The Phoenix

By Ruth Sims

At fourteen, Kit St. Denys brought down his abusive father with a knife. At twenty-one his theatrical genius brought down the house. At thirty, his past—and his forbidden love—nearly brought down the curtain for good.

A compelling Victorian saga of two men whose love for each other transcends time and distance—and the society that considers it an abomination. Set in the last twenty years of the 19th century, The Phoenix is a multi-layered historical novel that illuminates poverty and child abuse, theatre history in America and England, betrayal, a crisis of conscience, violence and vengeance, and the treatment of insanity at a time when such treatment was in its infant stage. Most of all it is a tale of love on many levels, from carnal to devoted friendship to sacrifice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lethe Press
• Release date: May 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452422329

Book preview

The Phoenix

Ruth Sims

Published by Lethe Press at Smashwords

Copyright ©2004, 2009 Ruth Sims.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the author.

An earlier edition of this book was released by The Writers’ Collective, 2004.

A trade paperback edition was published 2009 by Lethe Press, 118 Heritage Ave, Maple Shade, NJ 08052.

lethepressbooks.com [e-mail]

Cover art by Ben Baldwin

Book design by Toby Johnson

ISBN 1-59021-046-8 / 978-1-59021-046-8

With the exception of Minnie and Harrison Fiske, Ellen Terry, Henry Irving, Oscar Wilde, Charles Frohman, Abraham Erlanger, W. T. Stead, and Ava Astor, all of whom play supporting or minor roles, all characters featured in this book are completely the product of the author’s imagination and are not intended to representative any real person, living or dead. With the exceptions of the activities of the Theatrical Syndicate, and stage appearances by Minnie Fiske, Ellen Terry, and Henry Irving, all events are completely the product of the author’s imagination.

Historical Note: The Coney Island Elephant Hotel actually burned down in 1896, though in my story it was still standing; it was too much fun not to use.

____________________________________________________________

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Sims, Ruth, 1939-

The phoenix / Ruth Sims. -- Trade paperback ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 1-59021-046-8 (alk. paper)

1. Americans--England--Fiction. 2. London (England)--Fiction. 3. Large type books. I. Title.

PS3619.I566P48 2009

813'.6--dc22

2009001868

Dedicated to my Readers, especially those who take the time to tell me how much you love the story. Without you I am just typing at night in a dark room.

Special thanks to three British readers who are excellent authors, who told me where I was a bit too Yankee in the first edition: Michael Gouda; Erastes, author of Standish; and Alex Beecroft, author of Captain’s Surrender. They helped me get Kit and Nick out of railroad cars and into railway carriages in this new edition. My appreciation also to Jane Dewsbury, of Canada, for proofreading the manuscript.

Very special thanks to Steve Berman of Lethe Press for bringing out the new version, to Toby Johnson for the handsome interior design of the book, and to Ben Baldwin for the stunning cover.

Without the sanction of Society

Without the sanction of the Church

Without the sanction of God

I love you

Kit St. Denys to Nick Stuart

Contents

Title Page

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

About the Author

One

London, 1882

Michael turned anxious brown eyes to his twin, and said in an edgy voice, He’ll be here today.

Jack Rourke neither answered nor acknowledged his brother’s spoken fear. He had no time to worry whether the old man was returning. He was too busy searching for an easy-to-pick pocket in the crowd boarding the Margate steamer. Behind the thicket of curly blond hair, Jack’s dark eyes were those of a man beset by devils, though he was not quite fourteen.

Beyond and around the two boys, families and their baggage streamed toward the huffing steamer boats that would take them out of London on holiday. In front of Jack, a man’s coat pocket gapped as he bent to pick up a caterwauling child. Jack expertly removed the man’s purse and slipped it to his motionless brother. Then Jack bumped the man off balance and ran.

The man shouted, Stop him! Stop him! Thief! A dozen men gave chase, but the fleet-footed Jack ducked into alleys, jumped fences, ran through a pub, and left them behind as Michael passed unnoticed through the holiday crowd, the purse inside his threadbare coat.

When Michael reached their hideaway, an abandoned bottle shop, Jack was already there. Michael handed him the purse and sat down on one of the rickety upturned crates. Jack glanced at the smaller, frailer version of himself. Michael was paler than usual. What’s wrong? he asked.

I thought I saw him, Michael said, visibly trembling.

Jack said. He ain’t supposed to come back for another week.

I know. But he’s coming today, Jack. I know he is.

Jack knew too, though he’d eat a rat before he’d admit it. He knew the same way Michael did. Whenever Mum got a letter saying he was coming home things got bad. She drank more gin, hit them with both her voice and her hands, and paced the floor. A dozen times a day she stepped outside to peer down the narrow, filthy cobbled street. Bugger the old man, Jack muttered, and shut him out of his mind.

In a cracked brown jar hidden beneath a warped floorboard was every shilling they’d found, earned, or that Jack had stolen. When today’s swag was added and the jar hidden again, Jack sat down beside Michael. Soon we’ll have enough money to leave here, he said. We ain’t never gonna have to see that old sod again. God, I hate him!

Michael’s forehead wrinkled. You oughtn’t say that, Jack. The man at the mission says we must forgive and turn the other cheek to our enemies.

