Chapter 33

The theatre was alive with activity, the atmosphere so full of energy and excitement that Victoria felt as though it sank to her very core. It was in rare moments like this that she felt she really might find happiness living in the theatre with the troupe as her only family. After all, it was clear that love was too much to hope for. It had been three weeks since she left Thomas and her stepmother in the past where they belonged.

Victoria herself was seated behind the stage in her favoured spot for writing. She tried not to think of the times when Thomas had joined her there. Victoria took a steadying breath and forced herself to focus on the red gown in her hands.

She had agreed to help embellish the garment and was carefully sewing the gilded lace along the bodice and sleeves. The lace would catch the flickering candlelight and would look magnificent on the stage.

Loralie joined her. "That looks lovely."

"It does," she said. "It will look beautiful on you."

Everything about the gown spoke of a loud, flamboyant lady—a woman rake—and the colour was fittingly bold. When Loralie took the stage as Lady Constance, surrounded by all the other actresses in white and pale pink, Victoria doubted that anyone in the audience would be able to keep their eyes from lingering on the beautiful actress.

They lapsed into silence, Victoria still sewing the lace. Loralie idly reread the script; those poor papers were crumbled and covered in so much ink that they were almost unreadable in places. Loralie was a notorious abuser of scripts. "I will give the best performance of my life for you," Loralie said suddenly, breaking the silence between them.

Victoria laughed. "You have never given anything less than your best performance, Loralie, so I am forced to imagine that you will do as well as you always have."

"Some of my performances are better than others," Loralie informed her. "The quality depends on if I like the playwright or not."

Victoria strongly suspected that was untrue. Loralie had too much pride to give a half-hearted performance, even if it was for a playwright she did not particularly like. Victoria had seen her friend take some truly atrocious writing and turn it into glamorous performances.

"Thank you, though," Victoria said. "It means a great deal that I have the support of someone as loyal and talented as you. Truly."

Loralie squeezed Victoria's shoulder. "You deserve a dozen more of me."

Victoria laughed. "If there were a dozen of you, we would have the most famous theatre in all the world!"

"Or not," Loralie replied. "People might become so accustomed to my performances that they cease to notice how truly talented I am."

"Never!"

Loralie smiled. "It will be the most magnificent opening we have ever seen at this theatre, and it will be because of your words rather than my performance. You are going to be the most sought-after playwright in all of London after this."

"You do realize that we are only anticipating an audience of ten next weekend, right?" Victoria asked. "We still have a long way to go."

The performance next weekend would be held only for the benefit of the theatre's patrons, those men and women who paid for the troupe and the theatre. They would be the ones who decided if Victoria's play would ever see more than one small performance. Victoria tried not to think too much about what would happen if she displeased their patrons.

Possibly they would only wish her to make some small changes to the play's content. That would not be so terrible, and from what Victoria had heard, that was the likeliest response that her work would receive. Jonathan had written a couple of plays before finding that his true passion was in acting, and she had known several playwrights.

"Patrons always want to feel as though they have some power over the production," he had explained. "Most of the time, they will want to make changes to the script because it makes them feel important. Do not be insulted if they make a similar request of you."

Victoria had nodded, accepting the words with an inkling of doubt. Despite what Jonathan said, she suspected that she would take it personally, indeed, if the theatre's patrons all wished to make substantial changes to her play. Changes would mean there would still be future performances, but Victoria could not decide if that was or was not preferable to not having her play seen at all. What if the patrons all wanted changes that did not align with her own values or artistic vision?

And how could Victoria possibly tell the theatre troupe that she was refusing to make changes? These were her friends and her new family, and they needed to perform plays. They would not be paid otherwise. How could she deprive them of their livelihood?

The worst possibility was that the patrons would not like her play at all, which would mean it would never be seen again.

"Victoria," Loralie said softly. "You look worried. If you are thinking about showing the play—"

"I am," Victoria interrupted. "How can I not? I know I have your encouragement and that of everyone else's, but … but this is my first play. I cannot help feeling as though it will be rejected, and if it is, that will be proof that I am not meant to—to be a part of all this."

Victoria gestured vaguely to the theatre around them.

"You are meant to be a part of all this," Loralie said. "The patrons will love your play. I promise."

"You cannot possibly know that."

Loralie sighed. "All right," she said. "You are right. I cannot know for certain. Let us think about this, though. The worst thing that might happen is that those patrons are exceedingly lacking in aesthetic taste and do not recognize your play for the brilliant piece that it is."

Victoria's lips quirked into a small smile. "You are indomitable."

