Hope Tarr - [Men of the Roxbury House 02]

by Enslaved

  The “very influential gentleman” was the theatrical reviewer for The London Times. Daisy spent the next several minutes listening to him exclaim over her performance, his praise a highbrow version of the overblown announcements the music hall chairman had used to make before bringing her onstage. Scarcely a month had passed and yet what a long time ago that seemed, almost another life.

  Attention wandering off, she found herself searching the room’s four corners for the one person from whom a single word of praise would have meant the world.

  Gavin. I know I’ve had more second chances that any one person could possibly deserve but if only you could find it in your heart to give me just one more …

  “Maman, Maman!“ Like a tethered colt suddenly set free of its harness, Freddie broke away from the Lakes and rushed up to her.

  Shooting the reviewer an apologetic look, Daisy bent to enfold her daughter in a hug. “My daughter, Freddie.” she said and smiling he informed her he had four little ones of his own.

  “Fredericka, leave off. Your mum is working the room.” Out-of-breath, Flora rushed up to them.

  “It’s all right, Mum.” Grateful for the feel of those strong little arms about her waist, Daisy combed back a wayward blue-black curl. “Did you like the play, precious?”

  Freddie answered with an eager nod. “Oui, Maman, I liked it very much.”

  “What was your favorite part?”

  Freddie thought for a moment, one small finger pressed to the side of her mouth. “I liked the end best when everything is sorted out and they all get married and live happily ever after.”

  Swallowing against the lump lodging in her throat, Daisy admitted, “That’s my favorite part, too.”

  The happily paired onstage lovers had served as yet another bittersweet reminder of her sad situation. By the play’s end, Audrey had her William, Phebe her Silvius, Celia her Oliver, and of course, Rosalind her Orlando, only in real life there would be no mythical Hymen to bring about a happy ending with her soul’s mate.

  She felt eyes upon her and looked up to find Flora sending her a sympathetic look. “I expect it’s time a certain young miss was tucked into bed and her grandmother with her. You don’t mind our taking off, do you love? It’s been a long day and Bob is feeling a bit peckish.”

  Daisy looked over to her father, who’d subsided into a chair by the door. She set Freddie from her and straightened. “By all means, you three run along. Hopefully, I shan’t be much longer. Bed will be most welcome tonight.”

  Not long ago she would have considered it a point of pride to stay out celebrating past dawn, but her month with Gavin had changed her in profound ways, including teaching her the difference between false gaiety and genuine happiness.

  Flora took hold of Freddie’s hand and led her away. Though Freddie protested she wasn’t a bit sleepy, her heavy-lidded eyes said otherwise. Daisy glanced down to the half-finished glass of champagne growing warm in her hand. The wine must be making her maudlin because going through the motions of celebrating her success was challenging her acting abilities far more than playing Rosalind had.

  Rourke sidled up to her side, a glass of champagne in hand. Without asking, he reached for her flute and replaced it with a fresh one. Setting the other aside, he said, “You look as though you could do with something stronger, but I dinna think passing you my whiskey flask in the midst of this hobnobbing crowd would go o’er too well.”

  “Probably not but this will do. Thank you.” She took a small sip of the chilled sparkling wine to loosen the lump in her throat.

  He took a step back and studied her. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t look like a woman who’s just brought the theatrical world to its knees.”

  On the brink of tears, Daisy shook her head. “Oh, Patrick, I’m afraid I may have made a terrible mistake and I don’t know how to fix it.”

  “Gavin?”

  She gave a miserable nod. “He didn’t come tonight, and the very worst part is I can’t blame him. I’ve made a hash of everything and what should have been the happiest night of my life has turned out to be anything but.”

  All at once, it was as if the dam of her reserve burst. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Cursing beneath her breath she reached for a handkerchief merely to realize she left her reticule back in her dressing room.

  “There, there, lass, dinna fash.” He pulled a plaid handkerchief from his pocket and discretely handed it to her. “Let’s get you some fresh air, shall we? Or better yet, let’s get you out of here entirely.”