He likely says we oughtn’t steal too, so what do you think he’d say if he saw you nip off with the money today, hey? Seeing the hurt in his brother’s eyes, Jack mumbled, I didn’t mean it.

Jack, I don’t like stealing, Michael said, not for the first time. Can’t we stop?

Not till we got all we need.

Maybe… maybe things’ll be better this time when he’s home.

Maybe I’ll fly. Jack rubbed the crooked little finger on his right hand. The last time the old man was home he’d bent the finger backward until it broke with the sound of a stick cracking. It ached most all the time. And when the old sod left again, there’d be new aches, new bruises, new welts from the strap in the corner.

Jack got up and rumpled the dirty blond hair that matched his own. Are you rested? Let’s race. It was an unequal contest. He was laughing and panting upon the sagging step of the sooty crumbling tenement that leaned against its neighbor when Michael ran up and flopped down beside him.

Someday I’ll be bigger and faster than you, said Michael, without much hope.

Jack grinned. I’m twenty minutes older. You’ll never catch up. He saw his two friends, Toad and Spitter, and whistled shrilly around his fingers to draw their attention. Toad swung something as he approached. What you got? Jack asked.

Dead cat. What’s left of it. Gonna pitch it at the first rozzer I see. Toad chortled and held the sunken-eyed, maggoty object at arm’s length. Jack laughed. Michael cringed. Toad gave the dead cat to Spitter and reached into the cavernous pocket of his coat. And look ’ere, layin’ right there in the pawnshop window, just askin’ to be nicked. Ain’t she a beauty? He held out a pistol. Jack whistled softly and held the gun in his hand. Jack had seen many knives, of all shapes and sizes; he himself was never without one. But he had seen only one firearm. He didn’t know how to fire one, but suspected any fool could do it. Just then Toad snatched the pistol back and said hurriedly, There’s your old man. I ain’t sticking around. He and Spitter disappeared into an alley.

Jack stiffened at the sight of a brawny man, well over six feet tall, who trudged toward them with a sailor’s rolling gait, a seaman’s bag over one shoulder, brass buttons glinting. Jack wasn’t surprised his friends ran away. Even grown men stayed out of Tom Rourke’s way. And nobody interfered when he beat his wife and sons. Jack scrambled to his feet. I’m leavin’ for a little while.

Don’t go, Jack, Michael begged, clutching his sleeve. I don’t want to be the only one here.

Oh, you know he’s always nice to start with.

Then why go?

Because I don’t want to have to look at him. He frowned and looked up, as if he could see over the rooftops to another life. Let’s run away, Michael. Right this minute.

We can’t leave Mum alone with him.

Jack bit his lip to keep from saying she’d leave them quick enough if she had anyplace to go. Just yesterday he’d heard her say to her friend Lucy, If I knew for sure who bred those brats on me, I’d leave Tom and go live with him. Then in answer to her friend’s question, she said, Take the boys? What would I do with them? They can look out for themselves.

He hoped it was true they wasn’t Rourke’s boys. He’d rather be the bastard of that blood-hawking chimney sweep on the corner. Or maybe their old man was one of the nameless sailor boys who came home with her from time to time. They was usually young and drunk, and they laughed with her and told her how pretty she was with her yellow hair and dark eyes. I’ll be back before he misses me, Jack said. He don’t ever remember which of us is which anyways. He patted his brother’s shoulder and left.

Jack’s quick and purposeful path wound through several neighborhoods of dingy shanties, tenements, gin shops, pubs and little shops with flyblown windows. He was going to the wonderful place he had found one night last year when he was running away from the old man’s fists…

~ ~ ~

He ducked through an open doorway that offered a hiding place, and stopped in confusion. Blood from his nose and mouth left red streaks on his hand. People in strange clothes moved about on a platform; they spoke funny and waved their arms around. He saw a lot of benches, like a church he’d once stole from. He backed away, hoping to escape unseen, but one of the women left the platform and caught his arm.

You poor baby, she said. What happened to you? You’re bleeding all over yourself.

He stared at her. He’d never seen anyone like her. She was soft and pretty and she smelled sweet. A large man bellowed that he had interrupted something called a dress rehearsal. The woman held Jack’s arm and said, Leave him alone. He’s welcome to stay and I won’t hear any more about it.

Lizbet Lamarliere soon became his best friend second only to Michael. She was the owner of the small theatre, as well as its ingénue. She hired Jack to carry water and run errands and shine shoes and brush costumes. To Jack Rourke the Royal Lion, a run-down old alehouse that had been turned into a theatre, was a place of magic. He discovered that in the theatre you could become someone else altogether.

From the beginning, Jack loved everything about the theatre, from the actors like Lizbet and the juvenile lead, Roger, to the smells of makeup and old costumes and dust. One day he showed Lizbet a spider crawling on his hand. It ain’t really a spider, he said. It’s a mouse in costume and makeup.

When she discovered he had never been to school and did not even know his alphabet, she said in a no-argument voice, You have an excellent brain. I can’t let you waste it.

I ain’t gonna go to school, he said.

I didn’t say you’d go to school. I’ll teach you myself.

Don’t want to, don’t need to. I know enough.

Enough to do what? End in prison, if you’re lucky? Dead, if you’re not? Learn, Jack. You can get away from here.

Why should I? I got friends here.

She forced him to sit down. I bought this for you, she said and put a slate into his hands. She gave him a piece of chalk, put her fingers over his and together they made a hook on the slate. That’s a ‘J,’ she said. For Jack.

