Free The Little Shadows by Marina Endicott Page B

moving her arms into place as if she were a statue, he picked up the sheer drapery and flung it over Mrs. Farquhar.
    The veil was barely in place when the husband came in. He was in a storm, thundering round the studio, looking for his wife in the corners and behind the dressing screen. He stopped, transfixed, in front of her beautiful portrait. Then his eye caught the veiled form, and he went to tear the veiling off, but Aubrey stopped him.
AUBREY: A statue, in its early stages. The clay cannot be exposed to air.
    Oh, what a piffle! Bella did not expect the husband to be fooled by that—but he let his hand drop, and went back to staring at the portrait.
MR. FARQUHAR: I raised her from obscurity, a poor girl, daughter of a country schoolmaster—she knew nothing of the ways of high society. I schooled her. Now she leads the social world. Or has, till now …
    The draped figure moved, one arm yearning towards her husband.
AUBREY: And you seek to upbraid her for her sins?
MR. FARQUHAR: To beg her forgiveness, before—I have failed her. The truth is, I am a failure. Cracked up, business in ruins. I came to say—farewell.
AUBREY: You take the coward’s way out, sir?
MR. FARQUHAR: If it is cowardly to rid the world of one without worth, yes.
    Bella was back in the story now with the stumpy businessman, whose round stomach and twiddly moustache might have made him ridiculous, except that he was so downtrodden by bad luck. He grovelled onto the model platform and collapsed at the feet of his wife’s statue.
MR. FARQUHAR: She will be better without me. Free to love, again!
    He was still. Aubrey looked up at the statue and held out his hand, beckoning to his love with the imperiousness of youth. But lo! A rustle of silks, the veil cast aside, and the goddess knelt to the crumpled creature at her feet and touched his bald pate. The husband gasped; his head lifted. (Like one of Juddy’s dogs sniffing a bone, Bella thought.)
MRS. FARQUHAR: I love you better in your failure than ever in success. Come to me, my dear.
    She cradled his head upon her bosom. Aubrey looked at the pair with a sardonic air. Swept a bow, picked up his hat, and left the two alone, in an artist’s studio.
    Watching Jimmy Battle come back for a curtain call and smile off into the wings (which she’d bet a nickel was where Aurora stood) Bella had a revelation. It came clear to her, about performing: there was the imaginary version, the vision of how the thing was going to be—howthey would dance, how the people would be transported on wings of song. But then there was what really happened—how she almost came in a beat too soon and that threw them all off, then Aurora forgetting the words—which was the truth of it.
    But not the whole truth of it, because they would be good, someday they would be. And it seemed to her that the part of herself that would be good was the same part that tripped and fell, that came in too soon, that held the notes too long. As the part of Aurora that was best was the part that nearly killed her every time she did anything less than perfect—her privacy, her unwillingness to fail. And Clover? Clover was a puzzle. She thought nothing of herself, but that was so pure! That self-ignoring made Clover nothing but music when she sang, made her self disappear and the notes come forward. Maybe that was her goodness? And Mama was good at the vision of how things could be, at continuing on, no matter what.
    Where We Want to Be
    Tea was served onstage during the break between shows, a nice surprise; the girls had thought they’d have to tramp back to the hotel or go without. A cup of stewed black tea and a biscuit one step up from hardtack, but they were not asked to contribute a penny each as Clover had feared they might be. Jimmy was there, and Clover nudged Bella to give him back his script and beg pardon for stealing it. He laughed and said he did not need it any longer, only kept it as a talisman. ‘I figure I can’t be fired if