by Kruger, Mary
Phoebe clapped her hands together, once. “Much better! Go on.”
Blythe shook her head in disbelief, looking at the script and silently reading the next line. Read it as if you believe it. Very well, she thought, and spoke it aloud.
Phoebe replied quickly, assuredly, very much a lady, the illusion so real that Blythe found herself replying in kind. Back and forth they went, Lady Macbeth becoming smoother and yet, at the same time, sharper. Duncan was confident, assured. He was not stupid, Blythe thought; just merely unaware of what Lady Macbeth and her husband planned for him. He would stand tall, brace his arm just so, hold his head high, proud but not disdainful, and gracious to his subjects. No woman, not even one so powerful as Lady Macbeth, would put him out of countenance.
Phoebe spoke her last line. Blythe scanned the paper. She could take another part, if Phoebe wanted her to...
The sound of clapping made Blythe raise her head. The people who earlier had been rehearsing were now arrayed on the stage, applauding. Blythe took in a deep breath, disconcerted at being so summarily returned to her surroundings. She was not in a cold, ominous castle in Scotland, but rather a dim, dusty theater in a provincial English town. Strange how real it had felt. “You did that very well,” she told Phoebe.
“Did I?” Phoebe looked up at her husband. “Giles, was it all right?”
“Very much so.” Giles patted her shoulder. “I knew you’d do well. Have you ever been on the stage?”
Blythe glanced behind her, wondering who he was talking to, and saw no one. “Me?” she said, surprise making her voice rise. “No, of course not.”
“Mm.” Giles frowned, and then held his hand out to Phoebe. “Come, wife. We need you for the next scene.”
“I was really all right?” Phoebe asked, looking up at Giles as he led her away. Blythe missed his answer, given in a low rumble, but she couldn’t avoid seeing the quick, affectionate hug he gave Phoebe. She looked quickly away, eyes prickling in the most absurd manner. Odd, but on this stage filled with people, she suddenly felt very alone.
“That was good, princess,” Simon said quietly, sitting on the box Phoebe had just left. “An interesting interpretation.”
“How does she do it?” Blythe turned to him, sadness forgotten. “She’s such a plain little thing, but I really believed she was Lady Macbeth. She even seemed taller.”
“Phoebe? Yes, she’s talented.” He studied her, eyes cool, assessing, so that she had to glance away. “Would you go over a scene with me?”
That brought her gaze back. “You’re surely not going on stage.”
“With people hunting me? No.” His smile was wry. “But I’d like to keep my hand in.”
“Hmph.” Blythe hunched over, elbows on her knees. “If you ask me, you’ve been playing a role all along.”
“Not always.” His voice was suddenly serious. “Will you run lines with me?”
She raised her hand to brush some hair away from her face, and realized with surprise that she was trembling. “I’m tired,” she said, startled. “And all I did was read a few words.”
“Princess, there are people who would sell their souls to read so well.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Just one scene, princess.”
“Well...maybe. From the Scottish play?”
He laughed. “You learn quickly. No, I was thinking of something else.” His gaze settled on her lips. “A love scene.”
If that were supposed to discommode her, it didn’t work. He didn’t have to know that his look, his words, had made an odd flame leap to life in the pit of her belly; she was adept at covering her emotions. “I didn’t think villains had love scenes.”
Simon laughed again. “Not usually, no. Is that how you would cast me, then? As the villain of the piece?”
“‘Tis what you are.” She glanced away, uncomfortable under that warm, probing look. “Aren’t you?”
“Aren’t I what?”
She looked up, then. She had to know. She had to. “Did you kill that man?”
Chapter Ten
Simon gazed at her, the eyes that a moment ago had been laughing, warm, now shuttered. “What do you think?” he said, finally.
“I don’t know.” She bit her lower lip. “You’re an actor. You could tell me anything you wanted, and how would I know?”
