1. Scarlet


    Date: 9/7/2015, Categories: Historical, Author: Saucymh, Rating: , Source: LushStories

    The crescendo roar of applause prompted the pale-faced stage hand to leap into action. Grabbing the handle, he tugged at the door separating the dressing room corridor from the stage. He held it open, his eyes lowered. Just in time. Having finished her turn for another evening, Miss Scarlet Carter barged her way off stage in a full-on flounce. “It’s ‘alf bleedin’ empty. Again,” she whined at anyone who’d listen. Miss Scarlet, a diva whose auburn locks and fiery temper matched her name, was accustomed to being a ‘star.’ She hated performing to anything short of a full house and the declining audience figures plaguing our once thriving theatre drove her to distraction. “Something’s got to be done,” she ranted as she stomped towards me, heeled boots scraping the flagstones and her tall, feathered hat brushing dangerously close to the gas lamps. Standing outside her dressing room, I shifted awkwardly. Normally, I had little to do with Miss Scarlet, just dropped off her costumes and collected her laundry. That particular evening, however, was different. I was to be her personal dresser for the first time. It was a role in which I wasn’t altogether comfortable. Mrs Baxter usually dealt with our resident red-headed ‘volcano.’ Fifty years old and unshakable, she’d dressed countless ‘Scarlets’ and didn’t bat an eyelid at the constant tantrums. But Mrs Baxter wasn’t there. Hearing of problems at home, she’d upped and left, leaving me to take her place. For my part, I was no newcomer ...
    to the theatre; I’d been a dresser for the ladies chorus for years, but they were pussy-cats compared to Miss Scarlet. Dubbed ‘Scarlet The Harlot,’ Miss Scarlet had gained notoriety in the theatre world and beyond. At nineteen years of age, only a year older than me, she commanded top billing in our burlesque production and had a burgeoning presence on the London social scene. Such a rapid rise to fame had, inevitably, evoked bitter jealousies. On top of that, her intimate association with one Sir Henry Brooke had left her branded a ‘whore.’ Sir Henry was widely considered to be London’s most eligible widower. Filthy rich and old enough to be Miss Scarlet’s grandfather, he’d fallen for the charms of the feisty burlesque showgirl. Their affair was flaunted publicly, much to the horror of London’s elite upper classes. It was quite the scandal. I found it all rather amusing and was secretly fond of Miss Scarlet. She had a formidable presence, quite awe inspiring. Her confidence amazed me. Even with a background more dubious than mine, she managed to mix with the upper echelons of London Society as if she’d been born amongst them. I bobbed a curtsey as she swept past then meekly followed her into the dressing room. “Help her change, collect her laundry and leave. Do it quickly and quietly.” That’s what Mrs Baxter had told me and I planned to follow those instructions to the letter. Miss Scarlet, hot from performing, poured herself a glass of water. “Anne, isn’t it?” she asked, her ...
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