  “Really?”

  “Aye, you know we Highlanders. We get antsy if we’re cooped up over long.”

  Leave it to Rourke to help her find her smile in the midst of crying. “You grew up in London and then in Kent. Unless your memory reaches back to the womb, until recently when you purchased that castle of yours, you didn’t know any more of Scotland than I do.”

  “Why, Daisy, that’s just geography,” he answered with a wink.

  Dabbing at her eyes, she nodded. “In that case, I accept. I only need to say my goodnights to one or two persons and stop back at my dressing room to collect my things.”

  Bidding goodnight to Sir Augustus and some of her fellow cast members took longer than she anticipated, but on this instance Rourke was the soul of patience. Eventually she broke away and led the way to back to her dressing room and then out a side door. Rourke pointed to a shiny black lacquer carriage parked by the street lamp on Russell Street. “Here we are.”

  Glancing up at the handsome coachman seated on the box, she blinked and then turned to Rourke. “Whatever is Harry doing driving your carriage?” she asked, thinking the evening had taken a queer turn indeed.

  The Scot finished lowering the carriage steps before answering, “'Tis a fine night for a jaunt and he had a mind to drive. He’s a fair hand at the ribbons though dinna tell him I said so.” He opened the carriage door and gave her a gentle nudge.

  Harry’s wife, Callie, was seated inside. They met earlier in the evening but only for a minute. “Good evening, Daisy.”

  “Callie.” Wondering what was going on, Daisy hesitated and then slipped into the opposite seat.

  Callie greeted her with her customary serene smile. “Brilliant rendition of Rosalind. I would have congratulated you on it earlier but that reception was such a crush, I couldn’t make my way near you.”

  “It was good of you to attend.”

  Callie shrugged. “Not at all. As You Like It has always been a particular favorite of mine.”

  “Are you certain you don’t prefer The Taming of the Shrew, darling,” Harry called down from the box, tone teasing.

  “Quite.” Callie made a face and, pulling back the curtain, ducked her head out the open window. Settling back inside, she said, “I’ve always adored the character of Rosalind. Though the play is hundreds of years old, there’s something quite refreshingly modern about her, don’t you think?”

  Wondering where the conversation might be leading, Daisy agreed it was so.

  “But you’ve lent something quite unique and special to her character. I’ve never seen her played quite so well.”

  Rourke joined them inside and drew the carriage door closed. Daisy wondered why they were all traveling home together. She knew from Gavin’s saying so that Harry and Callie lived in Mayfair, which was in the West End of town. Daisy’s Whitechapel lodgings were in the East End, the opposite direction entirely.

  Looking between the sheepish-faced pair, Daisy said, “I think it’s time one of you told me what’s really going on, don’t you?”

  Callie turned to Rourke and shook her head. “I told you she was too smart by half. When will you men learn to stop underestimating women?”

  “You tell her then.”

  Turning back to Daisy, Callie admitted, “To put it quite simply, we’re kidnapping you, my dear.”

  “Kidnapping me!” Daisy looked from Rourke to Callie, scarcely able to credit the evidence of her ears.<
br />
  “Kidnapping is one of the oldest courtship rituals known to mankind—and womankind, for that matter.” Callie punctuated the pronouncement with a smile.

  “Aye,” Rourke piped up. “Bride theft was practiced by the Highland clans right up to the previous century. If I have to attend one bloody more ball or soiree, I may give serious thought to bringing back the practice myself.”

  Brows snapping together, Callie said, “Patrick, you know I adore you, but I think it’s time you joined Hadrian on the box.”

  He hesitated and then shrugged. “Verra well, I’ll leave you two to your woman’s prattle.”

  Rather than reprimand him, Callie tossed back her head and laughed, clearly used to being baited by not only her husband but his friends as well. “Very magnanimous of you, and I’m sure neither Daisy nor I would wish to burden you with our prattle, not when you and my husband must have so many more lofty topics to discuss, such as the outcome of the latest wrestling match at Wapping or the horserace at Epsom Downs.”

