When Harry Met Molly ib-1

by Kieran Kramer

  It was as fine a solution as any to her constant emotional turmoil.

  Wasn’t it?

  From behind the makeshift dressing room’s curtain, Molly could see Bunny walk on stage in her extremely revealing gown. She curtsied to her male audience, all of whom clapped madly for her and whistled. The light from the torches flickered over her body, highlighting her curves, exposing flesh beneath the gaping holes in her gown, and leaving shadows in all the right places. The jewels she wore in her hair, on her neck, and on her wrists glinted and sparkled.

  She’d never appeared more beautiful, Molly thought.

  The men quieted for a moment, the mood expectant, as Bunny opened the book Tristram Shandy. But when she began to read a portion of the familiar and hilarious tale of the long-nosed stranger from Strasbourg, they chuckled.

  “‘I have made a vow to St. Nicholas this day, said the stranger, that my nose shall not be touched,’” read Bunny in a pompous voice, and as she continued the tale, the bachelors laughed—everyone but Sir Richard, that is. He sat with his arms crossed over his chest, and his lower lip stuck out.

  And no wonder. He could be the long-nosed stranger from Strasbourg!

  Molly wondered if that was Bunny’s intent all along.

  When she exited the stage with a bright smile on her face, Molly hugged her. “Were you doing what I think you were doing?”

  “Yes,” Bunny said, her voice catching, “and I’m never going to be alone with him again. Lord Harry’s promised me a footman to guard my bedchamber tonight, and he’s also informing Sir Richard he has the choice of sleeping in the stables or leaving this evening after the program. He assures me Sir Richard will stay far away from me from now on, and he’s teaching me how to shoot a pistol just in case he ever shows up again!”

  “Wonderful!” Molly hugged her again.

  Athena strode past them to the stage. “I need silence,” she hissed.

  “Sorry,” whispered Molly—too late—and looked at Bunny.

  They both had to bite their lips to keep from laughing. Athena, much as they’d come to appreciate her, was always…Athena.

  She positioned herself center stage, her shoulders thrown back. And with a twist of her lips, an arch of her brow, and an unholy glint in her eye—transformed herself into Lady Macbeth.

  “Come, you spirits

  That tend on mortal thoughts! unsex me here,

  And fill me from the crown to the toe top full

  Of direst cruelty; make thick my blood…”

  Of course, Molly noted with envy, Athena had refused to read her passage. She’d memorized it, as all good actresses do. And at the moment she was living and breathing it, as all great actresses do.

  She’d positioned herself so the torchlight cast shadows under her face, making her appear even more evil and demented than she sounded. The tattered, gaping dress added to the effect, especially when she swung her arms madly as she stalked about the stage.

  “She appears possessed by a demon,” Bunny whispered, and grabbed Molly’s arm, which had gotten goose bumps as soon as Athena had begun speaking.

  “Look at the men,” Molly whispered back.

  The bachelors sat in stunned silence. Sir Richard loosened his cravat. Lumley cringed as Athena swept by him, and even Lord Maxwell’s stoic expression faltered. He blinked several times and drank from his flask when she demanded:

  “Come to my woman’s breasts,

  And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers…!”

  At one point, she made a face so frightening that Hildur announced quite loudly, “She is a hound from hell!” into a void of silence. For at that exact moment, Athena ceased her performance.

  She stood there, trembling, and for a few seconds, no one spoke or moved. But Lord Maxwell began a slow clapping. And all the other bachelors joined in until they were all applauding madly—with admiration and possibly a little relief, Molly surmised.

  She couldn’t help being glad the performance was over herself. When a moment later, a depleted Athena rejoined the mistresses, Molly swallowed and tried to say, “Well done,” but she only got as far as “Well—” before her throat tightened.

  “Yes, very—” Bunny began, but her voice trembled so much, she shut her mouth.

  “Oh, it’s just me now, you ninnies,” Athena said. “Not Lady Macbeth.”

  But her lips curved in a self-satisfied smile. Apparently, she was well pleased to have frightened them so.

  The whole mood changed when Joan walked onto the crude stage next.

  “She’s so different now, isn’t she?” Molly asked Bunny. “She’s no longer bitter and angry. She seems…at peace.”

  “Tonight, especially,” Bunny replied. “And she looks glorious.”

  Yes, she did, thought Molly. Joan’s gown was slit every which way, a chaotic golden backdrop in deep contrast to her stark beauty.

  “I shall read ‘Lullaby of an Infant Chief,’” she said in a clear, strong voice, and smiled serenely at her audience. “Composed by Sir Walter Scott.”

  Molly drew in a sharp breath of recognition. She suspected Joan had chosen the poem in honor of her own son. No wonder she wouldn’t share any information with the ladies about what she was to read! Up until a few days ago, hers had been a private pain.

