Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [160]
Everywhere was the rustle and whisper of fabric, the murmur of voices, every few moments a burst of laughter.
Charlotte turned once on the stairs to look behind her and remember it all, the quickening of the pulse, the overflowing life, the expectancy as if a thousand people all knew that something thrilling was about to happen.
Then Caroline pulled at her arm and obediently she went on up and around the wide balcony towards the Harrimores’ box, where she and Caroline were offered center seats, as guests, between Adah on their left and Kathleen on their right. The two men sat on the outside a little to the rear. It was some fifteen or twenty minutes before the performance was due to begin. Watching others arrive was a great deal of the pleasure of such an event, and of course being seen oneself.
A very handsome woman walked up the aisle beneath them, dressed in shades of fuchsia and palest pink, her black hair piled luxuriantly, her step graceful, but nonetheless a slight swagger. She looked from right to left, smiling a little.
“Who is she?” Charlotte asked quietly.
“I don’t know,” Caroline replied. “She is certainly most striking.”
Kathleen gave a very tiny laugh, and stifled it immediately.
“No one,” Adah answered crisply. “She is no one.” Charlotte was puzzled.
Adah turned to face her, her expression a mixture of amusement and distaste.
“Such persons may pass in front of you, my dear, but you do not see them. To a lady, they are invisible.”
“Oh—oh, I see. She is …”
“Precisely.” Adah waved her arm very slightly towards one of the boxes farther around the tier of the balcony. “On the other hand, or perhaps not. That is Mrs. Langtry—the Jersey Lily.”
Charlotte did not bother to hide her smile. “Has anyone ever seen Mr. Langtry? I’ve never even heard him mentioned.”
“I have,” Adah answered dryly. “But I shall not repeat what was said—poor man.”
She obviously meant it, so Charlotte did not ask. Instead she looked farther around the tier of boxes for other people of interest. It did not take her long to observe that at least half those she watched were turned towards one particular box over on the far side where there was a considerable amount of coming and going, of both men and women. The men especially were dressed in the height of fashion, although what fashion was harder to say. Their hair was far longer than customary, they were clean-shaven, and large, floppy ties overflowed their collars. However, there was an elegance about them, almost a languor, which was quite distinctive.
“Who are they?” Charlotte asked, her interest piqued. “Are they critics?”
“I doubt it,” Devlin replied with a smile. “Actors come frequently very well dressed, but a little more conventionally than that. They are almost certainly members of the aesthete set, very self-consciously artistic of soul, even if not necessarily of output. I am afraid Mr. Gilbert guyed them terribly in his opera Patience. You should see it; it is extremely entertaining, and the music is delightful.”
“I shall, quite definitely.” She smiled back at him cordially, then suddenly remembered what she was here for. She froze, still looking at him. For a moment the situation struck her with all its farcical quality. They were dressed in their very best clothes, he in black dinner suit with gold cuff links, and onyx and mother of pearl studs, she in a gown borrowed from Caroline and retrimmed to be more up to date, but a shade of dark wine which suited her marvelously, and she knew it, deep at the bosom and with only a tiny bustle. They were here as guests of Prosper Harrimore, waiting for the curtain to go up on the stage where the people who had brought them together by virtue of a notorious tragedy were going to play out a comedy of manners, all saying words no one meant, on stage or off it. And all the time she was trying to determine whether he was the person who had murdered and crucified Kingsley Blaine and allowed