The First Actress by C. W. Gortner

Author:C. W. Gortner
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2020-05-25T16:00:00+00:00

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Living with Julie, my aunt, my five-year-old son, my rambunctious dogs and squawking parrot, in addition to my rebellious younger sister, who detested the flat almost as much as she did Julie and made no bones about it, proved a test of my forbearance. Rosine rallied to my order that Jeanne must be attended at all times, washing her with a tincture of chamomile and feverfew to ease her malaise, and ensuring her sheets were changed and laundered daily. Jeanne slowly began to show improvement, sipping broth and gritting her teeth from the spasms in her private parts. The bloody discharge had ebbed, though whatever she’d done to herself had caused damage. It would be at least another month before she was back on her feet.

Julie went about her days as if I didn’t exist, but it was her utter lack of outward concern for Jeanne, whom she’d treated so preferentially, that most infuriated me. If I could have thrown her out into the street, as she’d so often threatened to do to me, I would have. Only her agreement to not entertain at home and Rosine’s constant presence upheld our uneasy stalemate, my aunt murmuring that Julie wasn’t uncaring, but Jeanne had gone and done the unforgivable, giving herself so recklessly after she’d seen what could happen—

“Did she have a choice?” I said, glaring at my aunt. “Did Julie ever ask her what she might want? No, Julie did not. Nor did she give Jeanne any advice on what might happen other than what she gave me, which is scarcely enough to prevent a chill, let alone a child.” My voice caught. “Julie should never have put her in this position.”

Upon my inquiry, Jeanne refused to disclose her suitor’s name. I didn’t press her; it made no difference, but my anger was so fierce, resurrecting memories of my humiliation by Kératry, that I poured my turmoil into my play, creating a performance that critics hailed as my most accomplished yet. Madame Sand was delighted, as were Duquesnel and de Chilly, who raked in record receipts. Ironically, my fame increased, even as I raced from the theater to my mother’s flat every night, losing too much weight and fueled by nerves.

Finally, Jeanne was well enough to leave her sickbed. Before Julie could reassert her authority—I knew she’d dress Jeanne in white and send her back to the Opéra, regardless that my sister had scarcely recovered—I announced that upon the closing of my play in mid-August after sixty-five shows, I would take a respite. I was exhausted from work and the situation at home, but still worried enough about my sister that I invited the family to join me. We would spend a week enjoying the healing waters of Vichy; as I offered to pay the expenses, I thought no one would protest.

Naturally, Julie did. “Absolutely not. Jeanne is in no state to be seen yet in society.”

“Vichy is not society,” I said through my teeth. “It’s a spa.

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