His reading primer was whatever script happened to be lying around at the time. The lessons came at rehearsals, between scenes, and at other odd times when he showed up. She refused to listen to anything he said that was not said properly. She insisted he say Please and Thank you, Yes, sir and Madam. Starved for learning Jack devoured all that she taught him. She bragged about his quickness with as much delight as if he were her son. She trimmed his hair and found clothes to fit his rapidly growing body. She introduced him to soap and cleanliness. He liked the fresh, taut way his skin felt when it was clean. Toad and Spitter cackled and called him a right flashy toff. He beat Toad up; they didn’t say it again. He yearned to tell Michael about Lizbet and the theatre and his new friends, but Michael might let it slip to Mum and she’d rat to the old man.

One day as he sat on the floor under a window, struggling to read, he felt someone watching him. It was Lizbet; he smiled at her. Jack, she said softly, do you have any idea how beautiful you are?

He shrugged, embarrassed. Me and my brother look just the same, he said. He didn’t realize that to the rest of the world Michael was frailer, smaller, clumsy, not as handsome. The only difference he’d ever seen was that Michael needed protecting, but he could protect both himself and his brother.

~ ~ ~

After leaving Michael on this night, Jack arrived at the theatre to find Lizbet and Roger deep in conversation. He heard his name mentioned and sidled closer to hear.

I wish we could use Jack as Young Cedric, Lizbet was saying.

I wish we could use anyone else for Young Cedric, groaned Roger. Harry is terrible. He has ten lines and he gets half of them wrong. Not to mention he’s grown too tall for the part. He saw Jack and paused. Jack, be a good lad and run down to Frenchie’s, fetch me a pint of the best.

Jack stifled the impulse to blurt out, Why don’t you just tell the director to put me on in place of Harry? But he knew why: Harry was the Director’s wife’s nephew and they were stuck with him until the end of the run. He tugged at the bill of his soft cap and darted off.

As he sped toward Frenchie’s Pub, he thought about the too-tall Harry. Harry Augustus: fifteen, and a head taller. They’d hated each other on sight. Jack knew that eventually he would have to fight Harry. Jack was a good fighter, a dirty fighter, but Harry was at least two stone heavier. By the time Jack returned from Frenchie’s with the pint, he had hatched a plan to get rid of Harry without getting torn limb-from-limb.

He went in search of his quarry and found Harry behind the theatre, smoking a thick black cigar. Jack took a deep breath, swaggered up to him and snatched the cigar out of his mouth.

Gimme that back, Harry snarled. Or a certain pretty girly-boy won’t be so pretty when I get done with him. Harry grabbed for the cigar and missed. Grinning, Jack opened his fingers; the cigar fell and he crushed it into the mud. For an instant Harry stared at him, open-mouthed. Then he clenched his fists. I’m gonna pound the bloody hell out of you.

What you’re gonna do is quit the play, said Jack.

I am, am I? Harry had his fists up ready to pound.

Jack stood his ground. Let’s bet. Winner goes on tonight. Loser gets lost.

Harry’s fists lowered slightly. Bet on what?

Winner’s whoever stays in the pen with Wittenmeyer’s bulldog for five minutes.

That dog’s a killer!

Scared?

No, I ain’t.

If you wasn’t you’d do it.

Okay, Girly-Boy, come on. I’ll show you. Harry swaggered to the pen where the night watchman’s dog was kept inside a stout, locked shed.

They could hear the big dog snarl as it hurled itself against the door. People said the dog was mad, but since he had been the same for a long time Jack doubted it. He was just mean. Like Harry. Jack went over his plan again. If his timing was off or if the dog did something unexpected, he would be chewed to ribbons while Harry laughed his head off. It was a chance he had to take. Jack loitered near the gate while Harry lifted the bar on the shed door. As the dog hit the door and burst to freedom, Jack threw open the gate. Harry gawped as the dog disappeared from sight within seconds.

Jack shoved him into the shed and slammed the bar down. From inside Harry pounded on the door and yelled, Let me out! Let me out! An impressive string of vile threats and filthy names spewed from inside the shed.

Now ain’t that fine talk for a gentleman! Jack said with a grin. Whistling, he went back to the theatre. With less than an hour before curtain, no one would go near the shed.

While the cast members got into costume and makeup, declaimed their lines, complained, cursed, worked themselves into the right state of mind for the performance, Jack was kept busy running here and there on errands. When will they ask me? he wondered as the minutes ticked by. They better hurry. Or it’ll be too late.

The stage manager hurried past asking for the dozenth time, Where’s Harry? Anyone seen the little bugger? Jack tried again to get his attention, but he rushed away, and returned with the director. That bloody nephew of yours…

My wife’s nephew, if you please, the director retorted. I don’t claim the little devil.

Sir, Jack said to the director and stage manager. I know all of Harry’s lines.

You better be telling the truth, the stage manager said as he pushed Jack into the arms of the wardrobe mistress. Fix him up as Cedric.

Jack’s heart raced; his mouth became a desert. His first role! The wardrobe mistress, with large, loose stitches hastily took in Harry’s costume and stuffed rags into the shoes, which were too large all over and rubbed uncomfortably on his heels. With a dab of makeup and a flick of a hairbrush, she pronounced him ready.

