I’m in London. I’m in trouble. Please help me. That was all that was in Linette’s pitiful letter last October. Nothing else—no address, no other clue—except that Rosalie knew Linette had always wanted to be an actress.
Now emotion squeezed at Rosalie’s throat like a necklet of iron when she thought what had become of that dream, and a touch of fear also; Linette had been only two years younger than Rosalie, and though Linette’s blonde locks were more luxuriant and her figure more shapely, the sisters did bear a resemblance. At the interview yesterday, Rosalie had worried that Dr Barnard might spot it.
But his gaze had been one of cursory approval. ‘Oh, they come and they go, our girls!’ he’d said airily, when she asked him why he had vacancies. ‘A world of opportunities awaits them, after all!’
Opportunities. Anger, as well as despair, surged through her. Then the door flew open and Danny, the lad who helped backstage, burst in. ‘Three minutes to go, lay-dees!’ He looked straight at Rosalie and winked.
‘Dirty little rascal,’ said Sal amiably. ‘Always hopes he’ll catch us with nothing on. Here—have some rouge.’
‘No thanks.’ Rosalie turned to face her. ‘Sal, how long have you worked here?’
‘Feels like a lifetime, but I’ve been here all of six months! What with Mrs B.’s sharp tongue and her hubby docking our pay at any excuse, no one sticks it more than a year.’ Sal was piling on more rouge. ‘Why are you workin’ here, gal? Standin’ about on stage in next to nothing isn’t what you was brought up to, anyone can see that! You’re clever, you speak like a lady. You could have bin a governess or something, surely!’
‘I have a child to care for,’ Rosalie answered simply. ‘Governesses with children don’t get hired.’
Sal looked at her quickly. ‘How old’s your little one?’
‘Two. She’s just two years old.’
‘Ah, bless! She’s lucky, then, havin’ you to watch over her,’ said Sal wistfully. ‘Me, I was put on the streets by my ma when I was ten. To think I’m playin’ Hebe, the virgin goddess—Lord knows I can hardly remember bein’ a virgin meself. But I’ve learnt lessons. I know the ways of the so-called gentry like the back of my hand. And remember, the best way to make life comfortable for yourself and your little ‘un is to open your legs to a rich man—but get his money first, you hear me?’
‘Ladies!’ shrieked the boy Danny, flinging the door wide open. ‘Ready to go on stage!’
‘Here we go.’ Sal grinned.
Here we go indeed, echoed Rosalie silently.
But not before Mrs Patty Barnard, inspecting every goddess as they filed through the door, ripped open the bow securing the neckline of Rosalie’s bodice and tugged it down to show the curve of her breasts. ‘Told you before, Athena. Think you’re in a damned nunnery?’
Rosalie pressed her lips firmly together, but a faint flush of defiance rose in her cheeks.
With the curtains still closed, all the girls hurried to take up position on stage. Charlotte was carefully seating herself on a damask-covered throne and preening her dyed golden locks, while the others clustered around. Now Rosalie could hear Dr Barnard standing in front of the stage and announcing to the gathered audience, ‘For your delectation, my honoured friends! A scene of exquisite and ennobling artistry—the Greek goddesses!’
Rosalie had kept as far to the back as she could. Oh, she wondered, the breath hitching in her throat, what had she let herself in for?
The heavy curtains were gliding back.
There must be nigh-on a hundred men out there.
She felt rather sick. For Linette, her beloved sister. She would see this through, for Linette—and for Linette’s child, Katy.
‘Dear Rosalie, why on earth are you asking me about such a place?’ had been her friend Helen’s startled response when Rosalie mentioned the Temple of Beauty two days ago. They were in Helen’s printing shop, and all around them were heaps of freshly printed broadsheets. ‘From what I’ve heard,’ Helen went on, ‘that Temple is nothing but a glorified brothel!’
‘Bwothel,’ little Katy had lisped. ‘Bwothel.’
Quickly Helen turned to the two children, who were drawing stick men on some scraps of paper. ‘Toby, darling, take Katy to the kitchen and get her a glass of milk, will you?’
‘And a treacle bun?’ Six-year-old Toby, always hungry, asked the question hopefully.
‘And a treacle bun each, yes, if Katy wants. Look after Katy, now!’
‘C’mon, Kate.’ Holding out his hand, Toby had valiantly led the toddling two-year-old past the for-once silent printing press towards the kitchen. Katy was still lisping, ‘Bwothel. Bwothel …’
Rosalie watched them go with a catch in her throat, then said quietly to Helen, ‘Toby’s wonderful with Katy. I’m so very grateful to you for letting us stay here with you, Helen. I wish you’d let me pay you for our food, at least!’
‘And I wish you’d take my advice and stop going round these dreadful places on your own.’ Helen had sighed. ‘Men who visit the Temple of Beauty have only one thing on their mind! Are you going because you’ve heard that Linette might have been there?’
‘Exactly. You know how Linette always talked of being an actress? Well, now I’ve found out she may have worked at this Temple of Beauty, three years ago.’
‘That place! Oh, poor, poor Linette!’
Helen had been a teacher at the little school in the village where Rosalie and Linette grew up, then she’d married and moved to London, where her husband ran a small publishing press in Aylesbury Street, Clerkenwell. But a few years later he’d abandoned Helen and their little son, Toby, for a singer from Sadler’s Wells. Helen had always kept in touch with Rosalie by letter, and after her husband’s departure she wrote to her young friend that she’d resolved to make a success of the publishing business on her own. When Rosalie’s search for Linette brought her to London last autumn, it was to Helen that she turned.
‘I will pay you, Helen, for my accommodation,’ Rosalie had insisted when she arrived outside Helen’s door.
‘Nonsense.’ Helen had hugged her warmly. ‘I’ll do everything I can to help you find your poor sister. As for payment—well, how about writing for The Scribbler?’
‘The Scribbler? Helen, what’s that?’
And Helen had gone on to explain.
The Scribbler was a weekly news sheet Helen produced, a round-up of London events and advertisements, which Helen also used from time to time to denounce the greed of the rich
