“I cannot well describe the fashion of it. She is not deck’d in any gallant trim, but seems to me clad in the usual weeds of high habitual state.”
C.J. nearly snickered, since Mrs. Siddons was dressed in a garment that must have cost a king’s ransom. No “gallant trim” indeed! A supernumerary rushed past C.J.’s hiding place, dropping a robe and a silken cord at her feet as she dashed off to don another costume. Nearly invisible amid the hubbub in the dark, C.J. stooped to retrieve the saffron-colored shift. It was a simple garment, almost like a cassock, constructed of two pieces of cloth with an opening for the head and long, dolman-style sleeves. It slipped easily over her own yellow muslin, covering both it and the red shawl completely. She hid the bonnet under the robe and secured it with the cord.
It was now or never. Wishing to draw as little attention as possible, she stepped into the light, and—although she yearned to revel in the experience—scuttled across the stage like a golden beetle.
“Thine eyes deceive thee, boy. It is an apparition thou has seen,” the lady declaimed.
C.J. slipped through an architecturally resplendent medieval archway into the blackness, the reverberations of a man’s resonant voice echoing behind her. “It is an apparition he has seen, or it is Jane de Montfort.”
The last thing C.J. remembered hearing was the thunderous ovation that greeted the entrance of the great Sarah Siddons.
Book the Second
Chapter Nine
An attempt to return home is fraught with frustration; an unnerving encounter backstage in Bath; another slipup, this time in a bakery; and we learn a little more about the intriguing Lord Darlington.
C. J. COULD HEAR VOICES and just about make out some shadows on the stage. An argument was taking place.
“Look, Beth,” a man was saying. “The woman disappeared. She did her final audition, walked through that door, and no one ever saw her again. You put out a call and she didn’t return it. We’ve got to continue the casting process. We’ve booked the Shubert because you wanted a jewel box theatre. The marketing plan is already underway; the advertising is all but completed, minus the names of the cast. All you’ve got to do is pick two of them. You’re not casting Hamlet here.”
“Maybe she’s considering our offer before she gets back to us,” Beth reasoned. “Maybe she’s speaking to her agent. Maybe she’s hoping for more money. Who knows? Look, she’s not the first actress not to answer her phone the day we offer her the role.”
“And she’s not the last actress in New York either. Or LA, for that matter.”
C.J. could smell cigar smoke through the gloom, although she couldn’t see who was talking. Most likely Mr. Miramax.
“Since you weren’t crazy about the final callbacks of the other two women we saw, I told you who you could go with, Beth. I’ve got a list of names as long as my right arm.”
“You can have Koko’s list for all I care. C.J. Welles is my first choice for the role of Jane. She has a certain je ne sais quoi. She’s not mannered.”
“Plenty of actresses aren’t mannered. One phone call and I could get you . . .” The male voice lowered to an unintelligible murmur.
“I don’t want to star-fuck, Harvey. I told you that when you brought me in on the project. I can see the adverts now: ‘J-Lo is Jane Austen.’ The reason I don’t want a celebrity in the role is that I don’t want audiences to equate Jane Austen, who ought to be enough of one in her own right, with some Hollywood flavor of the month. One reason my stage production of That Hamilton Woman won so many Olivier Awards last season was because my leads weren’t stars whose personal wattage eclipsed the vibrancy of the characters.”
“Beth. Oh, Beth,” Harvey intoned. “Your job is to direct the show. A producer’s is to write your paycheck. Also, my job is to put the butts in the seats, to sell lots of full-price tickets so that I can write your paycheck. Three days. I’m more than generously giving you three days to find the actress who did a Cinderella number. Then we go into rehearsal with someone else as Jane.”
“Harvey . . .” Beth said gently.
“I really don’t have more money than God; people just think I do. Renting an entire theatre for twelve weeks to cast and rehearse this show costs a helluva lot more than booking a studio in the Minskoff Building, even if it was my idea. If I can’t see from the outset how it’ll look onstage, I can’t picture it on the screen. And it’s costing us extra money just to arrange this additional day of callbacks, after you told us the actress never returned your phone call.”
“Hey, guys! I’m here!” C.J. cried out. “Beth! I want the part!”
“I’m only humoring you, Beth, because you’ve won two Olivier Awards in as many years,” the producer warned.
“And because Gene, Jerry, Sam, Stephen, Mike, Sir Peter, and Julie all had prior commitments,” the director replied wryly.
C.J. was desperate to get their attention. “Hey, folks! The red shawl Milena gave me is out of fashion,” she called out. “By three seasons.” It was infuriating. Frustrating beyond belief. They couldn’t see her through the dark void that separated the centuries, and although she could not see them either, she could hear them. And evidently, no one could hear her. C.J. impatiently shifted her weight from foot to foot, trying to make more noise, but the stamping seemed as ineffective as a child’s temper tantrum. They were all talking about her and there she was, speaking up but unable to be heard. Apparently, she was on the threshold of the past and the present, and for whatever reason, she couldn’t get her body all