  Rourke made a show of yanking an invisible knife from his heart and then opened the carriage door and climbed out, but not before Daisy caught his sideways grin. Responding to the lighthearted banter, she relaxed back against the plush leather squabs.

  The carriage jolted forward and Callie continued, “On principle, I disapprove of such primeval tactics, but Rourke and Hadrian persuaded me to go along. Every rule has its exception, after all, and in your circumstances there’s such a great deal at stake.”

  Daisy liked Harry’s wife well enough but even so she felt herself bristling. “It is very kind of you to concern yourself, Caledonia, but if you’ll pardon my saying so I can’t help but question what a woman such as you would know much about either me or my … circumstances.”

  Callie arched one perfect half-moon eyebrow and regarded her. Noblesse oblige, Daisy thought it was called, this attitude that one’s high birth obligated them to behave with a certain selfless virtue. The same action committed by a common person would be called meddling.

  Just when the standoff inside the carriage was bordering on unbearable, Callie ended the silence by saying, “I’d rather you call me Callie. All my friends do. As to your circumstances, when it comes to matters of the heart, it might surprise you to learn we’re not so very different. Not long ago, I came close to turning my back on happiness by holding on to a rigid and rather self-defeating belief. In my case, someone I’d foolishly trusted with my heart when I was very young made some cutting comments about my appearance.” A shadow crossed Callie’s face as though the hurtful memory hadn’t entirely lost its sting. “For years, a full decade actually, I was left with the surety I was undesirable, too ugly and awkward to ever attract a man’s passion let alone win his heart.”

  Daisy shook her head. “You’ll pardon me, but I find that difficult to believe.”

  Earlier that evening, she’d seen Callie navigate the packed reception room with the poise of one born to such social situations. Though she might not be a beauty in the classical sense, the statuesque brunette looked luscious in a low-cut ebony evening dress with jeweled straps that accentuated her smooth shoulders and generous “charms.” From her time in Paris, Daisy recognized the gown as a copy of the one worn by “Madame X” in the Sargent painting. Callie graced her with a gentle smile. “It’s the bald truth. But then Hadrian, or Harry if you prefer, came along and made me see myself not only through the eye of his camera but through his eyes as well. I’d just started to believe him when … when things fell apart.”

  Daisy had heard about the scandal from Gavin. Apparently a high-ranking Member of Parliament had approached Harry to take a nude photograph of Callie in order to discredit both her and the women’s suffrage movement she represented. In desperate need of funds, he agreed, never anticipating that he’d fall in love with the famous suffragette. Before he could destroy the photograph, it was stolen from his studio and leaked to the Fleet Street press. Some women confronted with such an embarrassment would have retreated, never to show their faces in public again, but it was evident Callie was made of sterner stuff. She’d moved about the green room earlier that evening chatting with apparent ease as though half of London hadn’t seen her in only her knickers. Mulling the situation over, Daisy conceded that perhaps she and Harry’s highborn wife weren’t so very different after all.

  Callie leaned in. “Perhaps it’s time you faced your inner demon, whatever belief that holds you back from letting love in?”

  Daisy’s customary response would have been to tell Callie to shove off but in this case one confidence invited another. Beside that, hadn’t she spent the last twenty-four hours asking fair near the same question? Gavin’s heated words rushed back to her yet again. What are you so afraid of? That we might be happy? That I might actually love you? What was she so afraid of that she was willing to sign up for a lifetime of loneliness rather than confront it?

  Her heart picked up pace and the inside of her mouth felt as dry as cotton. Just using the word love in a conversation had her feeling panicky. “It’s as though Gavin holds this image of me in his mind that no one could possibly live up to, certainly not me. At times when I’m with him, I feel as though I’m competing for his affections with another woman only that other woman is me, or rather the girl I used to be. I’m not making any sense, am I?”

  Leaning in, Callie looked to be listening intently. “On the contrary, you’re making a great deal of sense. Go on.”