“You don’t know me,” he said, his voice low, fierce. “If you did you’d know I’d never—ah, hell.” He got up, shoving his hands in his breeches pockets. Fleetingly she reached out her hand, and then pulled it back. Surely he didn’t need comforting. “Someday you’ll know me.” He looked down at her, his gaze so penetrating that, for the life of her, she could not look away. “You’ll know me, and then you’ll know—ah, hell. It matters not.”
“Simon,” she called, as he strode away,
He looked back at her when she didn’t go on, his expression remote. “Were you going to say something, princess?”
“No,” Blythe said, finally, looking away, realizing as if for the first time that they weren’t alone on the stage, though no one appeared to pay them any heed. “No, I—”
“I thought not,” he said, and turned on his heel, leaving her behind.
Blythe opened her mouth to call him back yet again, and then slowly, almost reluctantly, turned away. What would she say to him? She didn’t believe him to be innocent. Surely he wouldn’t have been convicted, else. And yet...And yet there was this niggling doubt in her mind that she simply couldn’t ignore. She had known him for only three days. It seemed much longer, but that was because they had been together so much of the time, and under intense circumstances. There was where the doubt lay. In that time, despite his reputation, despite his threats, he had not once hurt her. The only thing he had done was to kiss her, and then tell her it meant nothing.
Blythe spun about, needing to move, wanting to do something, just so she wouldn’t have to think, and found herself in the green room. Best not to think about that kiss; best not to admit that, had they not been interrupted, she might have let him continue kissing her, as well as doing much, much more. Lowering thought. Best not to remember that moment in his arms, or to think that very likely to him it really had meant nothing. What that said about her, she didn’t want to think.
“You are in my chair,” a frosty voice said, and Blythe looked up to see Odette.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You are in my seat! Get up at once.”
Blythe leaned back. Odette was all she’d always imagined an actress to be: voluptuous, with a painted face and hennaed hair, and eyes that were hard. Last night when they’d met in the room they shared, Odette had looked Blythe over, sniffed, and then turned away. “Why should I?”
“You stupid, green girl. You don’t know a thing, do you? That chair, there”—she stabbed a finger toward the oak arm chair—“is Giles’s. The one next it is Mrs. Rowley’s. And this one is mine.”
“Odette.” Katherine had come into the room without their noticing. “Miss Marden is unfamiliar with the theater. Do apologize to her.”
Odette spun around, fists bunched, and then the fight seemed to go out of her. “Yes, madam. I’m sorry you’re so ignorant.”
“Odette—”
“‘Tis no bother, Katherine.” Blythe rose, her lips twitching as the absurdity of the scene struck her. “I do beg your pardon, ma’am.” This to Odette, with a little bow. “I won’t make this mistake again.”
“See that you don’t,” Odette snapped, and whirled away, swishing her skirts of sea green silk.
“This is a very strange place,” Blythe murmured.
“Theater people tend to hold onto whatever is theirs. Come.” Katherine took her arm and led her across the room. “We shall sit here, on these quite uncomfortable chairs, and talk. You look troubled. Is there anything I can do?”
Blythe sank her chin into her hands, much as Phoebe had earlier, as thoughts of her predicament returned. “I don’t think there’s anything a
nyone can do,” she said, gloomily.
Katherine clicked her teeth. “Men. They can be so difficult.”
“Men?” Blythe looked up. “Why do you say that?”
“It’s all over your face. You and Simon—”
“Simon isn’t bothering me.”
“No?” Katherine smiled. “What is, then.”
“I have lost my position in London.” Blythe bent down a finger. “I cannot go home.” Another finger. “I have spent the last few days in the company of a convicted murderer, and now I find myself traveling with a troupe of strolling players! I am sorry, you have all been very nice to me, but—”
“But you judge very harshly, Blythe,” Katherine said, and though her voice was gentle, it was underlaid with steel. “You do not know us.”
“No.” Blythe sank her head deeper into her hands, more wretched than ever. In the space of ten minutes she had managed to offend Simon, which shouldn’t bother her, and Katherine, which did. “I am sorry. You have all been kind to me. But when I think of what this will do to my reputation—”
“I think your reputation is already gone, little one. It was gone when you went with Simon.”
