Miss Hamilton’s smell that made the first impression. At ten guineas a moderately sized bottle, she smelt like Master Fenton, all April and May. Martyn was very much shorter than Miss Hamilton but this did not prevent her from feeling cumbersome and out of place, as if she had been caught red-handed with her own work in the dressing-room. This awkwardness was in part dispelled by the friendliness of Miss Hamilton’s smile and the warmth of her enchanting voice.
‘You’ve come to help me, haven’t you?’ she said. ‘Now, that is kind. I know all about you from Mr Grantley and I fully expect we’ll get along famously together. The only thing I don’t know, in fact, is your name.’
Martyn wondered if she ought to give only her Christian name or only her surname. She said: ‘Tarne. Martyn Tarne.’
‘But what a charming name!’ The brilliant eyes looked into Martyn’s face and their gaze sharpened. After a fractional pause she repeated: ‘Really charming,’ and turned her back.
It took Martyn a moment or two to realize that this was her cue to remove Miss Hamilton’s coat. She lifted it from her shoulders – it was made of Persian lamb and smelt delicious – and hung it up. When she turned round she found that her employer was looking at her. She smiled reassuringly at Martyn and said: ‘You’ve got everything arranged very nicely. Roses, too. Lovely.’
‘They’re from Mr Grantley.’
‘Sweet of him but I bet he sent you to buy them.’
‘Well –’ Martyn began and was saved by the entry of the young man in the red sweater with a dressing-case for which she was given the keys. While she was unpacking it the door opened and a middle-aged, handsome man with a raffish face and an air of boldness came in. She remembered the photographs in the foyer. This was Clark Bennington. He addressed himself to Miss Hamilton.
‘Hallo,’ he said, ‘I’ve been talking to John Rutherford.’
‘What about?’ she asked and sounded nervous.
‘About that kid. Young Gay. He’s been at her again. So’s Adam.’
He glanced at Martyn. ‘I wanted to talk to you,’ he added discontentedly.
‘Well, so you shall. But I’ve got to change, now, Ben. And, look, this is my new dresser, Martyn Tarne.’
He eyed Martyn with more attention. ‘Quite a change from old Tansey,’ he said. ‘And a very nice change, too.’ He turned away. ‘Is Adam down?’ He jerked his head at the wall.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll see you later, then.’
‘All right, but – yes, all right.’
He went out, leaving a faint rumour of alcohol behind him.
She was quite still for a moment after he had gone. Martyn heard her fetch a sigh, a sound half-impatient, half-anxious. ‘Oh well,’ she said, ‘let’s get going, shall we?’
Martyn had been much exercised about the extent of her duties. Did, for instance, a dresser undress her employer? Did she kneel at her feet and roll down her stockings? Did she unhook and unbutton? Or did she stand capably aside while these rites were performed by the principal herself. Miss Hamilton solved the problem by removing her dress, throwing it to Martyn and waiting to be inserted into her dressing-gown. During these operations a rumble of male voices sounded at intervals in the adjoining room. Presently there was a tap at the door. Martyn answered it and found the little dresser with a florists’ box in his hands. ‘Mr Poole’s compliments,’ he said and winked broadly before retiring.
Miss Hamilton by this time was spreading a yellow film over her face. She asked Martyn to open the box and, on seeing three orchids that lay, crisp and fabulous on their mossy bed, sang ‘Darling!’ on two clear notes.
The voice beyond the wall responded. ‘Hallo?’
‘They’re quite perfect. Thank you, my sweet.’
‘Good,’ the voice said. Martyn laid the box on the dressing-table and saw the card: ‘Until tomorrow. Adam.’
She got through the next half-hour pretty successfully, she hoped. There seemed to be no blunders and Miss Hamilton continued charming and apparently delighted. There were constant visitors. A tap on the door would be followed by a head looking round and always by the invitation to come in. First there was Miss Gay Gainsford, a young and rather intense person with a pretty air of deference who seemed to be in a state of extreme anxiety.
‘Well, darling,’ Miss Hamilton said, glancing at her in the glass: ‘Everything under strict control?’
Miss Gainsford said unevenly: ‘I suppose so. I’m trying to be good and sort of biddable, do you know, but underneath I realize that I’m seething like a cauldron. Butterflies the size of bats in the stomach.’
‘Well, of course. But you mustn’t be terrified really, because whatever happens we all know John’s written a good play, don’t we?’
‘I suppose we do.’
‘We do indeed. And Gay – you’re going to make a great personal success in this part. I want you to tell yourself you are. Do you know? Tell yourself.’
‘I wish I could believe it.’ Miss Gainsford clasped her hands and raised them to her lips. ‘It’s not very easy,’ she said, ‘when he – John – Dr Rutherford – so obviously thinks I’m a misfit. Everybody keeps telling me it’s a marvellous part but for me it’s twenty sides of hopeless hell. Honestly, it is.’
‘Gay, what nonsense. John may seem hard –’
‘Seem?’
‘Well, he may be hard, then. He’s famous for it, after all. But you’ll get your reward, my dear, when the time comes. Remember,’ said Miss Hamilton with immense gravity, ‘we all have faith in you.’
‘Of course,’ said Miss Gainsford with an increased quaver in her voice, ‘it’s too marvellous your feeling like that about it. You’ve been so miraculously kind. And Uncle Ben, of course. Both of you. I can’t get over it.’
‘But, my dear, that’s utter nonsense. You’re going to be one of our rising young actresses.’
‘You do really think so!’
‘But yes. We all do.’ Her voice lost a little colour and then freshened. ‘We all do,’ she repeated firmly and turned back to her glass.
Miss Gainsford went to the door and hesitated there. ‘Adam doesn’t,’ she said loudly.
Miss Hamilton made a quick expressive gesture toward the next dressing-room and put her fingers to her lips. ‘He’ll be really angry if he hears you say that,’ she whispered and added aloud with somewhat forced casualness: ‘Is John down this morning?’
‘He’s on-stage. I think he said he’d like to speak to you.’
‘I want to see him particularly. Will you tell him, darling?’
‘Of course, Aunty Ella,’ Miss Gainsford