He waited in the wings, jiggling with excitement, repeating the lines to himself. His cue came and he rushed on stage. Mrs. Waring’s coming and she’s got— He stopped, stricken, terrified of the vast black throng beyond the gas footlights. No words came to his mind or tongue.

Blood in her eye, the prompter whispered.

Jack did not hear him. He knew he had to say something and do it quick. And she’s got steam out her ears! he said. The audience burst into howls of laughter. Jack was transfixed. It was supposed to be a funny scene but this was the first time anyone had ever laughed. The rest of his lines came flawlessly.

Afterward, when makeup and costumes were being taken off in two small, adjoining rooms, men in one and women in the other, the cast talked back and forth through the partly open door.

Did anyone ever see Harry? Lizbet asked.

Not me, luv, said one of the actors. Wherever the little turd is I hope he stays there.

Jack stripped off Harry’s costume and shoes, biting his lip at the pain of the large blisters on his heels, created by the floppy shoes.

The actor who played the vicar, put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. Hey, kid, what are you doing in here? Women and children in the other room.

Jack slapped his hand away and glared. I ain’t a child. I’m an actor now.

Everyone laughed. The man drawled, Well, listen to Mr. Irving.

Roger chuckled and rumpled Jack’s hair. That’s right, Jack, you’re an actor. Ignore him. You did a bang-up job for a newcomer. Saved that misbegotten scene.

Jack glowed. He wanted to run home and share it all with Michael. But he couldn’t, not while the old man was there. His jaw squared. B’god, he’d tell Michael and the old sod be damned. He’d been on the stage. He would be on the stage again and again and again until he was an old, old man. ‘Listen to Mr. Irving’ was supposed to be a joke. Jack meant it to come true. He’d never set eyes on Mr. Irving, but he’d heard much about him. Well, someday he’d be better than Mr. Irving, than all of the Mr. Irvings in the whole world. Kings and queens and dukes would come see Jack Rourke! Mr. Irving could then go hang because nobody would remember him once they set their lamps on Jack Rourke!

It was well past midnight when he arrived home. As he reached for the door handle he heard Rourke’s loud, gruff laugh from inside, and his mother’s giggle. He didn’t have to see them. He knew they’d be guzzling gin and her clothes would be half off and her hair all a-tumble while the old goat slobbered and pawed at her.

Jack. Michael emerged from the shadows. I didn’t think you’d be away so long.

I got something to tell you. It’s important. But you have to keep it secret.

Don’t I always? Michael asked, then to seal it he spat in his hand and crossed his heart. Jack’s eyes shone and his words fell over each other as he told Michael everything. Michael listened, wide-eyed. What if he finds out? he asked when Jack paused for a breath.

What if he does? I’ll do it anyway.

You’ll get beat, Jack. You know you will.

He’ll beat me anyway so I might as well get beat for something important. His defiant words hid fear as great as Michael’s. He knew his brother was right. Anything to eat?

Michael’s hand disappeared into his coat pocket, and surfaced with a wedge of cheese and a thick slice of bread wrapped together in a dirty rag. I saved ’em for you.

Jack wolfed the food taken from Michael’s grimy hands, then the brothers sat on the low step and talked quietly. Jack leaped to his feet as the door flew open. Tom Rourke filled the doorway.

Where you been, boy? Rourke demanded. Jack was surprised to realize he now came up to the old man’s broad shoulders. The last time Rourke had been home Jack had stood only as high as his massive chest. Soon, he thought, the old man would hit Michael and him and Mum once too often and he’d give it back to him, double. I said where you been, boy? You go deaf while I was gone?

Jack drew out the coins Lizbet had given him for the night’s performance. Working, he said. The coins disappeared into Rourke’s pocket.

That night Jack lay awake on the old mattress he shared with Michael. On the other side of the blanket that divided the room, Mum and the old man were having at it. He heard the bed bounce and he clenched his fists as Mum cried from time to time, Tommy, Tom, that hurts. Don’t, Tom—go easy! The old man never answered except to gasp, Shut up, and the noise continued. Then her protests changed to grunts and groans to match his. In a few minutes it was quiet and Jack could hear her cooing to the old man. The old man laughed low and called her his baby.

Long after his parents were asleep and the old man was growling in great, gulping snores, Jack lay awake, his arms and fists rigid with anger. He hated when mum and the old man were at it. The old man always hurt her. Once Jack had gone raging to their side of the room. He’d kicked and screamed at the old man to leave her alone. The old man had knocked him about and thrown him out into the street. Mum told him the next morning that she wasn’t hurt, it was just what men and women did. She told him to leave it be. She said the words painfully, with a split lip and a bruise on her face. Finally Jack went to sleep, one arm over Michael, his lips against Michael’s hair, just as they had slept since infancy.

Before two days were up Rourke was again cursing and beating his sons. Every time Jack saw the terror in Michael’s eyes he hated the old sod even more. One night Rourke raised his fist to strike Michael, and Jack roared, Leave him be, you old shit pail! He rammed his head into Rourke’s belly.

Rourke staggered back. He recovered his balance, knocked Jack to the floor, and seized the long, cracked leather strap. The doubled-over strap rained a torrent of pain on the boy as he curled up and shielded his face with his arms. As if from far away, over his own howls of anguish, he heard Michael beg the old man to stop, heard their mother say, Tom, come on, Tom, don’t lay on so hard. The old man shouted, Stay out of it, woman! and Jack heard no more from her.

