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“I gave her a wee suggestion. Now, let’s see about meeting Lily Trimble, shall we?”
Behind the stage, it is another world entirely. A swarm of workers busy themselves with props and machinery. Burly men move long painted canvases to and fro. Several others hoist ropes whilst a man with a porkpie hat and a cigar clenched between his lips barks orders to them. We slip down a narrow corridor in search of Lily Trimble. The actor playing Banquo passes us in his dressing gown without the slightest bit of shame.
“Hello, my dears,” he says, eyeing us up and down.
“We very much enjoyed your performance,” Ann says earnestly.
“My next performance shall be in my dressing room. Perhaps you would like to attend? You are quite lovely.”
“We are looking for Miss Trimble,” Felicity says, narrowing her eyes.
The man’s smile fades to a thin shadow. “To your left. Should you change your mind, I am on the right.”
“The very cheek of some people,” Felicity fumes, pulling us on.
“What do you mean?” Ann asks. Felicity is in full stride and we struggle to keep pace.
“He made an improper advance toward you, Ann.”
“Toward me?” Ann asks, wide-eyed. A lightning-quick grin splits her face. “How wonderful!”
At last, we find Lily Trimble’s door. We knock and await a response. A maid answers, her hands filled with costumes. I present my card. It is only a plain card from a shop, but that is no matter, for her eyes widen as she reads the illusion there.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” she says, giving a slight curtsy. “I’ll be just a minute.”
“What did you put on that card?” Felicity asks.
“Something that would gain us entrance.”
The maid returns. “This way, if you please.”
She ushers us into Lily Trimble’s dressing room, which we take in at a glance: the damask chaise; the lamp with a red silk scarf thrown over the top; the dressing screen covered with a collection of silk robes and gowns and stockings sprawled in a shameless display; the vanity, where an array of creams and lotions sit next to a silver hairbrush and hand mirror.
“Miss Trimble, Misses Doyle, Worthington, and Washbrad to meet you,” the maid says.
A familiar smoky voice comes from behind the screen. “Thank you, Tillie. And, darling, please, you must do something about that wig. It’s like wearing a hornets’ nest.”
“Yes, miss,” Tillie says, leaving us.
Lily Trimble emerges from behind the dressing screen in a deep blue velvet robe she secures about her waist with a gold tasseled tie. The long, flowing hair was only a wig; her true hair—a muted auburn—she wears in a simple braid. Ann is slack-jawed, awed to be in the presence of such a star. When Miss Trimble takes her hand, Ann curtsies as if greeting the Queen.
The actress’s laugh is as thick as cigar smoke and just as intoxicating. “Well, this is a fancy reception, isn’t it?” she quips with an American accent. “I must confess, I haven’t met too many duchesses in my time. Which one of you is the Duchess of Doyle?”
Felicity offers me a naughty smile for my duplicity but there is something so very straightforward about Lily Trimble, I find it impossible to lie to her.
“I have a confession to make. None of us is a duchess, I’m afraid.”
She arches a brow. “You don’t say?”
“We are from the Spence Academy for Young Ladies.”
She takes in our unchaperoned state. “My. A lady’s education has changed rather dramatically since my time. Not that my time was so long ago.”
“We think you are the most marvelous actress in the whole world, and we simply had to meet you!” Ann blurts out.
“And how many actresses have you seen?” Miss Trimble asks. She notes Ann’s blush. “Mmmm, thought so.” She sits before her dressing mirror and rubs cream over her face in practiced strokes.
“Our Ann, er, Nan is quite talented,” I say in a rush.
