The Vaudeville Star

“It’s ridiculous to think I would allow my wife to sing onstage like some organ grinder’s monkey.” King laughed.

“And I would never allow my husband to force me to give up my dreams,” she said quietly and then softly, “I don’t love you, King.”

King’s eyes watched her for several seconds. “I understand what this is,” he said, nodding.

“What is this?” she asked.

“You’re angry at me. For having you lie to the detective, and now you are punishing me.”

“No. That’s not what’s going on. You see your future wife one way. And you deserve whatever you wish. However, I want something different. So there’s an end to it.”

King took two steps to reach her and grabbed her arms. “Do you have any idea what I have invested in you?”

Ruby had given this argument some thought. “I will pay you back. When I can. I promise you.”

His hands increased their pressure on her. “I’m not just talking about money, Ruby.”

“What, then?” she asked.

“Things done . . .” he said haltingly. “In order to . . .”

Ruby willed herself to remain calm and not tremble as he suddenly stopped squeezing her and moved his hands along her arms.

“Come, Ruby. Let’s not quarrel. You are overwrought. The tour has taken its toll on you.” His hands almost caressed her. “I can give you such a life. Queen of Manhattan,” he said in a whisper.

“King. I cannot marry you. It is not possible,” she said with finality.

King smiled and picked up her hand. He kissed the back of it, and she could feel his warm breath on her skin.

“You are working too hard. You aren’t thinking clearly. I understand, my dear. We’ll discuss this later when you are more yourself.”

24

As each night passed with Ruby center stage, her star rose higher. People came to see her, people recognized her on the street, and the hotel staff treated her differently.

She laughed out loud when she read an article in one newspaper that proclaimed she was actually a Celtic princess reincarnated and therefore belonged to the people of Britain.

People waited by the stage door to see her, and men continued to send her flowers and notes.

On the night of their final performance in London, the troupe had been given a standing ovation, and everyone decided to take their cheerful group to the fancy restaurant Simpson's-in-the-Strand for a farewell dinner. They would be traveling to Paris the following afternoon, and Ford had not yet returned.

Ruby spent an hour with the troupe but then returned to the hotel. The exhilaration of performing and being admired and loved was now replaced with the feeling of desolation and despair as King preyed on her mind. She wished again that Ford was there. As she walked down the corridor to her room, she saw a figure at the end of the hallway leaning casually against the wall. He appeared to be waiting for someone.

As she moved closer, she saw the figure more clearly, and her heart hammered inside her breast. Ford! She dropped her little bag and threw herself into his arms.

“Darling. What is it?” he whispered into her ear.

His accent reminded her of home, and she closed her eyes as she wrapped her arms tightly about his neck, willing herself not to cry.

“Dearest Ruby,” he said, kissing her cheek, and then his lips brushed hers again and again.

In his arms, she felt safe.

She picked up her bag, and he led her farther down the hallway to his room. “Ford, where have you been?”

“I’ll tell you soon enough,” he said, opening his hotel room door.

Once inside, she pulled her gloves off and placed them aside. “I’ve been waiting for you since you left. I placed a note downstairs with the front desk.”