The pain from the beating faded bit by bit over the next few days, but there was scarcely a minute of the day or night that Jack did not imagine himself with the barrel of Toad’s pistol pressed between the old man’s mean eyes. Calmly he planned to get his hands on it as soon as possible and put an end to their torment. But before Jack could carry out his plan Rourke went to sea.

The old man haunted Jack’s dreams. Big body, hands like clubs, brass buttons gleaming on his dark coat, thick black beard hiding the yellow teeth. Blood was often in the dreams. Sometimes it was Jack’s; sometimes it was the old man’s. When awake he fantasized about sharks eating the old man, brass buttons and all; of pirates running him through; of the old fool dancing at the end of a rope; of himself and Toad’s pistol.

When Jack returned to the theatre following Rourke’s departure, Lizbet’s heart ached at the sight of his shadowed eyes and fading bruises, but she did not pry. Instead, she scolded him with a laugh for locking Harry in the shed. Then she asked, "We’re casting a new play, The Bridge Crossing. Would like to play Christopher Brown, the crippled lad?"

He hesitated. But won’t Harry play it? He’s stupid, but he’ll get me for what I did. I don’t think I could trick him again.

Harry isn’t with us any more. Neither are the proceeds of the ticket box from last night, unfortunately. So, will you?

Yes, ma’am!

I think you’ll have the audience swimming in tears, she said. But you’ll have to work much harder on your reading. I won’t let you slack off.

He knew the story: Poor Crippled Christopher saves his home from the Villainous Banker, rescues his mother, the Virtuous Widow, from the clutches of the Villainous Riverboat Captain, then takes a fever and dies in his mother’s arms. But hark! A Heavenly Angel appears and says, ‘Because you have been virtuous and brave in life, I say to you: Arise, Christopher, live and walk.’ Whereupon Christopher arises, walks, and dances a hornpipe.

The hornpipe did not exist until opening night. Jack was seized with the notion of doing it and did it without permission of the director. It brought down the house. I can’t work with such a boy! the director bellowed. I must have someone who follows directions.

The audience loved it, Lizbet said. It stays. But it wants music. The Poor But Honest Shoemaker Who Loves the Virtuous Widow From Afar was pressed into service playing a mouth organ in the last act.

Closing night, cast and crew celebrated at Frenchie’s Pub. The Bridge Crossing had been one of their most successful plays, and secretly Jack thought it was all due to him. They were joined in their celebration by a tall, silver-haired man whose clothes and manners seemed out of place to Jack, but everyone else, especially Lizbet, welcomed him as an old friend. The gentleman was introduced to Jack as Xavier St. Denys, patron of the little theatre.

Mr. St. Denys smiled, grasped his hand as though they were equals, and said, I’m so glad I was able to take in your performance tonight. You have talent, young man, and Lizbet is a good teacher. Then, as always, Jack was relegated to the sidelines while the grown-ups talked. But that was all right. He could live for a fortnight on the glow inside him.

A few days later Jack had an idea how to turn his success to advantage. Michael! he said. We’ll work together, you and me. We’ll make pails of money. The next day, for a ha’penny Jack bought a tattered coat from the rag picker. Then he and Michael begged a ride from a river man who was sweet on Mum.

Where we goin’, Jack? Michael asked.

You’ll see. You just do what I say and we’ll be rich in no time.

By early afternoon they found themselves in a part of town where the streets were straight and the shop windows clean. The children they saw wore no rags, and they looked scrubbed to the point of pain. Men with hats, long coats, and side-whiskers, strode past absorbed in their own affairs. Ladies in bustles and fancy hats moved more leisurely, often in pairs, chattering and laughing softly.

Jack and Michael stood outside a toyshop, peering in at the unimaginable wealth therein, dolls with fancy dresses, boxes of tin soldiers, rocking horses with real manes, miniature carriages with miniature teams, an inches-high Queen and her Consort. Some toys bobbed or spun as if they were alive. Michael loved a clockwork clown in bright clothes and a funny hat with points. Many of the things they saw they could not even have imagined. They watched, hands and noses pressed against the shining glass, until a man burst from the doorway and grabbed their collars. On your way, you two! It’s bad for my business to have the likes of you hanging about.

Jack squirmed free of the man and the fellow let Michael go. With a final, Run along! The man wiped his glass free of their marks, then stood with arms akimbo, watching to be certain they left. Jack turned and jabbed his first two fingers into the air. The man’s face turned red and he brandished a threatening fist, then turned to talk to the rozzer on the beat. The policeman stared after them, tapping his truncheon against his hand. The boys ran.

We’ll show him, said Jack. He led the way to a less high-toned part of the street, where the rozzers didn’t patrol as much. He draped the coat over Michael’s shoulders, arms hidden inside, and buttoned it, leaving the sleeves dangling. Now, all you have to do is sit there and look unhappy. I’ll do the rest.

Michael huddled at Jack’s feet, his face averted as Jack called up the Cockney accent he worked so hard to discard. Please, he said, as he held out his cap to passing women, his eyes filled with tears, his lips a-quiver. Me brother ain’t got no arms and ’e can’t talk neither. And our Papa died of fever and Mum and the new babe just was called to ’eaven and we ain’t got no ’ome no more. There’s just me and ’im an’ we’re ever so ’ungry. ’elp us, won’t yer? God’ll reward yer, mum.