  Daisy dropped her gaze to the beaded reticule in her lap. “The day his grandfather fetched him from the orphanage to bring him to London, Gavin came to the attic where I was hiding. It was our special place where the four of us, Gavin, Rourke, Harry, and me could steal away and create our own private world. We even held monthly club meetings with an oath of allegiance we used to take turns repeating. That must sound silly to you.” She ventured an upward glance at Callie.

  Regarding her with kind eyes, Callie shook her head. “Not at all.”

  “I begged him to bring me along. He couldn’t, of course. I didn’t understand why not at the time, but having met Mr. St. John I suppose I should be glad he didn’t. Gavin swore to write me, swore that somehow, someday he’d arrange it so we could be together again, but once his grandfather brought him to London, he forgot all about me. Worse than forgot, he ignored me. For two years, I wrote him, letter upon letter, but he never answered them, not a one.”

  Callie frowned as if trying to put together a puzzle whose final few pieces were missing. “I haven’t known Gavin for very long, but from the bits and pieces of your time together at Roxbury House that Hadrian has shared with me and from what I’ve seen of him myself, I can’t believe he wouldn’t have written you back. As for forgetting you, that simply isn’t the case. From what Hadrian tells me, this past year he’s spent what amounts to a small fortune on a private detective to find you.”

  Daisy jerked her head upright. “Gavin’s been paying someone to search for me? Are you quite certain?”

  Callie’s effusive nod left no room for doubting. “The detective managed to trace you to Dover, but after that he came up empty. The news brought Gavin’s spirits quite low. Hadrian and Rourke dragged him out to the supper club that night, hoping a bit of fun might take his mind off you.”

  Gavin had been searching for her all along, could it be? If so, then her life was akin to the farfetched scenario in the penny dreadfuls she read upon occasion where a case of mistaken identity or the machinations of a devious villain tore the lovers apart for years only to see them reunited in the end. In their story, however, the person Gavin had found again wasn’t the sweetly innocent girl of his memory but a tart-up music hall performer prancing half-naked about the stage. Small wonder he reacted as he had. It must have been quite a shock.

  “Instead of the detective finding me, by some fluke Gavin found me himself.”

  Callie nodded. “Yes, but my personal belief is that there is no such thing as happenstance. You and Gavin coming
together again after all this time is a gift from God. Regardless of what brought you two together again, don’t waste this chance. Second chances are rare as four leaf clovers. Third chances, well, we don’t often hear of those, now do we?”

  Daisy shook her head, which had begun to throb and not because of the single glass of champagne she’d drunk. “Even if Gavin didn’t, strictly speaking, abandon me, I’m not that girl any more and haven’t been for almost fifteen years. How can we ever come together as we are? He’s a respected barrister and I’m a showgirl … well, an actress now, I suppose, but still I’ll always carry my past with me. As long as we stay in England, I don’t see how I can ever be more to him than a mistress.”

  A few weeks before, that would have seemed like a plumb deal but these past weeks with Gavin had changed her perspective on many things, including relationships. Now that she had a glimpse of how it could be between a man and a woman, how caring and respect and compassion and, yes, love could carry physical intimacy to new heights, she wanted more, so very much more. She wanted it all—the picket fence framed cottage, the happily-ever-after fairytale, and, yes, the until-death-do-us-part marriage vows—all the trappings of commitment that set soul mates apart from casual lovers.

  “Perhaps it’s time to let go of that belief, time to take a chance and trust again, hmm?”

  Take a chance. Trust again. What was the worst that could happen? She might be hurt but then the past twenty-four hours since she turned Gavin away had been the most hurtful period of her life.

  Silence fell inside the carriage, not an awkward or sullen silence where people either make a great show of examining their fingernails or cast fuming stares out the window but rather a still, companionable quiet in which everything that must be said and heard has been so done, freeing all parties to mull over not only the “what ifs” of the situation but, more importantly, the “what nexts.”