Free The Minstrel's Melody by Eleanora E. Tate Page B

my heart. You know what I mean?”
    â€œMore than you could ever know.”
    Othello approached, shaking his head and looking distressed. Orphelia had a horrifying thought. Had he changed his mind about her? Could he make Madame change her mind again, too?
    â€œI can’t find Lillian’s outfit.” He was so frowned up, his mustache was really bristling now. “I bet she and Robert took their costumes with them, which weren’t theirs to take. Bless their thieving hides!”
    Madame Meritta explained to Orphelia that Lillian had played an orphan boy and wore a coat, trousers, derby, blouse, stockings, and brogans. “Now where are we going to find clothes like that to fit you by this afternoon?”
    One bad thing after another! Orphelia thought. She kept quiet. Would lack of the right clothes keep her from her biggest chance?
    â€œTime to go. Maybe we can find something in my trunks.” Madame took Orphelia by the hand and headed for her sleeper coach. “Othello, Artimus, everybody, on to Pitchfork Creek!”
    Orphelia followed the woman to the coach, where Artimus sat waiting in the wagon seat with the horses’ reins in his hands. He was also the stage manager and the repairman. Orphelia struggled to keep a dignified appearance, but it was hard to keep from leaping and screaming with joy. One step at a time, she told herself. If I’m good enough this afternoon, maybe she won’t put me on that train. “Did you like my songs? What time do I come on? How long do I sing? Can I dance, too?”
    â€œYou can hush up until I can sit down and think,” Madame Meritta said. Orphelia climbed up after her into the sleeper coach and froze. This was where Madame lived when she was on the road?
    Lined up against one wall inside the coach were three beds as thin as stretchers. Humpback trunks and stacks of boxes bulging with papers, shoes, and other items spilled over by each bed. A tattered brown and yellow carpet covered part of the rough wood floor. At one end of the coach sat a monstrous dresser with a basin and cracked pitcher, and jumbled trays of toiletries. Opposite the beds was a full-length mirror with pictures, posters, and postcards plastered around the edges. Three large, doorless cabinets were crammed with gowns, coats, and scarves. Other garments swayed on hooks suspended from the ceiling in the remaining corners and crevices of the coach. A thick, stale fragrance of lavender, talcum, pomade, and camphor choked the hot air. Slop jars were probably under the beds, too. Orphelia hoped Madame Meritta wouldn’t give her the job of emptying them.
    Madame sat down on one of the beds and removed a pile of clothes from the top of a trunk. “Pull that green curtain open so we can get some fresh air. And sit down.”
    Orphelia squeezed past a hook of clothes and sat down by Madame Meritta. “How many people live in here?” The whole coach didn’t seem to be much bigger than her and Pearl’s room back home. Trying to keep from frowning, she slapped at a fly.
    â€œCounting Lillian, me, and Bertha—the one in St. Louis—usually three women. Sometimes four or five when we’re really busy. It can get crowded in here, but I can’t afford a private coach for me and Othello. You can take Lillian’s bed there if you need to rest on the way.”
    Madame Meritta banged on the wall, and the coach began to move.
    Your railroad coaches and private dining cars are in St. Louis, huh? Orphelia wanted to ask, but she didn’t.
    As if Madame Meritta had read her mind, she said, “I do travel by rail from time to time. I have a lot more room in boxcars, but trains are expensive. I’ve had to patch together the coaches we’re using right now. This is a hard life, Orphelia.”
    â€œWell, I’ve been meaning to ask how come you don’t have a Mr. Interlocutor. Why’s your main man called a Grand Master