’ll have to tell me the truth.”

  Cassandra was as yet unwilling to reveal her secret plans even to Hannah.

  She fobbed the maid off with excuses until finally they arrived back at Park Lane.

  Lady Fladbury was not particularly interested in what her niece had been doing during the morning. She had more bits of gossip she wished to relate to Cassandra, and she chattered away all through luncheon hardly giving her time to reply.

  “Are you never bored, Aunt Eleanor, living here alone most of the time?”

  Cassandra could not help thinking that Lady Fladbury must be lonely—otherwise she would not be so vivaciously voluble when she had an audience.

  “I have never been happier in my life!” her Aunt replied with all sincerity. “The truth is, Cassandra, I have never in the past had a moment to think about myself. My husband was a very demanding man, and my children, before they grew up and married, were always expecting me to do what they wanted—never what I wanted to do myself.”

  She laughed.

  “It is the lot of all women! Sometimes I remember that someone once said: ‘The best thing in life is to be born a widow and an orphan.’ I think they were right!”

  She smiled and added:

  “Of course they meant a wealthy widow and orphan!”

  “So you are now in that position,” Cassandra remarked.

  “I am not wealthy, but, thanks to your father, I am comfortable. I have a great many friends in London and as long as I can sit down at a Bridge table, then there is no more contented woman than I am.”

  “I am so glad, Aunt Eleanor.”

  “I suppose if I were a good Chaperon,” Lady Fladbury went on, “I should be making enquiries as to why you are so busy, but I am not going to ask any questions.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Eleanor,” Cassandra smiled.

  “All I ask is that you do not get me into trouble with your father.”

  “What the eye does not see, the heart does not grieve over,” Cassandra quoted.

  Then she rose from the Dining-Room table and kissed her Aunt.

  “You have always been very kind to me, Aunt Eleanor, and I am grateful.”

  “You are up to something, I know that!” Lady Fladbury laughed. “Run along with you! Everyone likes to keep their own secrets. I have three friends waiting for me at a green-baize table who will keep me occupied until it is dinner time.”

  To Hannah’s mystification, Cassandra drove not to the shops but to a House-Agent’s just off St. James’s Street.

  “What are we stopping here for?” the maid enquired.

  “You wait in the carriage,” Cassandra said and disappeared before Hannah could say any
more.

  An Agent in a smart frock-coat was suitably impressed by Cassandra’s appearance and her expensive fur-trimmed jacket.

  “I am looking for a flat or apartment for a friend of mine,” she explained. “She is on the stage.”

  “On the stage, Madam?” the Agent exclaimed in astonishment.

  Cassandra knew that he thought it almost inconceivable that someone who looked like her should be connected with a woman in such a disreputable profession.

  “She is a leading lady,” Cassandra explained sweetly, “and the same type of person as Mrs. Langtry. She therefore wants to live somewhere in the West End so that she will be near the theatre, but it must not be, you understand, in a building with a bad reputation.”

  “No, of course not!” the Estate Agent said in shocked tones. “But you’ll appreciate, Madam, it is not every landlord who’ll accept actors and actresses.”

  “Presumably because they do not always pay their bills,” Cassandra said with a little smile. “But let me set your mind at rest. My friend has asked me to put down two months’ rent in advance. That should annul any landlord’s fears that financially he might be out of pocket.”

  “Yes, yes of course,” the Agent agreed. “It’ll make things very much easier.”

  He opened a large Ledger and looked through it with a little frown on his forehead.

  Cassandra was quite certain that he was feeling embarrassed because he had so little to offer.

  “You will understand,” he said after a moment, “that we do not as a rule keep on our books the type of flat or lodgings which are patronised by your friend’s profession.”

  “I understand,” Cassandra said quietly, “but I remember hearing that at one time Mrs. Langtry had a flat in the Albany. Is there nothing available there?”

  “I’m afraid not,” the Agent replied, “but there’s a flat in Bury Street. I don’t know whether it would be suitable. The first floor flat was at one time occupied by Miss Kate Vaughan before she married.”

  “At least she is respectable now!” Cassandra exclaimed. “Her husband, I understand, is the nephew of the Duke of Wellington.”

  “Yes, Madam,” the Agent answered, “and even when she was on the stage, Miss Vaughan would have been acceptable to most landlords.”

  “I am glad to hear that,” Cassandra said. “I would not like my friend to feel uncomfortable when she comes to London or believe that she is unwelcome.”

  “I’m sure we will find her something which she’ll like,” the Agent said. “What about this flat in Bury Street?”

  “You have the particulars?”

  He consulted his Ledger.

  “It has two bed-rooms, a sitting-room and a small kitchen.”

  “That sounds as if it would do,” Cassandra said.

  “It also was occupied at one time by someone of importance in the theatrical world,” the Agent revealed. “And so the furnishings should be to your friend’s taste.”

  “I should like to see the flat,” Cassandra replied.

  She and Hannah drove in the carriage to Bury Street while the Agent hurried after them on foot.

  It was only a short distance and Cassandra stared up at the high building. Then having instructed Hannah to say nothing in front of the man, they climbed the staircase to the second floor.

  Panting a little because he had been obliged to run in an effort to keep up with the horses, the Agent opened the door and ushered them into the flat.

  It was with difficulty that Cassandra prevented herself from laughing.

  It was in fact more gaudy and more theatrical than she could possibly have imagined.

