Sunrise Surrender--Jarrett Family Sagas--Book Three Page 4

  “What is that she’s singing?” Delta asked Zanna.

  “‘The Fatal Rose of Red,’” Zanna responded.

  A man and woman stood a few feet behind the petite songstress, squared off as if in battle.

  “No, no, no,” the woman was saying. “I said position three, Explosion, not position two. That’s Gentle Animation.”

  The man dropped his hands, immediately drawing criticism from his coach.

  “Extend your arms,” the woman encouraged. “Fully. Fully.”

  The man complied.

  “Step forward on your right foot.”

  Again the man complied, his mouth twisted in an expression of disgust.

  “Drop to your left knee,” the woman instructed.

  The man knelt, but in doing so, he dropped his hands.

  “No, no, no,” the woman wailed, at which the man jumped to his feet and stomped off the stage.

  “What are they doing?” Delta asked Zanna.

  “That’s Iona and her husband Frankie,” the artistic director explained. “Iona is forever pressing the positions of elocution on the cast. As you can see Frankie doesn’t take well to her instructions.”

  Nearer the front of the stage, opposite the tearful songstress, a tall dark-headed gentleman faced another portion of the empty salon, but instead of singing, he was declaiming:

  It was the schooner Hesperus,

  That sailed the wintry sea;

  And the skipper had taken his little daughter,

  To bear him company.

  Zanna sighed audibly. “When I told Albert to prepare something from Longfellow,” she observed, “I intended him to choose a passage from Evangeline. Don’t you agree Evangeline would be appropriate since we’re on our way to the bayous of Louisiana?”

  Delta laughed. “Definitely more appropriate than a poem about a shipwreck.”

  Zanna looked suddenly wary. “Don’t get the wrong idea. It isn’t as bad as it looks. We’re in the process of changing our production to fit Southern audiences.”

  At Delta’s curious expression, Zanna explained. “Since the war, some topics must be avoided. For example, we’re replacing our treatise on government, with a monologue Albert calls, ‘Superstitions of Aboriginal People of the American West.’

  Suddenly a young man emerged from behind a stack of tables, jumped off the stage, and headed down the aisle toward them.

  “I’m quitting if you don’t find a way to cut off that water pump,” he stormed. “I refuse to play a love scene opposite a bawling woman.”

  Delta stared at the almost-too-handsome actor who looked near her own age. His light hair glistened with hair oil; not a stand was out of place. His shirt was fresh, his trousers creased, and his necktie neatly tied. His hazel eyes, set beneath heavy, symmetrically arched brows, focused exclusively on Zanna.

  “I’ll speak to Elyse, Nat,” Zanna assured him. “Here, meet Delta Jarrett. She’s the journalist Captain Kaney told us about.”

  Nat turned to Delta with a terse, “How do you do.” Instantly his eyes widened, his manner eased, and his tone changed from one of dismissal to definite appreciation. “A pleasure I’m sure, Miss Jarrett.” He offered his arm, which she took after a questioning glance to Zanna.

  “Nathan Thomas, our leading man,” Zanna said, by way of introduction trailing the two of them down the aisle to the front of the salon.

  “Please don’t misunderstand, Miss Jarrett,” Nat explained, staring at Delta with such a suggestive leer she had trouble keeping a straight face. “It isn’t my technique that causes Elyse to cry during the love scene.”

  Delta laughed. Although, as a rule, conceited men bored her, something about Nat was refreshing. With his boyish good looks and wry smile he looked more like a little boy playing dress-up than like a man out to seduce a woman.

  “May I quote you?” she asked.

  He waggled his eyebrows. “You needn’t take my word. I’ll be happy to furnish you with all the research you need.”

  “Nat,” Zanna broke in. “Get on stage, so we can run through the melodrama. You may feel like sowing wild oats, but my feet hurt.”

  Nat shrugged good-naturedly, waggling his perfect eyebrows at Delta, “Later?”

  She grinned, noncommittal, and tried to listen while Zanna introduced the rest of the cast.