Almost always, the ladies looked first at Jack and then at Michael and back at Jack. Jack gave forth a brave smile that called up the deep dimple in his left cheek. The power of that dimple was a mystery to him, but he knew it worked on women, and most of them gave him money. Whenever Jack spied a patrolling rozzer, he and Michael melted into the crowd or a nearby alley, the ragged coat rolled up and tucked beneath Jack’s arm.

At the end of the day they had enough money to go back to the toyshop. Jack slapped the money down on the counter, and left with the clockwork clown. They had enough left for a shared meat pie and ale, with two shillings left to add to the treasure in the hidden jar.

Michael cradled the toy in his arms and worshipped his brother with his eyes. You’re a wonder, Jack, he said.

Jack grinned and he punched Michael’s arm. Ain’t I? he said.

Two

Even after The Bridge Crossing was closed and forgotten, Jack went to Lizbet for teaching. He grumbled at the difficulty in learning to read, especially when the words became longer and longer, but he loved it nonetheless. Lizbet lived in rooms over the theatre, small and drab but cozy, she described them. To Jack, who had never known anything but riverfront squalor, it was a palace.

One night after lessons, Lizbet gave him a brown paper parcel containing a suit of fancy clothes for a young gentleman, complete with waistcoat and stiff collar. These are for you, Jack, she said. A reward for all your hard work with the books.

He trailed his fingers down the fine wool of the coat and the soft silk of the waistcoat and regretfully returned them to her. I don’t have no use for such as this.

Oh, but you do. You’re my escort to the Lyceum Theatre, Saturday next. She touched the end of his nose. "You, my lad, will see Ellen Terry and Henry Irving in Romeo and Juliet. And you’ll meet them afterward. Do you remember Mr. St. Denys, the patron of our little theatre? Jack nodded. Well, he is a very rich and generous gentleman. He helps me keep the theatre open by paying the bills. He loves the theatre, and has made it possible for other struggling actors and actresses to continue their careers without starving to death."

Why? What’s in it for him? He looked at her, suddenly suspicious, feeling betrayed and a little sickened. See here, you ain’t his—his dollymop, are you? I’ll—I’ll—

Lizbet choked on her tea and gasped. No! she spluttered, dabbing at the tea spots on the bosom of her frock. No, no, no. He’s my—oh, dear... She went off into peals of laughter. When she had recovered, she looked at her glowering young friend.

I see I need to explain. Lizbet Lamarliere is my stage name; I was born Elizabeth St. Denys. Xavier is my brother. We grew up in a huge and very old house with buckets of money and servants, everything. It was intended that I become a cultured woman—which I did—and marry into an equally wealthy family—which I didn’t. My brother and I both loved the theatre, though in different ways. He didn’t want to perform. I did. It’s all I ever wanted. I was sent to the finest girls’ schools, but ran away whenever I could, and I could always be found in the nearest theatre. The people I met there were ever so much more interesting than Lord This and Lady That! Greasepaint was much more wonderful than tea in delicate china or the finest diamond. My father threatened to disown me if I didn’t stop ‘disgracing’ him.

Why was it a disgrace to go to a theatre?

Just because people said it was. They believe all actresses are immoral. My father and I had a terrible row when I was seventeen. I was betrothed against my will to a pompous ass whose name I don’t even remember. When I ran away that time, he really did disown me. I had no money and no prospects. If not for my brother I don’t know what I would have done. My parents died of influenza not long after I left. When I found this building, my brother bought it for me and has kept it going. Without his help… well. No matter. He often asks me to return to live at St. Denys Hill but I prefer my little rooms here. He understands.

She gave Jack the clothes once more. My brother is taking us, you and me, to dinner in a lovely restaurant, and then to a proper theatre, the Lyceum. You must dress accordingly. I’ll teach you the proper dining etiquette.

Jack considered, and decided the rich gentleman was good for something, though the fancy word etiquette sounded like something nasty. He hugged the clothing to him. If I take them home Mum will sell them.

I’ll keep them. You can change here.

~ ~ ~

The bloody collar’s going to choke me to death, he complained as he stood for her inspection that night.

Oh, bosh, Lizbet said. Women suffer much more than men in order to look splendid. And you look splendid.

He wanted to tell Lizbet she was beautiful, but he didn’t know how. Her hair was drawn up in loops and curls with sparkles in them, and she had more sparkles at her ears and throat. Later, when the St. Denys carriage pulled up in front of The Royal Lion, he was surprised when a man jumped down and held the door open for him and Lizbet, and helped her mount the low

Reviews for The Phoenix

[veevoxvoom · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Pheonix is a gay Victorian romance written by a self-professed cookie-baking grandma. Now that is cool. If I live to be a grandma, I want to be as cool as Ruth Sims. Her book is the story of a street rat turned famous actor, Kit, and a conservatively raised young doctor, Nick. The two of them meet at one of Kit's plays and embark on a relationship that lasts across the span of years and continents. By turns, they love each other, hate each other, fear for each other, comfort each other.I found The Phoenix to be a rich, sprawling novel. It's set during the Victorian times and I believed the setting-- I believed that Nick and Kit were products of their times and upbringings. In fact, all of Ruth Sims' characters were likable or believable, and I admire her tenacity to deliver a story that is three-dimensional with real pain and complexity, rather than "they had sex and lived happily ever after."With that said, the book had a few flaws. While I enjoyed how Nick and Kit's affair spanned several years, their initial coming together was a little too quick to be truly savoured. There are other abrupt moments in the story. And while I believed Nick and Kit's joys and frustrations, I didn't feel them like they were my own, which is what separates The Phoenix from the five-star As Meat Loves Salt. Still, it's a very good read and an enviably talented debut.

