Love in Disguise Read online

  © 2012 by Carol Cox

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-7111-2

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  Unless otherwise identified Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Scripture quotations identified NIV are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Jennifer Parker

  Author represented by Books & Such Literary Agency

  To Dave and Katie,

  my constant sources of encouragement—

  Your patience and support mean the world to me.

  To Kevin, Samantha, Emmalee, and Madilyn—

  You bring joy into my life in so many ways.

  And to Fayly Cothern—

  You may never know this side of heaven how much

  your walk with Christ has influenced me . . .

  and countless others.

  Your life is an example that speaks louder

  than words.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1 2 3 4

  5 6 7 8

  9 10 11 12

  13 14 15 16

  17 18 19 20

  21 22 23 24

  25 26 27 28

  29 30 31

  Author Note

  About the Author

  Back Ad

  Back Cover

  Teach me your way, O Lord,

  and I will walk in your truth;

  give me an undivided heart,

  that I may fear your name.

  Psalm 86:11 (NIV)

  1

  CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

  DECEMBER 1881

  O happy dagger! This is thy sheath.”

  Ellie Moore gripped her hands together as she mouthed the well-known line from the last act of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. The words floated out into the dark chasm beyond the edge of the footlights, and an expectant hush filled the theater, followed by a collective gasp at the moment she plunged her fists toward her abdomen and threw her head back with an agonized grimace.

  “There rust, and let me die.” Ellie let her head fall to one side and held her pose, silent as the grave, while the Capulets and Montagues reconciled, and the prince delivered the final line.

  Not until the roar of applause swept through the auditorium of Chicago’s Orpheum Theater did she stir again, ready for the curtain call. Ellie waited for the proper moment, then swept one foot behind her and sank into a low curtsey, spreading her arms wide. Her right hand brushed against the back of the red velvet curtain that screened her from the stage.

  “Here now. Don’t you dare set that curtain to moving.”

  Startled by the abrupt hiss behind her, Ellie jerked her head around and met the fierce gaze of Harold Stiller, the theater manager.

  At the same moment, the actors began to file off the stage. Roland Lockwood, the troupe’s Montague, bumped against Ellie’s outstretched hand. Arms flailing wildly, Ellie floundered to regain her balance, but to no avail. With a muffled thump, she plopped into an ungainly heap on the wooden floor.

  Burt Ragland, one of the stagehands, pushed past, his lip curled in obvious disdain. “That wouldn’t have happened if you spent your time tending to your own job instead of pretending you’re some kind of star.”

  Ellie scrambled to her feet, brushing dust from the hem of her skirt and trying to ignore the snickers from the other stagehands who’d gathered nearby.

  “At least I intend to make something of myself,” she snapped. “You’ll be stuck here long after I’m gone.” She lifted her chin when she heard the grunts of indignation from the group. Ha! That rocked them back on their heels, all right. And good riddance.

  Noting the cleaner area on the floor that marked the spot where she’d made her undignified landing, Ellie swiped at the back of her skirt. “I’ll think of you all, languishing here in this dusty hole, when I’m sipping tea in London.”

  Outright guffaws met her statement. Ellie gave up on trying to swat the dust from her backside, finding it too difficult to twist herself into a pretzel shape and maintain her haughty air at the same time.

  Let them say what they wanted. It didn’t matter anymore. Before the night was over, she would be gone from their midst and on her way to England. There, in the homeland of the Bard himself, she should find many who would appreciate her acting skills, gleaned from years of observation in the theater. Finally people would look past her drab exterior and see the raw talent that lay beneath. All she needed was a chance—just one! Then she would show them all.

  While the other actors dispersed to their dressing rooms, one of the crew opened the house curtain one last time, so Magdalena Cole, Queen of the American Stage, could address the audience.

  Her voice filtered back into the wings. “Thank you all for being here. Every performance is special to me, but tonight has a significance all its own.”

  Ellie glared at Burt and the others while Magdalena continued with the pretty speech she and Ellie had worked out the night before.

  “This marks my last performance in your fair city, and not only in Chicago, but in this great land of ours.” Magdalena paused to let the murmur of surprise die down before she went on. “Tonight I leave for New York, there to board a ship that will carry me away to share my art with the audiences of Europe.”

  “Don’t make out that you’re any better than us,” Burt growled. “The only reason you get to go is because you’re that woman’s toady.”

  Ellie sucked in her breath. “That’s personal wardrobe mistress—thank you very much.”

  “Good night, my friends, and God bless you, each and every one.” Magdalena glided off the stage to thunderous applause, carrying a bouquet of deep red roses in the crook of one arm. She thrust the flowers at Ellie as she walked by. “Put these in water,” she ordered, then gave a quick laugh. “What am I thinking? I won’t be here tomorrow to enjoy them, so it doesn’t matter what you do with them. Throw them away, if you want.” She continued down the hallway without breaking stride.

