The Wayward Muse Read Free Page A

began to sob.
    “Why did I lose my boys?” she wept. “Mrs. Allen has four strapping sons, all a credit to her. I’ve only got Jamey, now that John and Francis and Michael…”
    Jane stood quietly, thinking of her dead brothers while Bessie sewed her buttons on with trembling fingers. They had only been babies, all killed by cholera. She supposed that was why their mother hated them, because they should have been the ones to die.
    Bessie blotted the stain on Jane’s skirt with vinegar water, and most of it came out. Jane pinched Bessie’s cheeks to make them pink, and they shared a spritz of the rosewater. Then, having no mirror, they examined each other from top to bottom to make sure everything was in order. Having satisfied themselves that it was, they left Mrs. Burden weeping on the straw mattress. Soon she would suspend her tears long enough to lumber into the kitchen and pour herself more rotgut gin. By the time they got home from the theater, she would most likely be asleep.
    Jane and Bessie set off down Holywell Street, toward town.
    On the way they passed Tom Barnstable. Suddenly he was everywhere, thought Jane. Why couldn’t he join the army or fall down a well? He wore a sullen expression as he kicked a pebble down the street, but when he saw them he nodded and smiled, revealing a mouthful of gray, dead teeth. It seemed to Jane that he looked particularly at her. When they had passed, Bessie nudged Jane in the side.
    “Don’t say anything,” said Jane, her jaw clenched.
    It was a short walk to Oriel Street. A throng was gathered at the entrance to the modest auditorium where the colleges held their debating competitions and less popular musical concerts.
    Bessie gripped Jane’s arm. “Everyone’s so well dressed,” she whispered.
    “Yes,” agreed Jane, trying not to notice that several people had stared pityingly at her skirt. “I see Dr. Holman and his wife. She looks very pleased with her fox tippet.”
    They joined the line waiting to pick up tickets.
    “Do you see Peter?” Bessie asked. “He promised me he would be here.”
    Jane scanned the crowd of theatergoers, so different from the people she usually saw. “There he is,” she announced when she caught sight of a freckled young man waving frantically at her sister from the back of the line.
    “Save my place,” said Bessie, and was gone.
    A man was selling lemonade at a booth across the lobby, and Jane was just wishing she had money to buy some when she felt that someone was staring at her. She looked around and her gaze locked with that of a young man slouched against the wall next to the lemonade booth, sipping a glass of beer. He had large, expressive eyes, dark as coal oil, deeply set in a face as smooth and chiseled as honey-colored Italian marble. A small, sardonic smile played across his full lips when his eyes met hers. He turned to whisper something to his companion, who squinted in Jane’s direction. Quickly she turned around. Her heart was pounding but she told herself that the young man must be ridiculing her poor dress or laughing at her ugliness. What other reason could he have for staring?
    When she turned back to look, they had gone, and Bessie was beside her again, holding the playbill Peter Gourley had bought her. Jane said nothing to her sister, knowing that even if she could explain what she had felt when the dark young man stared at her, Bessie would tell her she was imagining things.
     
    Their seats were all the way in front and on the extreme left side of the theater, so that they could see into the orchestra pit and the wings. It was excruciating to stare at the musicians pulling their instruments out of their cases and not be able to turn around and look for the young man and his friend. Jane tried to pay attention to the things Bessie read to her from the playbill, but the cushion on her seat was ripped and as she fidgeted she fervently hoped that the springs poking her uncomfortably did not tear her