55

Katrina hurried through the rain back to the theater, wondering if the streets of Paris had ever been muddy before they were covered in stone and brick.

The first play was being rehearsed, and she slipped into the back of the auditorium to drip dry while Jones bellowed orders to the hapless stagehands. He waved his hands, or ran them through his hair and beard in agitation.

"Over there, over there! Yes, better, better. You, bring anything breakable forward until the larger things are placed. How long until the backdrops are ready?"

"Lord knows!" shouted someone. They were struggling to wind the canvas around the rods evenly, to allow for pulling them up and down.

"Lay off the back items until they're done." He turned to one of the cast, and listened as they began pointing to the script, and then to another player. Jones went over and began explaining what sounded like entries and exits.

Katrina consoled herself with the thought that it was only their first year. They were also close enough to New York City to have several established competitors. Plays were not her strong point. Opera, music, and pure emotion. Speaking was hard enough in America, let along helping someone else do it.

"Miss Lefevre!" The shout broke into her thoughts.

"Come down please." Henry Jones motioned.

She walked down, and waited patiently for her instructions.

"Help this young woman, her costume is falling apart, and so is she." He muttered in Katrina's ear. She nodded, and took the lady backstage. The girl calmed with less noise, and Katrina helped her out of the dress, and began to work on it.

"The stitches see, bad." Katrina managed to say with minimal effort.

"Mr. Jones hates me. He'll refuse to let me work again." The girl sniffed.

"No, he is…busy. Much to do. Do your best, no anger."

"Do you think so?"

"Oui, so I think." Katrina shook out the costume, and held it out. "Try once more. Better now." She watched as the young woman dried her eyes, and redressed. "I sing, never easy. Always fun, always joy. Have joy, oui?"

Comprehension showed on the girl's face, and she nodded. "Oui."

As she left, Katrina fought her own despair. English she could now understand well. But the words refused to leave her lips. All the ideas, tip, tricks she had learnt in her life were rendered useless if she could not share them. Even Grubb was showing pity on her these days.

Oh, Uncle Erik, I wish you were here.

Returning to the auditorium, she watched as the cast spoke through their lines, Jones bent over a script to check them. The backdrops were now going up, and the stage hands were finishing the sets. One week left, and the first production would be behind them.

Katrina told herself things would get easier after that. Word would get out, and eventually they could get along without her. She could go home, to Paris, to the Opera, to the house on lake. Oh, how she missed them!

When the stage was set, the company took their places and did a full rehearsal. Katrina took her place in the back to listen and check volumes. They went through it three times, and adjourned. People returned their props and costumes, chatting as they left. Katrina began arranging the smaller props on tables, checking costumes for tears, and hanging them in order.

Jones walked back, dropping a stack of scripts in a box. "Are you alright, Lefevre?" Katrina looked up, and shrugged. He studied her thoughtfully. "Homesickness is one disease no man can cure. I wish I had advice for you."

She felt she ought to say something, but all the words she thought of were in French, or felt hollow. She nodded and smiled instead.

They walked out together, and both drew in a breath of the fall air. It was cooling, freshening, tainted with the day, and the day to come.

When rehearsals ran after dark, Jones often walked Katrina back to Mrs. Jenkins boarding house. If he couldn't for some reason, he would always inquire the next day if she had encountered any trouble. These were gestures she appreciated, and refrained from asking if it was George's request or Mr. Jones own idea.

Jones attempted to strike up a conversation, knowing full well that Katrina would run out of words before they were a hundred feet from the theater. "George told me that you looked after a relative of his in France for a while."

"Oui, his cousin's…nephew."

"Ah, still in touch?"

"No, only through family." She attempted to form a question herself. "Do you have family, Monsieur Jones?" How she wished that she could drop the Z sound from his last name!

"Some, none near here. Most are in Boston."

"England?"

"No, Massachusetts, here in America." He smiled. "I have grandparents, parents, a brother and a sister. Both of them are married and have kids. They all decided to buy a honking big house and move in together. Saves money, but not ears. You wouldn't believe the noise."

"Noise, yes, oui. Family is noise. Why do you not live there?" She shook her head. "I am sorry, it is rude to ask."

"No, it's no secret. I didn't fit in, wasn't much on the company they kept. Got an itchy foot, and decided to see what I could make of myself. I just followed work until George Folks offered me a job running his theater."

"Have you worked in theater much?"

"Only a little. My family used to attend a great deal, though. I saw it often."

"Ah, then, you learn by feel?"

Pleased that she had lasted so long, Jones laughed and nodded. "I guess that's about the size of it. You lived in the theater your whole life George said."

Katrina threw her head back to look at the stars. She could see the sky more clearly here, there were fewer buildings to light up and block it. "The Opera, there I lived with my uncle."

"Parents?"

"They are dead. Drowned." She was relieved that she had found the word she wanted. "Long ago, I was child. Uncle Erik, he is good to me."

Jones gripped his lapels, and snapped his coat around him, a mannerism Katrina had noted. He rarely wore it closed, and would give it the adjustment a thousand times a day, usually when amused or agitated. He was trying, she knew, to keep her talking. English lessons on the run. Carl often did the same thing.

No, she had learned to understand from Carl. Carl talked to her, Monsieur Jones talked with her. Not the same.

"You have often spoken of your uncle. He must have made an impact on your life."

"Until he married, he was my only…" she searched for a word to express all Erik had been. Friend, father, provider, teacher, all were true, and all failed. "My only love." She said.

The comment took Jones aback, and he was the one who fell silent. When they reached the gate, he tipped his hat and would have gone on, but she asked, "Supper, will you stay?"

"No, but thank you."

"Always, you bring me, and always go. I am sorry you go cold without supper, after being so kind." It was the best sentence Katrina had formed for a long time, and she was suddenly very proud of herself.

"It is not very far out of my way, don't stew. No trouble, Lefevre, none."

Katrina knew he would have done the same for anyone, and believed him. She nodded, said goodnight, and went up the steps to the house. Tomino pounced on her as she went in, and Henry Jones smiled and listened as she scolded him fondly in French.

Then, the giant turned, replacing his hat, and walked alone to his own house.