  Burt snorted. “Sounds more like personal dogsbody to me.”

  Ellie tossed the bouquet into a nearby trash barrel and followed in Magdalena’s wake, not deigning to give Burt the satisfaction of a reply. She closed the dressing room door, shutting out the post-show flurry.

  “Hurry.” Magdalena’s eyes shone like a child’s on Christmas morning. “We haven’t time to waste.” She spun around so Ellie could unfasten the hooks on the back of her costume. “Arturo will be here any moment. Is everything packed?” Magdalena slipped out of the Juliet gown with practiced ease.


  “It’s all ready.” Ellie draped the costume over the back of a nearby chair and reached for Magdalena’s new traveling outfit. She slid the stylish dress over the actress’s head and upraised arms and fastened the row of jet-black buttons that ran from neck to hem. Then she stood back to study the effect.

  “Well?” Magdalena pivoted slowly. Even in their present rush, she could find time to pause for an accolade.

  Ellie reached out to adjust the rounded collar, then nodded. “It’s perfect. That cobalt blue matches your eyes exactly. Your couturier outdid himself this time.”

  “And well he should have. I paid dearly for those new gowns. Even though I’m planning to acquire a whole new wardrobe once we reach London, I could hardly begin my grand European tour dressed like a second-rate bit player, could I? First impressions are so important.”

  Ellie folded the Juliet gown with care and placed it on top of the other clothing in the costume hamper. She lowered the lid, pressed it down with both hands, and then finally sat on it in order to fasten the latches.

  “There now, we’re all set. Your new dresses are in the two large trunks, along with your other personal effects. Costumes, wigs, and makeup are here in the hamper. We’re ready to leave as soon as Mr. Benelli arrives.”

  Magdalena cleared her throat. “Ellie, there’s something I—” A knock at the door cut her off. She leaned back against the dressing table and struck a pose, then nodded at Ellie. “It must be Arturo. Let him in.”

  Ellie opened the door to find a small contingent of theater workers gathered there. Harold Stiller stood in front of the group.

  “We’ve come to say good-bye.” He pushed past Ellie and walked over to Magdalena, who abandoned her dramatic stance the moment she recognized her visitors. “On behalf of all of us at the Orpheum, I want to wish you a safe journey to England and a dazzling career in the theaters of Europe. We will always treasure the memory that we, in some small measure, played a part in your success.”

  Magdalena’s lips tightened, then curved into an expression that would look like gracious acknowledgment to anyone who didn’t know her as well as Ellie did. It was obvious to her that the actress had no intention of giving credit for her success to anyone but herself while she stood on the threshold of her greatest triumph.

  Their triumph, Ellie corrected herself. How many times had she heard Magdalena say she didn’t know what she would do without Ellie’s help?

  “Thank you for coming to say farewell.” Magdalena’s tone held a note of dismissal, but Stiller didn’t take the hint. He leaned against the chair as if settling in for a long conversation, ignoring the glitter in the actress’s eyes that would have warned a more observant person of a pending eruption likely to rival that of Mount Vesuvius.

  Ellie moved between them, ready to intervene, but was interrupted by a commotion at the door.

  “Magdalena, my darling.” A stout man in a cashmere overcoat swept through the doorway, followed by three workmen. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting, cara mia. I had to brave the snow and ice to find the draymen and bring them inside.” Arturo Benelli, the famed impresario who would be orchestrating the next step in Magdalena’s career, took her hand and kissed it reverently. Then he straightened and clasped her fingers in his. “Your performance tonight was glorious, magnifico! Are you ready to take Europe by storm?”

  A girlish laugh—the one she’d used when she played Hero in Much Ado About Nothing—gurgled from Magdalena’s lips. “More ready than you can imagine, Arturo.”

  “Ah, perfetto. Our train awaits.” Benelli lifted Magdalena’s cloak from its hook and draped it around her shoulders, then wheeled around and snapped his fingers.

  The workmen stepped forward, and their leader asked, “Which of these things do we take?”

  Ellie cleared her throat. “Those two large trunks and that wicker hamper belong to Miss Cole.” She pointed to each item in turn. “The smaller trunk over there is mine.” She indicated the battered case that held her own belongings.

  Benelli arched one eyebrow and turned to Magdalena. “You haven’t told her?”

  Magdalena swung around to face Ellie, all trace of Hero gone. She cleared her throat, and Ellie felt her stomach constrict.

  “We’ve had some wonderful years together, haven’t we?” Magdalena murmured with a sweet smile.

  Ellie nodded dumbly, knowing in her heart that something dreadful was about to happen but unable to fathom what it might be.

  “You’ve served me well as I’ve risen in my profession, but now my career is taking a new turn. Arturo has come into my life, ready to lead me to even greater heights. And new opportunities often require us to make some changes.” The actress’s eyes welled with tears, as they did whenever she wanted to show heartfelt emotion.

