We had a heavy, drenching rain last night and for once I was glad not to be at sea. At least it didn’t start till after the Playhouse had closed for the night, so it did not affect business, which was very good—news of the quality of the entertainment we offer is spreading throughout the town.
So this morning after breakfast, I decide to go out and inspect our garden. The sun has broken through the clouds and it promises to be a fine day, which is fortunate, for I hope for a good crowd at tonight’s Musical Revue. I go around the side of the Pig and am rewarded with the glorious sight of my flower garden. Jemimah directs the cultivation of the vegetables, she being of a practical nature, and I handle the flowers, me being more interested in the matter of ornamental flora. I like having flowers on the tables at the Pig—it civilizes the place a bit and gives it a touch of class. It being summer, the zinnias are doing well, the hollyhocks about shoulder high—I’m trying for the look of an English Country Garden, don’t ya know—and the roses are putting forth brilliant red buds. I can’t wait for them to bloom . . . and, Wait . . . What’s that?
Over to the left is my little patch of beets and . . . Glory! There, amongst the green beet foliage, a raft of shiny new mushroom heads is poking up, all purple and glossy. Heh, heh . . . Come to me, my little pretties, I gloat, bending down to gather up the full-grown ones and dropping them in my apron. I leave the little ones so that they might prosper and grow and spread my lovely little patch of Purple Passion even further. Now, it is time for me to whip up another batch of my Witches’ Brew—never can tell when it might come in handy.
Back in the Pig, I find I have the kitchen to myself, Jemimah being out back fussing with her okra, and Maudie cleaning up the bar, so I pull down a saucepan, fill it halfway with water from the pump, and put it on the still-hot stove. As it is coming to a boil, I slice up half my haul of mushrooms and dump them in. The rest of them are strung on a long cord and put up to dry—shouldn’t take too long as the kitchen is quite warm.
As I toil on, I reflect on last night’s Revue . . .
We had almost a full house and the audience was a right jolly one. The musical numbers went over well, especially the new Spanish ones, with me stamping my feet, flamenco style, and Solomon Freeman strumming away on the guitar. It sure didn’t take that man long to pick up that style of playing. The comic ones like “Three Jolly Coachmen” and “The Cuckoo’s Nest” brought forth gales of laughter. The mood of the audience got even jollier after Intermission when everyone went to the bar for the refreshments doled out by Molly and Joannie. After that, more songs, more stories, more poems, and finally my little playlet, The Villain Pursues Constant Maiden, or Fair Virtue in Peril, starring Miss Clarissa Worthington Howe as Prudence Goodheart. It went over very well with an especially loud whoop! from the crowd when her tear-away dress came off.
Yes, the Pig and the Playhouse are definitely making money now and it gratifies me. If only Jaimy were here with me to share my joy . . .
Ah, the pot has put up a fine purple froth, so I pour its contents through a sieve and drain the liquid into a bowl, giving the mushroom residue a squeeze with a masher. There. Now, to add the brandy—half and half—and pour into empty bottles, cork ’em up, then I am done. As I’m cleaning up, Joannie comes in.
“Whatcha makin’?” she asks, eyeing the now purple bottles.
“Something I call Jacky’s Little Purple Potion.”
“Would you let me try a taste of that?”
“Sure. If I were to tie you to a chair and make sure that Daniel Prescott, or any other young hound you might have your eye on, was not anywhere around. This stuff tends to make people very amorous, very amorous indeed. It seems to make them want to take their clothes off, as well.” I smile to think of that time with Amadeo Romero on a rooftop in Madrid after he had gotten a snootful of this stuff.
“You sure never needed any help with that.”
I cast her a sharp look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She smirks. “Don’t forget, Jacky, I was along on the Santa Magdalena expedition, and I was there when you were taken off that rock on the shore of Burma, wearin’ nuthin’ but seaweed and a smile, to say nothing of the Kidnapping of Harry Flashby in London, you again wearin’ only your pigtail and a pair of castanets, and then—”
“All right, you,” I say, gathering up my bottles and heading upstairs to my rooms, where I will place them in my medicine chest for safekeeping. “That’s enough. Where’s Ravi?”
“Down at the docks selling peanuts.”
“Good. At least he’s doing something useful other than chiding me for my bad behavior, Miss Priss,” I scold right back at her. “Go help Molly set up for tonight’s show.”
As I place the two bottles of Purple Potion in my cabinet right next to my bottles of Jacky’s Little Helper—the powerful concentrations of Tincture of Opium that have helped me out of many a ticklish situation—my mind returns to last night’s show, and just who was in attendance . . .
My dear Ezra was there, just back from visiting Amy at Dovecote, and, alas, I am told she has not yet forgiven me, and that does hurt me. Although, I don’t know if I’ve forgiven her, either. I’m not all that bad, to be treated so. I noticed Constable Wiggins in the crowd, too, but he didn’t pull anything—aside from drinking for free at the bar . . . grrr—and I thought I recognized a few members of the COWS, but I can’t be sure . . . Maybe they, too, need a bit of fun.