"It is my best trait," Loralie countered. "If they do not like the play, that will indicate one opinion during one moment in time. It will not mean that you are a failure as a playwright or a person. And you will always be welcome here. I have told you that before. We all have, and we will tell you that a dozen more times if we must. That is because it is true, Victoria."

"But if I am not to be a playwright," Victoria said, "what could I possibly do here? I would not wish to burden the troupe."

"You would do this," Loralie said, gesturing to the gown. "You can work with the costumes or the sets. You can make changes to the scripts. We will find something for you to do, Victoria. You will never be a burden to us."

Victoria let out a low breath of air. She wanted to believe Loralie, but it was so difficult. When she thought of her own place in the theatre, she thought about her stepmother. Since leaving, Victoria had found too much time to think about her stepmother, and she wondered if her stepmother had thought of her as a burden. It seemed to be the only reasonable justification for her treating Victoria so poorly.

It was irrational for her to worry about being a burden to the theatre troupe. They loved her and had said so on numerous occasions, but Victoria still could not quite make herself believe that she would never be a burden to them. She wanted to contribute—no, needed to contribute. She needed to prove herself worthy of all their love and devotion.

"We will never abandon you, Victoria," Loralie said. "That is not what family is supposed to do. Even if the whole world is against you, we will still be there."

"I believe that. I think," Victoria said. "But should you be?"

"Of course."

Victoria turned to the lace, almost absentmindedly sewing it onto the edge of the garment. It reminded her a little of mending. She had sometimes liked that task. There was a sort of beauty in making tiny, methodical stitches and seeing torn fabric brought together once again.

"The performance will go well," Loralie said. "You are the only one of us who doubts it. Even Charles has said so, and you know he is a man who always says exactly what he is thinking. If he had any doubts about your play, he would have expressed them already. He would have never agreed to this performance if he were not entirely sure of your success."

Victoria felt some of the tension leave her shoulders. That was true. Charles had decades of experience overseeing productions at a half-dozen theatres throughout London. He knew what audiences expected and how to charm patrons, and he would never knowingly put her in a position where she might fail.

"You make all my worries sound so ridiculous," Victoria said.

Loralie laughed. "That is because they are. Your writing is excellent, and you have all our support. What more could you ask for?"

What, indeed? Thomas seemed to loom like a spectre in her mind's eye. His betrayal still hurt, so it seemed to Victoria as if she should no longer desire him. Her heart's desires were, alas, not so simple.

In quiet moments, especially during the night, she thought about him. She remembered the strength of his hands, stroking and holding her. She remembered his fingers between her legs, always accompanied by a mingling of heat and desire in her core.

"Nothing," Victoria replied, forcing a smile. "I could ask for nothing more."

Loralie furrowed her brow. She seemed to realize that something about her words had upset Victoria. It really was remarkable how observant Loralie was. If she had not found a successful occupation as an actress, Victoria suspected that her friend would have made an excellent Rum Street runner.

"I would understand if you were still upset about Lord Bedford," Loralie said, seeming to choose her words carefully. "I still think that you ought to speak with him. He has come by a few times, asking for you."

Victoria sighed. After leaving home, she had told herself that she would speak to Thomas if he came to the theatre. He had, and when Loralie came to Victoria, telling her of the lord's request, Victoria had refused to speak with him. She had requested that the theatre troupe keep her presence a secret.

"I suppose I am vexing you all," Victoria said wryly. "I want to complain about how I have lost love and how miserable I am, but when the man himself arrives to speak to me, I refuse him."

"You are not vexing," Loralie said. "I understand your reasons for refusing him. If I had such a fortune as you, I suppose that I would also question a man's motivations for wishing to speak to me after keeping such a secret from me. You do not wish to be hurt or betrayed again by him."

Victoria slowly nodded. "Yes."

"But I do wonder if you are being too unkind to yourself. Let us suppose that he is truly apologetic or that he truly did have no ill intentions in hiding what he did," Loralie said. "If you do not speak to him, you will never know, and I wonder if never knowing what love might have bloomed between the two of you will prove to be worse than knowing nothing ever would have happened."

Victoria finished sewing the lace and held up the gown, admiring how the gilded lace caught the light. It was just as lovely as she had imagined. "What do you think?"

"You are avoiding the question," Loralie said.

Victoria chuckled. "Yes," she said. "Because I do not know the answer and do not wish to think about it. Not yet."

Deep down, Victoria suspected that Loralie was entirely right, but the potential for being hurt by Thomas again was just too great.