[jibrailis · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Pheonix is a gay Victorian romance written by a self-professed cookie-baking grandma. Now that is cool. If I live to be a grandma, I want to be as cool as Ruth Sims. Her book is the story of a street rat turned famous actor, Kit, and a conservatively raised young doctor, Nick. The two of them meet at one of Kit's plays and embark on a relationship that lasts across the span of years and continents. By turns, they love each other, hate each other, fear for each other, comfort each other.I found The Phoenix to be a rich, sprawling novel. It's set during the Victorian times and I believed the setting-- I believed that Nick and Kit were products of their times and upbringings. In fact, all of Ruth Sims' characters were likable or believable, and I admire her tenacity to deliver a story that is three-dimensional with real pain and complexity, rather than "they had sex and lived happily ever after."With that said, the book had a few flaws. While I enjoyed how Nick and Kit's affair spanned several years, their initial coming together was a little too quick to be truly savoured. There are other abrupt moments in the story. And while I believed Nick and Kit's joys and frustrations, I didn't feel them like they were my own, which is what separates The Phoenix from the five-star As Meat Loves Salt. Still, it's a very good read and an enviably talented debut.

[jshillingford_2 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The Phoenix easily gives Romeo and Juliet a run for it's money! I am a huge fan of Shakespeare, as is the author if her (Kit's!) enthusiasm within the story is any indication. Yet, Sims' forbidden love between two men is more poignant. It resonates through our society, where such love is attacked as strongly now as it was when this story was set. I will not rehash the plot, as other reviewers have already done so. But, I will say Ruth Sims is an exceptional writer whose work should not be missed. If you are looking for erotica, or M/M romance, this may not be for you. There is sex, but it's not explicit. And, Phoenix does not have the contrived "happily ever after" ending that many romances have (which I also enjoy, and am not knocking here). If you ARE looking for a deeply felt, well-written novel of true love, then buy this book now. Nico and Kit love each other, but their lives, society, and their own insecurities get in the way time and again. Until, finally, they realize that one simply cannot live without the other. While our two heroes do end up together, it is only after much loss and pain, just as in real life. A bittersweet ending, but still sweet. This novel should be enjoyed by historical fiction fans, as well as M/M fiction fans. Even those who do not agree with the M/M lifestyle can appreciate the magic in the story and Sims' prose. The reviewer who quoted Kit, forgot one line (or it has changed in this revised edition): Without the sanction of Sociey Without the sanction of the Church Without the sanction of God, Without the sanction even of yourself I love you. Obviously, these words have touched a lot of people (me included). How else to explain so many reviewers quoting them here? And, the cover art is beautiful.

[narwhaltortellini · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Jack lives in London with his twin brother Michael, his negligent mother, and his abusive drunk of a father. When his home life is thrown to even more tragic depths, Jack escapes with the help of a troupe of actors he has befriended, and is adopted by a kind, wealthy old man. Hiding his former identity, he takes on the name Kit and goes on to become an accomplished young actor and (somewhat secretly homosexual) heartthrob, yet still he is haunted by dreams of his tragic past. He meets Nico, a gay-but-fighting-it doctor from a strict, ultra religious family, and the two quickly fall in love and begin a tumultuous relationship.Evocative, lush, dramatic, sweeping, epic, moving. These are the sorts of words I've commonly seen used to describe this book. Though melodramatic Victorian sagas aren't usually my thing (I tend to prefer more tight, character interaction/relationship focused stuff, rather than character good-chunk-of-life-span and time-period focused), I get a little tired of how frivolous so much of the m/m romance I find is, and was hoping with this I'd find the artistry, complexity, and convincing emotional content it's hard to find sometimes in more contemporary-styled things and pure romances.Sadly I wasn't even able to finish this book, and it was not even my lack of interest in the genre that was the main detractor for me. It was that the book lacked the main thing I was hoping to get out of it: convincing, complex characterization, character development, and romance. Instead I found...Unconvincing characters: Kit is a self-centered jerk who cares more about easing his nightmares than his partner's feelings. The fact he had a tragic past does not make his adult self any less of a smug, shallow bore. Nico is better, but for someone supposedly so sold on his religion, he drops his beliefs for a hot night of gay sex awfully readily. Then he angsts about it later, and does it all over again. His inner love vs. religion turmoil is never convincing. Certainly, imperfect characters are what a story like this thrives on, but they must be understandable and at least a little more sympathetic.Unconvincing romance/relationship: Why do these two love each other? Even if they characters are self-admittedly unsure, should we not get some idea from watching them? First they were infatuated, then they couldn't bear to be parted. The only reason seems to be that for some magical reason sleeping next to Nico holds off Kit's bad dreams better than anyone else. I suppose that could be romantic, but it was discovered after one night of sex before they even had a real conversation with one another. We're told and told and told they make one another happy, but WHY? I'll admit this lack of desire to give a convincing reason for sudden love is something I've seen in other Victorian novels and some might say we should just write it off as the way of this style of story. But this romance was simply MUCH too central to this novel to be given that treatment.Utter lack of development in characters/relationship: Things happen, characters angst, characters deal. Repeat. The relationship was showing no signs of development, change, or becoming more fleshed out. The characters have disagreements, giving a prime opportunity to DO these things, however all that happens is that they somewhat resolve them, then do it all over again.To the novel's credit, the theater setting/background is an interesting idea. Still, I was so disinterested by the characters I failed to take interest in their potentially more interesting theater activities, and the details certainly still weren't enough to be compelling in and of themselves. The novel also has a tendency to suddenly do a lot of “telling” at certain times. This is the occasional way of Victorian novels I think, but the author's choice of when to tell vs show and the transitions were quite jarring to me. It seemed less in the style of better Victorian novels I've read in the past (if not overly loved) and more just the author's whims of which scenes they'd like to describe and which not. Indeed, after the two main characters meet, these sudden bouts of summarizing large amounts of events stopped almost entirely, at least for the rest of the book I read, suggesting to me the author was less interested in emulating Victorian style and more in somewhat clumsily rushing through parts she wasn't interested in in order to get to the main part she was after.Still, in my usual rush to point out flaws I feel aren't mentioned enough by other reviewers, I've made the book sound considerably more horrid than it is. Though not with the artistry I'd hoped for, and ignoring the bouts of “telling,” the prose is a bit better than the average m/m romance I've picked up. The plot seems as if it may have been decently done and eventful. But my inability to buy the characters and their relationship in this novel completely ruins its readability for me. While I'd been nursing the idea of continuing to see if things get more convincing, I was able to find another review that held the same opinion of the first part as I, and it sounds as if the latter half is if anything even more irritating. It looks like I will be giving up here.