  The furniture was quite substantial but in poor taste. The sofas and chairs were upholstered in a vivid blue brocade and heaped with frilly pink cushions—most of them embroidered with beads or coloured silks.

  Pictures of every sort and description smothered the walls, many of them cheap oleographs of Rome and Italy.

  There were some photographs of actresses and a few actors. There were half a dozen framed posters and as they all starred a certain well-known Music-Hall personality, it was not difficult to guess the name of the flat’s previous occupant.

  “Where is the owner?” Cassandra asked the Estate Agent.

  “As a matter of fact, Madam, she is in Australia,” he replied. “She is on tour, it is her—friend—” he coughed apologetically, “who has asked me to find a tenant while she is away.”

  The bed-room was even more fantastic than the sitting-room.

  Here the curtains were of sugar-pink, and held up at the corners of the palmettes with over-gilt angels.

  The brass bed-stead was draped with material of the same colour, hanging from a half-tester decorated with artificial flowers.

  There were bows, frills, fringes and tassels everywhere one looked, and the walls were almost completely covered with mirrors.

  “The owner must be very fond of her own face,” Cassandra remarked innocently.

  She did not see the glint of amusement in the Agent’s eyes.

  “I will take the flat,” Cassandra went on and tried not to laugh at Hannah’s horrified and disgusted expression.

  She paid two months’ rent in advance as she had promised, and giving her friend’s name as “Miss Standish” she took possession of the key.

  A porter informed her that his wife would be willing to clean the flat on an hourly basis.

  “Her has to stay longer, Ma’am, if the place is in a mess,” he said frankly.

  “I understand,” Cassandra replied, “and my friend will be quite willing to pay by the hour.”

  “Will your friend, Madam, be moving in immediately?” the Agent asked.

  “She should be arriving from the North this evening,” Cassandra replied, “but if not, she will certainly be here tomorrow. I am so grateful to you for finding her somewhere to stay. She has a great dislike of Hotels.”

  “I quite understand that,” the Agent said sympathetically.

  He was delighted at having got the flat off his hands. He would never have sunk to putting anything so garish on his books, if the “friend” of the lady who had lived there had not been of social importance.

  Cassandra bade him good-bye and then drove back towards Park Lane listening to a storm of protest from Hannah’s lips.

  “Now what’s all this about, Miss Cassandra? I’ve never seen such a horrible place! It’s not fit for someone like yourself even to enter, let alone to be living in!”

  “It is for my theatrical friend “ Cassandra answered.

  “And who might she be?” Hannah asked. “You’ve never had any friends who are on the stage to my knowledge, and anyway the Master wouldn’t allow it. You know that as well as I do.”

  “Her name is Sandra Standish,” Cassandra answered.

  “Sandra?” Hannah said suspiciously. “That’s what the Master sometimes calls you.”

  “Yes, I know,” Cassandra answered, “and that is why I have used it for my second self. It is difficult to answer to a Christian name you do not remember.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?” Hannah enquired sternly.

  “That I am going to act a part,” Cassandra answered. “Do not look so shocked, Hannah, I am not going on the stage. I shall play the part of a young and talented actress.”

  “An actress!” Hannah exclaimed in tones of horror.

  “I only hope I am good enough to get away with it,” Cassandra said.

  “The only thing you’ll get yourself into is a lot of trouble,” Hannah said menacingly. “You’re not going to stay in that ghastly place?”

  “No, but I have to have an address,” Cassandra answered, “and you are going to wait there for me, Hannah, in the evening. That is, if anyone takes me out.”

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” Hannah said angrily. “All I know, Miss Cassandra, is that you’re buying yourself a heap of trouble and no good will come of it, you mark my words!”

  “I am markin
g them,” Cassandra assured her.

  At the same time she prayed that Hannah was wrong and that her plan would not fail.

  The Stage-door keeper of The Prince’s Theatre looked up in surprise when, at 7:30 p.m., a lady dressed in what seemed to him to be the height of fashion appeared at the glass window behind which he habitually sat.

  “What d’you want?” he asked suspiciously.

  He was an old man who had been at The Prince’s for over twenty-five years and was known amongst the cast as “Old Growler.”

  “I would like to see Mrs. Langtry.”

  “Well, you can’t,” he answered. “She sees no-one until after the performance, and then not many of ‘em can get in.”

  “I am sure she is very popular,” the lady replied, “and that is why I wish to see her now.”

  “I told you. She don’t see no-one at this time.”

  Cassandra put the letter down in front of him and laid on top of it a sovereign.

  ‘Will you tell Mrs. Langtry that I have something very valuable to give her,” she said, “and I cannot entrust it to anyone else, not even you.”

  “Old Growler” stared at the sovereign. There was a greedy look in his eyes.

  He was used to tips from the top-hatted gentlemen who called after the performance, but it was not often the feminine sex was so generous.

  ‘I’ll see wot I can do,” he said at length grudgingly, and pocketed the sovereign with a swiftness which came from long practice.

  He picked up the note and Cassandra heard his footsteps echoing on the flagged floor as he went along a narrow passage and disappeared up a winding iron staircase.

  She waited thinking that this was the first time she had ever been backstage and realised how unattractive it was. The walls had been written on in pencil and it must have been years since they had been painted.

  There was the smell of dirt, dust and grease-paint and it was also extremely cold. Cassandra pulled her velvet wrap closer around her shoulders.

  She wished she could have worn one of her furs, but she felt it would have seemed too extravagant for someone who was not a name in the theatre world.

  She waited impatiently.