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We work in tandem, the magic flowing between us. I can feel Ann’s excitement, her nerves, her unbridled joy. It makes me feel a bit drunk, and I can’t keep from giggling. When I open my eyes, she’s in flux. She cycles through physical changes like a girl trying on different gowns. At last, she settles into the appearance she sought, and Nan Washbrad is back. She twirls about in her new dress, an indigo satin trimmed in lace at the collar and along the hem. A jeweled pin sits at her throat. Her hair has darkened to the color of ebony. It’s piled high upon her head like a very grand lady’s.
“Oh, how nice to be Nan again. How do I look?” she asks, patting her cheeks, examining her hands, her dress.
“Like someone who should be on the stage,” I answer. “Now, let’s see if we can put your thespian talents to the test.”
Moments later, Nan Washbrad makes her entrance and is shown to the parlor, where Mrs. Nightwing chats amiably with her, not knowing that her fashionable guest is really Ann Bradshaw, poor scholarship student. Felicity and I can barely contain our wicked glee.
“That was marvelous,” Felicity says, giggling, as we wait for our train. “She never suspected. Not once. You’ve fooled Mrs. Nightwing, Ann. If that doesn’t give you confidence for facing Mr. Katz, nothing will.”
“What time is it?” Ann asks for possibly the twentieth time since we left Victoria Station and set off for our appointment.
“It is five minutes later than the last time you asked,” I grouse.
“I can’t be late. Miss Trimble’s letter was quite firm on that point.”
“You shan’t be late, for here we are in the Strand. You see? There is the Gaiety.” Felicity points to the great bowed front of the famous music hall.
A trio of beautiful young ladies exits the theater. In their hats adorned with eye-catching plumes, their long black gloves, and fashionable dresses replete with corsages of flowers, they are impossible to ignore.
“Oh, it’s the Gaiety Girls!” Ann exclaims. “They are the most beautiful chorus girls in the world, aren’t they?”
Indeed, men admire their beauty as they walk, but unlike Mrs. Worthington, they do not seem to live only for that recognition. They have their own work and the money to show for it; when they take to the street, it is as if the world is theirs.
“Someday, people shall say, ‘Why, look, there goes the great Ann Bradshaw! What a marvel she is!’” I tell her.
Ann adjusts and readjusts the pin at her neck. “Only if I am not late to my appointment.”
Address in hand, we travel the Strand in search of our destination. At last we find the unremarkable door, and our knock is met by a lanky young man in trousers and suspenders, no waistcoat, and a bowler hat. He’s got a cigarette clenched between his teeth. He eyes us warily.
“Can I help you?” he asks with an American accent.
“Y-yes, I’ve an appointment with M-Mr. Katz.” Ann produces the letter. The young man reads it over and swings the door open. “Right on time. He’ll like that.” He lowers his voice. “Mr. Katz’ll dock your pay for bein’ late. Charlie Smalls, by the way. Pleasure.”
Charlie Smalls has a gap-toothed grin that makes his narrow face come alive. It’s the sort of smile you can’t help returning, and I’m glad he’s the first to welcome us.
“Are you an actor?” Ann asks.
He shakes his head. “Composer. Well, hope to be. For the present I’m the accompanist.” The smile is back, broad and warm. “Nervous?”
Ann nods.
“Don’t be. Here. I’ll show you around. Welcome to the Taj Mahal,” he jokes, gesturing to the modest room. In one corner is a piano. Several chairs have been placed facing the piano. Curtains hang to suggest a stage. It’s a bit dark, the only source of light being one small window that affords us a view of the horses’ legs and the carriage wheels in the street. Dust motes dance in the weak light, making me sneeze.
“Gesundheit!” a wiry man with a thin mustache says as he barrels into the room. He wears a simple black suit, and his pocket watch is in his hand. “Charlie? Where the devil’s that note from George?”
“Mr. Shaw, sir? On your desk.”
“Right. Swell.”
Charlie clears his throat. “Young lady to see you, sir. Miss Nan Washbrad.”
The clock strikes two, and Mr. Katz puts away his watch. “Terrific. Right on the nose. Great to meet you, Miss Washbrad. Lily said you were a looker. Let’s see if she’s right about your talent, too.” Mr. Katz shakes my hand till my whole arm vibrates. “And who are these charming ladies?”
“Her sisters,” I say, breaking free.
“Sisters, my foot. They’re her school chums, Marcus. And I’d keep an eye on my wallet, if I were you.” Lily Trimble sweeps into the room in an emerald green dress that hugs her every substantial curve. A fur-trimmed capelet hangs fetchingly about her shoulders. She drops into what looks like the most comfortable chair in the room. “Don’t get too nervous, Nannie. This isn’t Henry Irving.”
“Henry Irving,” Mr. Katz grumbles at the mention of the great actor-manager of the Lyceum. For there is no person of the theater more esteemed; Queen Victoria even knighted him. “That old snob may have helped to change the profession, but I’ll take it where it’s headed. Vaudeville. Dancing girls and popular entertainment—that’s what the people want, and I’m the man who’s gonna give it to ’em.”