[blakefraina · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Traditionally, historical love stories are set against a backdrop of war or political intrigue (think "Gone With the Wind" or any of Mary Renault's many epic novels). As I'm more interested in culture than politics, I've never been much of a fan of this literary genre. That's why it was with surprise and delight that I discovered Ruth Sims's "The Phoenix." This is a sweeping historical romance that plays out against the theatrical goings on of nineteenth century London and New York. A veritable feast for the true culture maven. The book's main story concerns the love affair between Kit St. Denys (né Jack O'Rourke), a bright light on London's theatre scene, and Nick Stuart, a goodhearted doctor running a small clinic on the wrong side of town. The reader watches each man painfully wrestle with the demons of his tormented past, Kit as the son of an abusive, alcoholic father and Nick the son of a fanatically religious small town doctor. Acknowledging their forbidden love for one another is only one of the many complications that threaten their happiness. They must also contend with the law, professional triumphs, financial setbacks, long separations, tumultuous relationships, personal loss, even a bout of insanity. The novel, told in a compulsively readable, straightforward narrative style, is generously populated with engaging, believable characters - some clever inventions, others real life denizens of the nineteenth century theatre scene. I found Sims's detailed depiction of the Theatre Trust, a group that had a stranglehold on the fin de siecle New York theatre world, as particularly fascinating, in light of the parallels one can certainly find between it and the twenty-first century's media conglomerates that all but control our modern airwaves. As they say, the more things change... This is a book that's difficult to put down. It's informative, romantic, (tastefully) sexy and just rollicking great fun. Plus it has enough twists, traumas and surprises to keep even the most jaded reader on the edge of his seat. The only fault I can find is that some of the book's many characters were not given enough face time nor were several of the secondary relationships fleshed out to my satisfaction. For example, after the death of Nick's fanatical father, he is reunited with his mother from whom he was forcibly estranged. We are only given a brief glimpse into her new life as a widow in London and her renewed relationship with her son before the story's focus shifts back to the uncertain fate of the romance between Kit and Nick. But this complaint is only a testament to my interest in everyone and everything in the story. All the characters and their lives held me in complete thrall. Summer's coming, folks. Definitely make room for "The Phoenix" in your beach tote this year.

[markprobst · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

With or without sanction, this book is destined for greatnessThose of you who have read my reviews know I have a special love for novels that demonstrate the adversity of homosexuality in a historical setting. So discovering Ruth Sims’ romantic Victorian tale was like finding a rare gem. It’s been a long while since a book resonated this deeply in my soul. It’s with loving care that the author seamlessly weaves the tapestry of true historical characters and events with authentic fictional counterparts. The rich narrative comes to life and envelopes the reader with its vivid Victorian atmosphere. In style, it reminded me of the movie “Wilde”, and coincidentally, Oscar plays a minor role in this story. It also evoked the memory of another film “Stage Beauty” in that it wonderfully recreated 19th Century theatre life in both London and New York. (Although “Stage Beauty” was set in the 17th Century.) The story is near epic in its span of twenty years and I was never able to predict what direction it would take. I stayed up all night reading the final 100 pages because I was so mesmerized (or to put it another way: it really had me by the balls!) I must commend Ruth Sims for the extraordinary amount of research she must have done to bring such realism to the historical and psychological elements of the book. In my opinion, THE PHOENIX is a masterwork.