  “Frankie and Iona,” she indicated the two at the rear who had ceased their arguing, but obviously had not resolved the dispute. “Don’t worry about their spats,” Zanna whispered. “They have at least three a day, on good days. Iona got the upper hand this time, but their arguments are usually over whether Iona will perform a double flip. Frankie usually wins, even though Iona hates to do them.”

  “They’re acrobats?” Delta asked.

  “Dancers, but we try to liven up the production whenever possible. We all double around here.” She nodded toward the songstress, who by now had finished her song, or given up, Delta suspected, and was fussing with the bow at her waist. “That’s Elyse, our leading lady.”

  “She looks awfully young.”

  “Sixteen. That’s about average. Audiences like the innocent nature of younger girls, but of course it’s harder on me. I end up playing mother.”

  “Why was she crying?”

  “Who knows?” Zanna turned palms toward the ceiling. “Nat was right. She cries at the drop of a pin. But she has the sweetest voice this side of heaven. Men love her, and women aren’t threatened by her. She’s perfect for the family-oriented shows Captain Kaney wants.”

  The middle-aged man who had been declaiming when Delta entered the salon, came forward. Bowing over the edge of the stage, he greeted Delta with, “And I, Miss Jarrett, am Albert Renier, the villain.”

  “Don’t let him fool you,” Zanna warned. “He’s really a pussycat.”

  Delighted, Delta shook his hand, laughing at the obvious truth in Zanna’s comment. For a villain the man had the loveliest black eyes, soft and kind. Unlike those other black eyes—

  “Never fear, Miss Jarrett,” Albert assured her. “When I comb my hair into a V over my forehead and feather my brows upwards, I can frighten the bloomers off the most innocent ingénue.” Speaking, he raked his hair forward with long fingers, narrowed his eyes, and elicited another laugh from Delta.

  “You can take notes while we rehearse,” Zanna suggested, before calling the cast to attention. “Afterwards we’ll answer your questions.”

  Seated at a table on the front row, Delta tried to concentrate on the melodrama unfolding before her. From the little she had learned so far, the cast of the Princess Players could furnish enough material for articles for the entire journey.

  Why did Elyse cry so much? Why was Nat stuck on himself? Why did Frankie and Iona fight three times a day? Why was the villain softhearted, and did it have anything to do with the artistic director?

  Yes, Delta mused, the Princess Players would make interesting subjects, even before she examined their acting credits.

  After Zanna walked the actors through their steps, she returned to sit beside Delta.

  “Our little drama is called The Saga of Judge Noah Peale,” she explained. “We considered performing one of the original showboat dramas, such as The Drunkard or The Lying Valet, but decided to try something related to the West. Maybe something fresh will take folks’ minds off the aftermath of the war. Our first performance will be tomorrow at Cape Girardeau.”

  A few moments later Zanna turned to Delta, a tentative expression on her face. “Are you an artist?”

  “I draw a little, but—”

  Zanna’s smile lit up her face. “I knew the gods were smiling on us the moment I saw your lovely face.”

  “I’m not an artist, Zanna.”

  But Zanna would hear none of it. The moment the cast completed a second run-through of The Saga of Judge Noah Peale, Zanna dragged Delta backstage where she announced, “Our new set designer.”

  “Set designer?” Delta gasped.

  “Don’t
worry, all we need is a Western barroom.”

  Delta surveyed the elegant salon. “Captain Kaney might be able to convert this room from a dining room to a grand salon, but I certainly can’t turn it into a Western barroom. Look at all this finery.”

  “You can do it,” Zanna exclaimed. “We’ll help.”

  “You expect me to build a set for a Western barroom?” Delta felt sure she must have lost the essence of the conversation somewhere along the way.

  “No, of course not,” Zanna corrected. “You design it. We’ll all build it.”

  “Design it?” Delta echoed. “Me?”

  Three hours later Delta had to admit, their creation bore some resemblance to a barroom, its crudely constructed bar made from a dining table covered with canvas. Albert offered to paint the canvas to look like planks.

  Delta agreed, then added, “We’ll need some bar-stools.” She nodded pointedly toward the elegant bamboo dining chairs. “And don’t tell me those will do.”