  “Enough.” Benelli’s eyes, so adoring when he gazed at Magdalena, held no warmth when he turned to look at Ellie. “What Magdalena is trying to say is that I have promised her the very best of everything on her tour of the great theaters—including the finest wardrobe designers and makeup artists Europe can offer. In short, everything provided for her will be of the highest quality, par excellence—meaning she won’t need you.”

  Ellie’s mouth dropped open.

  Benelli snapped his fingers again, this time at the man lifting Ellie’s small trunk. “Put that down. It won’t be going.”

  “But . . .” Ellie shifted her gaze back to Magdalena, looking for some sign that his words had all been a cruel joke. But the actress’s face held no hint of teasing, only impatience, and perhaps a trace of guilt.

  “But I’m the one who takes care of you. Who else knows the way you like things done? Your favorite hairstyles, the way you want your pillow fluffed. And what about—” Ellie’s voice quavered, and she choked back a sob. She couldn’t break down and disgrace herself—not here, in front of an audience of sneering co-workers.

  She drew a deep breath, cleared her throat, and tried again. “You can’t be serious. You need me.” This time the words came out with more assurance. Ellie lifted her chin and stared straight at Magdalena, willing her to refute Benelli’s outrageous statement and vindicate Ellie before them all.

  Instead, the actress turned to her left and placed her hand in the crook of Benelli’s arm. “Let’s be on our way.” She smiled up at him, excitement shimmering in her eyes. “Europe awaits!”

  Together, they exited the dressing room and turned left, toward the stage door. The draymen followed, bearing Magdalena’s heavy trunks and the costume hamper.

  Ellie shouldered her way through the knot of people lingering near the doorway and stood in the hall, watching Magdalena go. This must be a nightmare. It had to be.

  “Wait. I’ve changed my mind.” Magdalena stopped halfway down the hall and turned back.

  Ellie’s heart soared, and joyful tears pricked at her eyes. She should have known Magdalena couldn’t go through with it. She took a step forward, ready to forgive.

  Magdalena pointed to the man carrying the enormous costume hamper. “Take that back. I’ve no need for those things anymore.” She raised her voice a notch and called back to Ellie. “Why don’t you keep them? They can serve as a lovely memento of our time together.”

  The drayman returned and set the hamper in front of Ellie, then trailed along at the end of the retinue.

  In the distance, Ellie heard the stage door close, signaling Magdalena’s final exit from the Orpheum . . . and her life.

  A half-suppressed snigger pulled her attention back to the grinning stagehands. Even Stiller wore a lopsided smile.

  Ellie drew herself up and glared at them all. “Don’t you have work to do?”

  Burt Ragland leaned against the doorjamb. “We do. But you don’t.” The smug look on his face made Ellie want to rip his hair out.

  “Of course I do.”

  “And what would that be?” Burt asked. “Pourin’ yourself a cup of tea so’s you can pretend you’re living it up in London? Looks to me like the reason fo
r all your snootiness just walked out the door.”

  Ellie bent to grip the handle at one end of the hamper and tugged it back into the dressing room, bumping Burt out of the way as she passed. “Nonsense. I have years of experience as the personal assistant to one of the leading actresses of our day. I’ll have no trouble securing another job. And now, I’ll thank you all to go about your business and leave me to tend to mine.” She moved to close the door, but Stiller blocked her way.

  “Not so fast. This dressing room is no longer your domain, not that it was ever yours to begin with. Now that Miss Cole is gone . . .” Even though he didn’t finish the sentence, his grim demeanor left no doubt as to his meaning.

  2

  PICKFORD, ARIZONA TERRITORY

  DECEMBER 1881

  Moonlight cast distorted shadows across the silent landscape near the Constitution Mine. Steven Pierce edged along the south wall of the board-and-batten office building, stepping gingerly so as not to advertise his presence.

  Ducking into a pool of shadow, Steven paused to listen for any sign that his approach was being watched. Satisfied that he’d made the trip from his own digs unobserved, he ghosted his way to the door and slipped inside.

  Four fellow mine owners looked up at his entrance, their grim expressions barely visible in the feeble glow of a single lantern. A blanket hung over the lone window, cutting out the light from the moon.

  Steven made his way, more by feel than by sight, to one of the wooden ladder-back chairs set in a rough circle in the center of the plank floor. “Any word yet?” he asked the others.

  Tom Sullivan, owner of the Constitution, shook his head. “Not yet. We’re still waiting for Ezra.”

  Steven closed his eyes for a few moments and let them adjust to the darkness. A quick glance around the room told him the others weren’t in the mood for conversation, so he folded his arms, settled back in his chair, and waited.

  The silence dragged on, stretching his nerves to the breaking point. He tried to make the time pass more quickly by studying his companions. Tom Sullivan, Brady Andrews, Alfred Clay, and Gilbert Owens—all of them older than Steven by a decade or more. Did their years of experience give them greater perspective, and more patience as a result?