“I had no choice! And I have no choice now.”
“But you do.”
Blythe looked up as Katherine rose. “What?”
“You can feel sorry for yourself, or you can do something about it.” Katherine tossed a shawl about her shoulders. “I am returning to our rooms. Do you wish to come along?”
“I—no.” Blythe looked away. She had been feeling sorry for herself, but wasn’t she entitled? She, after all, was not the villain of the affair. “Thank you.”
Katherine nodded. “Think about what I’ve said,” she said, and strode gracefully away.
Blythe was staring after her when a figure loomed before her. Startled, she looked up to see Giles. “Yes. Phoebe is right. You’ll do,” he said, briefly.
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Weren’t you listening? You’re needed.”
“For what?” she asked, half in protest, as Giles took her arm and hauled her to her feet.
“A small role. A breeches part. I take it you’ve never played a breeches part?”
Blythe dug in her heels, to no avail. “I’ve never played any part. Would you please—”
“Stand here.” He stopped abruptly, behind the small group of people gathered on the stage. “And don’t talk.”
“But what—”
“Quiet. We need to rehearse. Back to the beginning of the scene.”
A man Blythe had not previously met glanced up from his script, his gaze traveling leisurely over her. “You’re not the right height, but I suppose that doesn’t matter,” he said.
Blythe wanted to back away, so tactile was his leer, except that Giles frowned at her. He was somehow far more fierce than she’d ever expected he could be, intent and serious. Did all these people have so many hidden sides? “For what?”
“The trouble will be making anyone believe she’s a boy.”
“Leave her be, Lester,” Giles scolded. “This is her first breeches part. Now, as I was saying, scene two—”
“No.” This time Blythe did step back. Katherine was right. She could feel sorry for herself, or she could take control of her life again. “I am not a statue, sir, to be moved about willy-nilly,” she said, staring at Giles, who continued to frown. Behind her, she heard murmurs of surprise and speculation. “I do not know what I am doing here, nor do I know what a breeches part is. I believe I’ve been patient over the past days, but this is the outside of enough. Unless I am informed of what you wish of me—no, unless you ask me—I will have conniptions. And I assure you, sir, that will not be pretty.”
Dead silence fell on the stage, unbroken by so much as a whisper or the rustle of movement. Giles stared unblinklingly at her, and then, to her utter astonishment, put back his head and let out a roar of laughter. “You’ll do, indeed!” he exclaimed, striding across the stage and catching her up in an embrace that left her breathless. “Phoebe, my love, you were right.” He beamed at his wife, sitting in the shadows. “She will indeed do.”
“But you need to explain things to her, Giles,” Phoebe said hesitantly. “You do tend to bully people into things.”
“So I do.” He set Blythe down, eyes twinkling. “Miss Marden, my apologies,” he said, sweeping low in a bow. “I forgot that you are not used to our ways. I do most humbly beg your pardon.”
“Granted, sir.” His spirit was infectious. Blythe found herself dropping into a curtsy. “Pray explain to me what you wish me to do, and I may—may, mind you—do so.”
“Simon chose a good one.” Giles grinned at her. “We need a spear carrier—someone to stand here during this scene. There are no lines. All you need do is hold a spear, and keep still. Like this.” He demonstrated, standing as if holding a long pole stiffly by his side. “A breeches part is a role played by a woman wearing men’s clothes.”
“And a drag part is a man wearing women’s clothes,” Lester put in.
Blythe glanced from one to the other. “Oh.”
“So what say you? Will you do it?”
“Yes,” she said, before she could stop herself. What was her alternative? Only self-pity.
“Good, good.” Giles clapped her on the shoulder, making her stagger. “There, stand there, just like that. Places, everyone!” He turned, clapping his hands. “Line twenty.”