  Zanna laughed.

  “I know.” Nat spoke from near Delta’s elbow, where he had worked all afternoon. “We’ll fetch some kegs from the boiler room.”

  “Great idea,” Delta exclaimed.

  Nat reached for her hand. “Come with me. We’ll find the captain. He’ll tell us who to ask.”

  She slipped her hand out of Nat’s grasp. Across the set she watched Elyse’s eyes dim. The girl might cry at the prospect of playing opposite Nat in a love scene on stage, but watching her the last few hours, Delta had decided the girl’s problem more likely stemmed from fear of revealing her true feelings in front of a room full of strangers. Elyse reminded Delta of a shy little bird, never speaking, but keeping a keen eye on everyone who came in contact with Nat. If he hadn’t been so enamored with himself, Delta reasoned, Nat could have seen the truth.

  “No, Nat,” Zanna was saying. “Delta isn’t here to run errands. You go ask the captain.”

  “I’ll go with him,” Albert offered. “We’ll get the paint at the same time.”

  “Will you put the barroom on the playbills?” Iona asked Delta after Nat and Albert left. Along with the rest of the cast, she and Frankie had pitched in to help construct the set without squabbling one time the entire afternoon.

  “Am I what?” Delta questioned the dancer.

  Zanna blanched. “Oops! I forgot to tell—ah, to ask her.” She turned to Delta. “Since you’re so good with words—I mean, obviously you’re good with words since you’re a journalist—I thought … ah, we thought you might consent to design the layout for our playbills.”

  “But I’ve never—”

  “I mean, since you’re doing other promotion for the showboat.”

  “I’m not doing other promotion, Zanna. My articles are—” She stopped short of admitting that the articles were nothing more than busywork intended to take her mind off a worrisome nightmare. Designing sets and playbills should serve the same purpose. Besides, what else did she have to do with her time? “I’ll try,” she agreed. “But I’ll need your help.”

  The new job worked into the scheme of things quite well, she decided, for by the time Albert and Nat returned with paint and a couple of empty kegs to serve as barstools, she had sketched the playbill and she and Zanna were busy with the wording.

  “Here, try it out for size,” Nat suggested, offering her a seat on one of the kegs. The moment she sat on the keg, he took the other one, pulling it close beside her.

  Delta jumped to her feet. Without giving anyone time to object she took Elyse by the shoulders and guided her onto the keg she had just vacated. “You two rehearse your lines while Zanna and I finish the playbills.”

  While Frankie and Albert painted the canvas bar, Delta and Zanna finished the playbill design, with Iona, Elyse, and Nat looking on.

  Finally Elyse consulted the little gold watch pinned to her bodice. “Oh, dear, we’d best hurry, else we won’t have time to dress for dinner.”

  Although the words were so softly spoken that Delta wondered whether anyone had heard, the cast immediately prepared to leave.

  “Captain Kaney insists we dress for dinner,” Zanna explained.

  “I should hope so,” Delta replied, “in a room as elegant as this one.” Following the actors from the salon, she finally summoned enough courage to ask the question she had worried over all afternoon. “What do you know about a man named Brett Reall?”

  Zanna rolled her eyes. “I know he’s one of the most handsome men I’ve ever met.” As if to demonstrate, she clasped her hands together and pressed them to her heart.

  “And dangerous,” Nat added.

  “Dangerous?” Delta quizzed.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he added. “You’re perfectly safe—with me on board.”

  “You’re safe, anyway,” Albert told her. “Other than attending meals and engaging in poker games, M’sieur Reall has not mingled with the passengers.”

  Nat’s words spun in Delta’s brain. “Why do you say he’s dangerous?” She held her breath for his reply, but Albert spoke first.

  Leaning his face close to hers, he quirked his eyebrows. A teasing grin tipped the corners of his lips, forming a half-moon over his goatee. “Some call him a pirate,” he announced in a stage whisper.

  Delta’s heart skipped a beat.

  Nat took her arm. “Don’t worry your pretty head over that fellow. I’ll protect you from him.”

