From "Amberlene"

It was not so long ago that she first came to me, that night backstage after the play, in the flickering gaslight of my dressing room. I sat before my vanity, clad only in corset and petticoats. I used a small cloth to wipe the heavy stage make-up from my eyes, and when I opened them and peered into the mirror, she was there, staring at me. I was startled because I'd heard no one come in, no door opening, no rustle of skirts or creak of shoes on the wooden floor. I hurriedly placed my hand over my exposed bosom and dropped the soiled make-up cloth on the floor.

"How did you get in here?"

"I watched the play tonight, and you were quite wonderful," she said in a whisper. "I have seen it every night. I do so love Romeo and Juliet, and you were a fine Juliet."

"Thank you," I said, knowing I was too old for the part, yet happy to have it. She smiled and I was captured by her beauty. She had luminous gold hair, and a radiance about her, ethereal as smoke. 

"I did not hear you come in. You must excuse my disarray." I fidgeted with the make-up jars on my table. She took a few steps forward, and I noticed the deep blue of her eyes, her Cupid's bow lips. I forgot about her entrance, or lack thereof. Indeed, the closer she came, the less important it seemed.

"So, you've seen the play every night? I am always grateful for such appreciation. I am so glad we were able to entertain you." I stood up and reached for my dressing gown, turning away from her as I slipped it on. I was not embarrassed, but neither could I assume her romantic proclivities were the same as mine. I had made such assumptions before, to my everlasting regret. Once, after many happy months of socially acceptable hand-holding, cheek-kissing and walking arm-in-arm, I endeavored to discern a certain lady friend's true romantic nature, so I kissed her on the mouth. She slapped my face soundly and ran away. I never saw her again. But I had to wonder about my pretty visitor; did she see the play every night for the play itself, or for me? 

Oh, such vanity shall not go unpunished, my conscience quickly told me.

I turned around to face her, but to my astonishment, she was gone. I ran to the door and flung it open, looking down the hall. I saw only a prop man struggling with some scenery and the cleaning woman setting her bucket on the floor. The girl was quite gone, but where, or how, I did not know.

I would know, shortly.

***

 Over lacy drawers and silk chemise, I hooked up my corset, then pulled on stockings and garters. I had dismissed my dresser early, feeling a desire for solitude as I dressed with methodical ritual after another successful night on the stage. I strapped on the bustle, then petticoats one, two and three, followed by skirt, bodice, hat and gloves. I intended to have a cup of tea at Madam Jaquard's tearoom before I went home. I picked up my purse from the vanity, then retrieved my cloak from where it lay draped over the dressing screen. I placed it on my shoulders and secured the clasp, whirling around to face the door. 

There she was. My heart jumped – I knew not whether it was shock, or gladness.

"My God! You startled me. How do you get in here without my knowing?"

"I'm sorry," she offered, somewhat shyly. "I have a light step." Her eyes were deep cobalt and wide with innocence, or so I chose to believe. I wanted to believe in the possibility of making her mine and hoped her innocence would allow me to advance my romantic intentions.

"I saw the play again tonight," she said. Her lovely hair was a cascade of curls, caught up in the front with a ribbon. "You were wonderful."

"How kind of you to say so." I smiled and idly patted my coiffure. "Perhaps you would care to join me at Madame Jaquard's Parlor for tea?"

Awkward silence. Perhaps she struggled with what she would say. I feared her answer would be no, but I hoped nevertheless.

She finally shook her head. "I'm afraid I cannot accept your invitation. I am most sorry."

And truly, she looked to be.

I was disappointed. I had so looked forward to getting to know her better. As it was, I knew nothing, not even her name.

"Well, perhaps I could call on you sometime, or you could call on me. We could take tea at my townhouse."

Her eyes widened, her brows lifted. I hoped I hadn't been too bold.

"I would love to have tea with you," she said at last, and my heart soared. "Perhaps here, after the performance."

Here, in my dressing room? It was more than I hoped for.

"By all means, that would be perfect." 

She nodded. "When?"

"Tomorrow, after the performance," I said quickly, before she changed her mind.

"Very well, then, tomorrow."

She stepped backward, away from me, as I swept by her in my heavy skirts. I opened the door to let her out. It was true she had a light step, for I heard no sound of heels on the hardwood floor. Not even the air stirred as she slipped by me.

"Allow me to take you home," I offered as I stepped out into the hallway and locked my dressing room door. "I am taking a carriage anyway, we might as well share, and don't worry about the fare."

But when I turned around, she was gone. Again, I'd heard nothing; no footsteps, no doors opening or closing. I was intrigued where most, I suppose, would be wary. Indeed, she moved like a ghost.

But I was not afraid of ghosts.

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