The Nightingale and the Lark

By Jessica Cale

After years of failed auditions, rum heiress Andromeda Archambault gives it one last try at The Crow's Nest in Shoreditch against her better judgment. She may be a lady, but to director Frank Creighton, she's the Queen of Night, and she's perfect for a starring role in his theatre and his life.

But Andie isn't who she says she is, and neither is Frank. Will their Phantasmagoria be a success, or will the skeletons in their closets close the show before it begins?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Publishing
• Release date: Feb 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781094452456

Jessica Cale

Jessica Cale is a romance author, editor, and historian based in North Carolina. Originally from Minnesota, she lived in Wales for several years where she earned a BA in History and an MFA in Creative Writing while climbing castles and photographing mines for history magazines. She kidnapped (“married”) her very own British prince (close enough) and is enjoying her happily ever after with him in a place where no one understands his accent. She is the editor of Dirty, Sexy History and you can visit her at www.dirtysexyhistory.com.

Book preview

Chapter One

Four bars into the aria, Andromeda Archambault knew she’d lost them.

Sitting in a box at the back of the Theatre-Royal, the directors paid her no mind as they talked among themselves and shuffled papers. She could barely make out their features from her position behind the stage lamps, but she didn’t have to. Six months of training for this audition, and it was over in under a minute.

Heart sinking, she kept singing because she was a professional. Or at least she was trying to be. Every audition was the same—weeks of encouraging correspondence ending in surprised dismay when she finally introduced herself. The Lyceum. Haymarket. The King’s Theatre. The Adelphi. The Pantheon. The Olympic.

She’d even tried the Aquatic, for heaven’s sake. Surrounded by artificial waterfalls, painted krakens, and a splintering shipwreck, she’d felt more like her namesake than ever before—frustrated, helpless, and waiting to be eaten.

There was no hero swooping in to save her at the Theatre-Royal, but she was no sacrifice. She was a siren.

Angry now, she sang louder. Improvising, she added trills Mozart himself had never dreamed of, projecting with such clarity and force, she felt she might collapse in on herself. Let every empty seat vibrate with her passion so that night’s audience could still feel it when they sat down. Let the curtains tremble on their rods. Let it change the very air itself until she made the space her own, altered it on a fundamental level because she had been inside it. She wouldn’t let anyone present forget her name.

When she finished, the three directors in the box looked largely unaffected. The only indication she had of how well she did was the shock on the cleaner’s face, stunned into stillness and holding his broom in mid-air. In a doorway stage left, an actress looked on in wonder, tears streaming down her face.

At least someone had enjoyed it.

Only one director stood. Thank you, Miss Archer. We’ll be in touch.

No, you won’t, she muttered. Forgoing the traditional curtsy, she exited stage right before she burst into tears. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

As she made it into the chequered hallway leading to the foyer, the rapid click of heels on marble stopped her in her tracks.

Wide-eyed and slightly winded, the actress all but flew around the corner. Wait! She skidded to a stop, dashing the tears from her cheeks. I’ve never heard anything like that in my life. You’re unbelievable.

Warmed by the compliment, she let out a shaking breath. They don’t seem to think so.

The actress rolled her eyes. No accounting for taste. She thrust out a hand. I’m Emilia.

She took her hand awkwardly. Andie.

The door flew open and half a dozen stagehands bustled through, two struggling with a massive gilt harp. Emilia’s interest turned to horror as they nearly dropped it. Careful with that! Distracted, her gaze kept darting back to them as they rounded the corner. I carted that thing all the way back from bloody Florence; if they so much as chip a cherub, I’ll scream. Her eyes bright, she smiled and refocused on Andie. I’d love to see you perform again. Where are you based?

Andie sighed and shook her head. Nowhere. No one will take me.

Emilia’s smile faded. What do you mean?

The last one outright told me he didn’t like the image of ‘a blackbird among the doves.’ She raised her eyebrows. When she’d first started auditioning, she’d only thought to make it on her own without her family’s influence. All her life, people had fallen over themselves to please her, but with a borrowed dress and a borrowed name, the situation was suddenly very different.

Emilia’s mouth dropped open. Afraid you’ll sing their actresses off the stage, more like. She shook her head, clearly scandalized. What bollocks!

Andie had to agree.

Have you tried the Lyceum? Sadler’s Wells? Emilia asked, hopeful.

With a sigh, Andie listed the last ten auditions she remembered.

Brittle with barely suppressed rage, Emilia crossed her arms. The Crow’s Nest in Shoreditch. Go right now.

Andie blinked. The Crow’s Nest in Shoreditch. She didn’t know whether to laugh or take offense. I beg your pardon?

Emilia waved a hand. I know, I know, it’s hardly got the ring of the ‘Theatre-Royal,’ but Frank Creighton’s worth a dozen of these knobs. He’s an odd duck, but he pays on time, and he knows talent when he sees it.

Andie was still stuck on Shoreditch. She had been to New York, St. Croix, and all over Europe, but although she’d lived in London all her life, she’d never been to the East End. Frank Creighton, she repeated. The Crow’s Nest.

She could remember that. Her mother often attended Lavinia Creighton-Crowley’s salons, but Andie very much doubted the dowager Lady Bodmin would appreciate such an association, even an imaginary one. The stately old woman had always treated Andie with detached courtesy, but if she knew what she was about to do, she’d drop her petit fours.

With that image in her head, Andie finally smiled.

Whatever Andie had expected, this wasn’t it.

Across the street from St. Leonard’s, The Crow’s Nest was an Elizabethan behemoth, six stories high, perhaps thirty feet across, and listing ever-so-slightly to the side. Thinking of the plywood shipwreck at the Aquatic, Andie inspected the splintered wood beams for cannon damage. As the sun set behind it, several dozen crows suddenly swooped off the roof and headed for the churchyard behind her.

Across the front of the building, the gas lamps were already lit, and the diamond-paned windows glowed invitingly. Between them, illustrated playbills advertised upcoming acts in Cruickshank-style caricatures and garish letters. Maggie the Singing Moll. The Bearded Boy’s Nocturnal Orchestra. Somnabule the Hypnotist. Frank’s Phantasmagoria of Horror and Mystery.

Not exactly Handel or Haydn. Andie turned the collar of her spencer against the wind and shivered into her cashmere scarf. Twenty years of music lessons, and here she was—not singing in Figaro at the Olympic, but potentially opening for Prospero Pudding’s Talking Poppet.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. Her mother had offered to pull strings for her. Would it really be so awful to compromise just this once?

Andie sighed. She couldn’t. If she let her mother get her a part now, she’d never know if she could have done it on her own. Her tutors had told her she was good and her performances at parties had always been well-received, but singing on stage was different. And if she couldn’t out-perform Winifred and the Winchester Geese, maybe she should give up and get married instead.

I think not, she said to herself, re-pinning her hair in the reflection of a dark window. After the day she’d had, it looked as if lightning had struck it, her carefully pinned chignon giving way to frizz. She looked tired, and her dress was rumpled but still clean. Smoothing a little rose pomade over her lips, she took a breath and straightened her spine.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she strode through the open door.

The Crow’s Nest was surprisingly warm, given its size. It smelled of musty old velvet, fresh tobacco, and oranges. Andie began to relax as she