  Chapter Three

  Brett dressed for dinner with special care. Since discovering that Delta was a member of the theatrical troupe, he had relaxed. That explained everything. She looked familiar because he had seen her perform somewhere. It had nothing to do with her blue eyes.

  It had everything to do with blue eyes, his conscience needled. But not her blue eyes. She just happened to have blue eyes—blue eyes that reminded him of other blue eyes.

  Oui, Pierre had been right. Those blue eyes had raised his hackles. For too long now, he had been hunted by authorities and haunted by memories—memories of blue eyes.

  He inserted black onyx cuff links into the cuffs of his white shirt, then added a starched wing collar. Delta Jarrett. The name played in his mind. Perhaps this lovely blue-eyed woman would provide the chance he needed to rid himself of those memories.

  A knock came at the door just as he stepped into his black trousers. At Pierre’s call, he unlocked the door from the inside, then proceeded to attach his suspenders.

  Pierre bowed to his nephew in mock deference. “Ah, nèfyou, what have we here? Evening clothes.”

  Brett turned back to his toilette while Pierre poured them each a whiskey. “I’m dining at the captain’s table,” he explained. “Besides, those gaudy vests are getting to me.”

  Pierre handed Brett a glass of whiskey, downing his own in a couple of gulps. “The pilot, he says we should arrive at Cape Girardeau by ten o’clock tomorrow mornin’. Gabriel will go ashore to check things out. We’ll wait here for his signal.”

  Slipping into a white silk vest, Brett buttoned it, then took a swig of the whiskey. “Take care when you speak with Gabriel,” he told Pierre. “He’ll make a better sentry if no one suspects he’s with us.”

  “Oui,” Pierre agreed.

  “We’ll need horses,” Brett continued. “Cape Rock is several miles out of town.”

  “You should let me make the inspection, nèfyou. You stay on the boat, away from eyes tha’ could recognize you.”

  Brett shook his head. “Gabriel is a good man. He can sniff out authorities like a dog on the trail of a wounded panther.” He tied his black silk necktie and gave himself a once-over in the small looking glass, smoothing back unruly hair, before shrugging into a black evening jacket. “I want to meet with our men personally, discuss with them face to face where we’re going to take this business when we return from the bayou.”

  At the door Brett clapped Pierre on the shoulder. “After dinner I must sit in on that private poker game the captain has arranged. I will see you tonight
at our rendezvous.”

  “Fortunate, your maman raised a gambling man, oui.”

  Brett grinned. “Oui.”

  Pierre stopped him. “You are still concerned about that blue-eyed pichouette, mon nèfyou?”

  “She’s no little girl, Pierre, or are you going blind? And no, I am no longer concerned. The captain introduced us this afternoon. Her name is Delta Jarrett. She’s with the acting troupe. An actress. We must have seen her perform somewhere.”

  Pierre grinned. “Perhaps we will again, my nephew.”

  Some call him a pirate.

  The words had echoed through Delta’s brain while she hastily dressed for dinner, closing out even Mama Rachael’s enthusiastic recital of her own afternoon’s experiences.

  Orville had returned their pressed gowns by the time Delta returned to the stateroom from rehearsal. Mama Rachael was almost ready to leave.

  “Hurry, child. We can’t tarry in this room when there is so much going on outside.”

  Delta stripped to her corset and pantaloons. “Tell me about your afternoon,” she suggested. Filling the small bowl with water, she added a splash of violet-scented cologne and began to sponge off.

  Mama Rachael giggled, drawing an inquisitive frown from Delta.

  “We toured the ship,” the excited little woman said.

  “All five decks?” Delta removed her stockings, bathed her legs, then pulled on a fresh pair of stockings. Without removing her corset, she replaced her full gathered petticoat with a foulard that had a straight paneled front and rows of ruffles down the back. Over this she slipped a blue faille gown with fitted princess basque and deep square neckline. An inserted tablier of cream faille draped loosely around her hips and fell in a new shorter quarter-train. Mama Rachael had spent an entire week embroidering poppy leaves around the neckline and along the edges of the train.