The Sparks Fly Upward by Diana Norman

Author:Diana Norman
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2010-03-01T05:00:00+00:00

AT first she was sorry for the exiles; they were so brave. They arrived nonchalantly, the men striding, the women tottering in their threadbare shoes with that peculiarly French upper-class walk of theirs, toe first, heel after, their work-roughened hands delicately pecking the air as they talked.

They had heard . . . but what fun to be involved in a play . . . they had taken part in beaucoup de théâtre d’amateurs . . . if they could be of service to Madame?

Ghosts of the headless dead came with them, almost visible, like chains that couldn’t be shaken off. Nostalgia gnawed at them worse than the hunger that was forcing them to shame themselves but they affected insouciance; they might have been viewing Makepeace and the theater to see if both were suitable.

She wondered why so many wanted theater work rather than other menial jobs that were better paid and came to realize it was because they’d be out of the public view. Exposing themselves within these confines—and this was a much later realization—didn’t matter because actors were dross whose opinion didn’t matter anyway.

She stood in the orchestra pit, her elbows resting on its rail, as each one took a seat before her in the front row. Ninon sat on a stool beside her, out of sight, ready to be consulted.

A few brought servants with them—for the sole purpose, as far as Makepeace could see, to have someone to announce them. The worst were those who brought their children . . .

‘You see, Countess, we’re not casting for the play, we want laborers.’

The Comtesse d’Arbreville indicated her seven-year-old son. ‘We are most strong, are we not, Henri?’

‘Indeed, Maman. I am like Hercules.’

Makepeace sank down below the partition. ‘What do I do?’

‘Send them away,’ Ninon told her. ‘They are no use.’

‘I can’t. He’s so small. They’re both small.’

Ninon shrugged.

Makepeace stood up. ‘Can you sew, Countess?’ They needed seamstresses to make costumes.

‘I embroider, of course.’

Makepeace shook her head. There wouldn’t be time to do other than suggest embroidery by putting on appliqués; what they wanted was cutters-out and good old fashioned sewers. ‘Perhaps later ...’

When they’d gone she called up to Polly Armitage, who was cleaning the stage so that rehearsals could begin, and put a guinea in his hand. ‘Run after them, tell her she dropped this when she sat down.’

The toll on her pity and her purse grew. So did her irritation.

‘Monsieur the Count, I’m afraid the work we’re offering ain’t suitable for you, but if I could talk to your man here ...’

‘I answer for Joseph.’ The Comte de Penthémont had lost an arm somewhere, an empty sleeve was pinned to the tattered sash of his uniform. Joseph, on the other hand, had all his limbs and looked competent.

‘Perhaps he could answer for himself. Now then, Joseph, what work can you do?’

Joseph looked at his master who gave permission in French; few of the servants spoke English.

‘Je suis homme à tout faire de M le Comte.’

Makepeace bobbed down into the orchestra pit.

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