“Gesundheit!” a wiry man with a thin mustache says as he barrels into the room. He wears a simple black suit, and his pocket watch is in his hand. “Charlie? Where the devil’s that note from George?”
“Mr. Shaw, sir? On your desk.”
“Right. Swell.”
Charlie clears his throat. “Young lady to see you, sir. Miss Nan Washbrad.”
The clock strikes two, and Mr. Katz puts away his watch. “Terrific. Right on the nose. Great to meet you, Miss Washbrad. Lily said you were a looker. Let’s see if she’s right about your talent, too.” Mr. Katz shakes my hand till my whole arm vibrates. “And who are these charming ladies?”
“Her sisters,” I say, breaking free.
“Sisters, my foot. They’re her school chums, Marcus. And I’d keep an eye on my wallet, if I were you.” Lily Trimble sweeps into the room in an emerald green dress that hugs her every substantial curve. A fur-trimmed capelet hangs fetchingly about her shoulders. She drops into what looks like the most comfortable chair in the room. “Don’t get too nervous, Nannie. This isn’t Henry Irving.”
“Henry Irving,” Mr. Katz grumbles at the mention of the great actor-manager of the Lyceum. For there is no person of the theater more esteemed; Queen Victoria even knighted him. “That old snob may have helped to change the profession, but I’ll take it where it’s headed. Vaudeville. Dancing girls and popular entertainment—that’s what the people want, and I’m the man who’s gonna give it to ’em.”
“Could we save the speeches for later, Marcus?” Lily says, taking a small mirror from her handbag.
“Right. Charlie?” Mr. Katz bellows.
Charlie takes a seat at the piano. “What’re you singing, Miss Washbrad?”
“Um, ah…” I fear that Ann’s nerves will play havoc with her illusion and her singing.
Go on, I mouth. I give her a big smile, and she smiles back, rather maniacally.
Felicity leaps up. “She’ll be singing ‘After the Ball’!”
Lily Trimble looks into her mirror, powders her nose. “See what I mean, Marcus? Miss Washbrad may not need your services as manager—not with these two at her heel.”
“Ladies, you’re going to have to pipe down if you want to stay in this room,” Mr. Katz says.
“How vulgar,” Felicity whispers, but she sits.
“‘After the Ball’?” Charlie asks Ann, who nods. “What key, then?”
“Em, I—I…C?” Ann manages to say.
I feel I might faint from nerves. I have to bite my handkerchief to keep from making a sound.
Charlie plucks the waltzing tune from the keys. He plays four bars and looks to Ann. She’s too terrified to jump in, so he gives her another measure as a help, but still she hesitates.
“No time like the present, Miss Washbrad,” Mr. Katz calls out.
“Marcus,” Lily Trimble says, shushing him.
Ann is as rigid as Big Ben. Her chest rises and falls with each shallow breath. Come on, Annie. Show them what you can do. It’s too much. I can’t even look. Just when I think I shall die from this torture, Ann’s voice floats above the jangling keys and the cigar smoke. It’s delicate at first, but then it begins to build. Felicity and I sit forward, watching her. Soon, her voice fills the room, sweet and clear and enchanting. This is no trick of magic; this is Ann’s magnificence, her soul married to sound, and we are under its spell.
She holds the last note for all she’s worth, and when she finishes, Mr. Katz stands and puts his hat on. Does he mean to leave? Did he like it? Hate it? His meaty hands come together in a clear, loud clap.
“That was terrific! Just terrific!” he shouts.
Lily Trimble raises an eyebrow. “The kid’s not half bad, is she?”
“Well done,” Charlie says.
“You’re too kind.” Ann demurs, blushing.
Charlie puts his hand to his heart. “On my life, you were terrific. Like an angel! When I compose my musical, I’ll have to write you a song.” Charlie plinks about on the keys, and a merry tune starts to come to life.
“All right, Charlie, all right. Flirt on your own time. I need Miss Washbrad to read for me.”
Ann is given a passage from The Shop Girl, and she is every bit as good as Miss Ellaline Terriss. Better, in fact. It is obvious that everyone in the room is impressed by Ann’s talents, and I feel a mix of fierce pride and envy at her success here.
“I will write that musical,” Charlie whispers to Ann. “And you’ll be in it. That’s the voice I want.”