She was going to be in a play on the stage. She was going to stand here, in full view of hundreds of people, and pretend to be a soldier. It was terrifying. It was also exciting. Certainly nothing remotely like this had ever happened to her before. Perhaps adventure wasn’t so bad, after all.
Simon slipped quietly onto a bench in the auditorium, dim with the drapes pulled across the windows, and leaned forward, watching the rehearsal. Lud, but he’d missed this, the arguments about blocking and stage directions, the chaos of rehearsing several scenes at once, the very smell and sound and feel of the theater. It stung that Blythe had implied that she couldn’t trust him because of his profession, all the more so because there was a kernel of truth to it. All his life he had been playing a role, though not the one she suspected. It was sometimes hard to know where that role left off, and the real Simon began. It was harder to discover if the real man still existed. He thought so, but after the events of the past months, even he had his doubts.
Up on the stage Giles had dragged Blythe forward, and she, with her customary lack of caution, was having none of it. Simon’s mouth tucked back in a smile. He hadn’t had a moment’s peace in three days; let someone else deal with her for a time. Lud, but if he’d had any idea what she was like when he’d abducted her, he’d have chosen someone different. On the other hand, though, would a properly retiring and genteel young lady have helped him to escape the various traps laid for him? He doubted it. He doubted also that anyone so fainthearted would have come so willingly into his arms at the inn. For willing she had been, if not at first, and the memory of it was enough to make him wish to groan.
Shifting on his bench, he forced himself to pay heed to the events on stage, to ignore the events happening in his body. The dispute had been settled, apparently to everyone’s satisfaction. The rehearsal now proceeded admirably, with Blythe standing stiff in the background, one hand raised, as if supporting a spear. Not as easy as it looked, to remain still while others declaimed their lines, not to fidget with boredom or yawn or blink. She had talent; that he’d seen from the earlier surprising reading she’d given with Phoebe. Now it seemed she had the discipline as well.
Frowning a little, he set his arms on his knees. He’d taken her life away from her, there was no denying that. Mayhaps, though, he had given her another one, one she would not ordinarily have chosen, but which might suit her. He hoped so. He felt guilty enough about what he had done to her, necessary though it had seemed at the time. And then, there was that kiss...
He still didn
’t know quite what to think about that. True, he’d apologized to her and promised it would never be repeated, but he doubted he could keep the promise. He’d startled himself as much as her by suggesting playing a love scene this morning. Part of it had been flirtatiousness, the way he always bantered with actresses. That part had expected flirting in return. Part of him, though, had been serious, and that was frightening. He must never forget who he was, what he was, what he had to do. He had no time for an entanglement with anyone, let alone someone so prickly as Blythe. Ah, but it wasn’t prickly she’d felt in his arms. She’d been warm and soft and sweet, all woman, yielding and giving at once. And though he had tasted innocence in her kisses, still her response promised a great deal. For some other lucky man, though. Not for him.
It did no good repining, he thought, rising. On the stage Blythe’s eyelashes flickered as she noticed him, but not by any other movement did she break her part. She wasn’t tall, but put her in a soldier’s uniform and she’d be a creditable spear carrier. He’d let her hold his spear any time she wanted.
He gave an involuntary bark of laughter. On the stage Giles turned, face questioning. “Is there a problem?” he asked, mildly.
Simon knew that tone. “No.” Fist to his mouth, he simulated coughing. “Clearing my throat. My apologies for disturbing you.”
“Mmph. We’re done for now. Miss Marden, you’ll do. Find Mrs. Staples and have her give you a uniform. And you,” he shot a glance at Simon, “should probably be somewhere else.”
Simon straightened, his mouth grim. In hiding, Giles meant, and he had a point. If Simon were discovered it would go hard with the entire company, not just with himself. Bedamned, though, if he would confine himself to his lodging in a stifling room over a butcher shop, when the taste of freedom was so intoxicating. “You are quite right, sir.” Placing a hand on the edge of the stage, he vaulted himself up. “And so should Miss Marden, or do you really believe it’s a good idea to put her in front of an audience?”