I further noticed that the Hunchback stood in the standing-room section, leaning on his stick. Hmmm . . . Strange that . . . I would not have thought that he would like what we have to offer. Oh, well, I hope we brought the poor man some cheer.
Enough of that. I’m off to prepare for the show.
Chapter 25
James Fletcher
House of Chen Shipping
Boston, Massachusetts, USA
To the Devils That Dwell in My Mind,
I cannot help it. I cannot stay away. I try to resist the urge, but I cannot. I go to her place. I watch her dance. I watch her sing. Watching her perform, her face radiant with joy, it tears me apart.
I cannot stand it. Although I do my duty to the House of Chen, my mind always goes back to her.
I saw Ravi on the docks today, selling peanuts. I bought some and they were good. He appears to be doing quite well.
Pig and Whistle was lettered on the side of the cart. I can imagine who did that and where it was done. There is a large pot in the center of the pushcart, with a scoop. Larger amounts are sold in crudely sewn bags made out of feed sacks. Smaller amounts are put in cones made up of cut-up newspapers.
I shamelessly pumped Ravi for information. “Yes, Memsahib has many friends—most friendly with mens—sing and dance most pretty. She friendly with everyone.”
I’ll just bet she is . . .
J. Fletcher
Chapter 26
We’ve got the curtains manned, the bar set up, the footlights lit, and we’re ready to go.
“Open the door!” I cry. John Thomas pulls the latch and the crowd begins to pour in. “Clear for action!”
Tickets are taken and the customers directed to their proper places, whether it be pit, balcony, box, or standing room.
I duck behind the curtains to join the other performers, who are primping and getting ready. I adjust my high comb and lacy black mantilla, smooth out my black Spanish dress, take a deep breath, then get in line and wait.
Eventually the crowd settles, and except for an occasional cough and shuffle of feet, the place goes quiet. I nod to Señor Fracelli; he lifts his hands above the keyboard and brings them down. The organ booms out the notes of our opening number and we all sing as the curtain rises . . .
Come all ye roving minstrels
And together we will try
To rouse the spirit of the earth
And move the rolling sky
I stand at center stage, holding hands with Clarissa on my left and Polly Von on my right. On either side of them stand Mr. Fennell and Mr. Bean, and flanking them are Solomon Freeman and Jim Tanner. Behind all are the choral group and the rest of the cast.
After the chorus, the ensemble falls silent while Señor Fracelli continues to play the melody and I advance to the front of the stage and sing . . .
Those who dance will dance for you,
And those who play will play,
In time to list our merry tunes
That we will sing for you today!
Then the rest of the cast sings the chorus again and I step back as the curtain falls and the audience erupts in applause.
I do love it so!
And so we swing into the night’s performance. Yes, I do my Spanish act, which goes over well—“La Paloma,” “Los Bibilicos,” “Solo Tu,” and all, complete with pounding heels and castanets. Then Clarissa sings the aria from Escape from the Seraglio, standing next to Señor at the organ, with poor Ravi at its bellows. She gets great applause. I do not know whether it is for her fine soprano voice or her beauty, amply displayed in my fine white Empire dress, but who cares. Then we present Mr. Solomon Freeman on the guitar, playing and singing songs of the South. I smile to note that “Miss Jacky and the Big Black Snake” is one of them. Moments later, dressed in my sailor togs, I pop back out for a few rollicking sea songs. After that, Mr. Fennell and Mr. Bean put on a raucous skit that concerns the humorous conversation of two country bumpkins, which draws gales of condescending laughter from this city crowd, and then, just before Intermission, I add a new skit, which I call “The Lady in Red,” wherein I don’t sing at all.
“Hurry, Ravi, button me up!” I hiss backstage as I struggle into my very new, very tight, very red dress, as Fennell and Bean are finishing up their bit.
“Yes, Missy,” he says, “but very tight. Not all of parts of Memsahib fit into it very easy. Much scandals.”
“Don’t worry, Ravi, it’ll serve,” I say, tucking the parts to which he refers into the low bodice. “Here I go . . .”
I part the curtains and sweep through as Señor hits an ominous run of sad chords on the organ. I do not stop at the stage but instead put my forearm across my brow in obvious distress and stumble down the stage stairs and over to the bar, where stands Davy Jones in white shirt and green gaiters just above his elbows, polishing a glass.
I go over and slump on the bar as Solomon Freeman sings out from the side of the stage . . .
’Twas a cold winter’s evening.
The guests were all leaving as
O’Leary was closing the bar.
When he turned ’round and said to the lady in red,
“Get out, you can’t stay where you are!”
Actually, it is Davy as barman, who bellows out that last line with a certain relish and points to the door. I hang my head as Solomon continues to sing . . .
She wept a sad tear in her bucket of beer
As she thought of the cold night ahead,
When a gentleman dapper
Stepped out of the crapper.
And these are the words that he said . . .
At this, Arthur McBride, dressed in his finest suit, steps out from behind the curtain and sings, in a fine Irish tenor . . .