  Joan knelt on the ground, bowed her head, and closed her eyes, as if preparing herself. When she opened her eyes a few seconds later, she made a curve of her left arm and gazed at the empty space there, as if she were cradling a baby.

  “Oh!” said Bunny, and looked at Molly, little tears in her eyes.

  Molly immediately welled up, too.

  Joan began to rock slowly back and forth. And from a paper held in her right hand, she read:

  “O hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight,

  Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright.

  The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see,

  They are all belonging, dear babie, to thee…”

  The men were silent, but Molly could tell by their respectful faces they enjoyed Joan’s solemn but heartfelt reading. Lumley even surreptitiously wiped at his cheek with a handkerchief.

  When she was done, the men again clapped madly. She curtsied, threw them kisses, and left the stage.

  “You were wonderful!” Bunny told her.

  Molly hugged Joan. “We’re so proud of you.”

  “Thank you both,” she said with a sniffle.

  Athena came running up. “Where’s Hildur? She goes on next! We can’t have a delay.”

  But she’d disappeared. Molly’s heart skittered. She’d worked so hard with Hildur on her poem! What could have happened to her? Where could she be?

  Thirty seconds passed, which was an age in the theater, according to Athena. With the aplomb of a seasoned actress, she walked onto the stage area, folded her hands, and said, “We shall have a brief intermission as it seems that Hildur is missing—”

  “Wait!” Hildur cried from somewhere in the shadows. “I am here!”

  And she entered stage left, a large scroll in one hand, as well as a stripped tree branch in the other.

  Before Athena exited stage right, she threw a brief, concerned glance at the other mistresses.

  “What’s Hildur about?” Molly said. “The scroll is her poem, but why the branch?”

  “And the sly smile?” Joan added.

  “I’ve no idea,” Bunny replied, “but I’m worried.”

  Athena shuddered. “Up close, she had a fierce Icelandic look in her eye that almost struck fear in my bold English heart. I believe it was the same look her ancestors had when they invaded other countries.”

  “Everything all right, Hildur?” Captain Arrow called out to her from the audience.

  Hildur’s brow was smooth, like an ice queen’s, but then it furrowed. She stamped the butt of the tree branch on the ground and said, “No! It’s not all right!” And she threw the branch to the ground.

  Chapter 37

 
; The mistresses inhaled a collective breath.

  “Oh, dear,” murmured Molly. “I believe all my tutoring has been for naught.”

  Hildur gave a small roar, held up the scroll, and ripped it down the middle. And then she ripped those pieces again—and again—and stomped on the pieces until they were a pulpy mess.

  Why?

  Molly had carefully copied the poem in large letters on the scroll, for easier reading. “Let’s go, ladies,” she said. “I sense she’ll need many handlers.”

  Onstage Hildur was holding her branch again.

  “Hildur,” Molly whispered, and beckoned her offstage. “What will you do now? Do you remember the poem?”

  “No,” Hildur said, a sheen of tears in her eyes. “I don’t want Byron’s poem. He’s no good. He loves too many women. So Cook tells me this very morning.”

  Athena sighed. “Joan tried to tell you the same thing. Days ago!”

  Hildur shrugged. “Captain Arrow is much better than Byron. Captain Arrow likes Icelandic girls.” She smiled. “I have a better plan for tonight.”

  “Tell us,” said Athena.

  “A story. From my country.” And before any of the mistresses could counsel her further, she approached center stage.

  Molly crossed her fingers and hoped for the best as Hildur told the tale in her beautiful, exotic language.

  Which no one understood.

  Nevertheless, there were highlights. First, her voice carried well, especially when she shrieked. And she was adept at walking like an old woman. And sucking her thumb like a baby. And then somehow she was the old woman spanking the baby, all at the same time.

  “She’s, um, quite a versatile actress,” Bunny murmured.

  “Either that, or she’s crazy,” Joan said.

  Hildur raised her tree branch in the air and roared.

  “Crazy,” said Athena, her brow puckering. “Definitely crazy.”

  Molly couldn’t help but chuckle. Hildur was her own woman, as the men were discovering.

  And while no one understood her story, she certainly deserved points for trying her best.

  She said something exuberant in Icelandic, beamed, and threw her arms in the air.

  And the men clapped—politely at first, but then they began clapping in time, whistling, and yelling, “Brava! Brava!”

  Athena came forward and addressed the audience. “We beg your patience as we take a moment to rest before we begin the last performance of the night—Delilah’s.”

  Molly’s relieved and happy mood changed in an instant. Her heart seemed to fall to her feet, and she couldn’t feel her hands or legs anymore, from sheer terror.

  She must do her own dramatic reading! Somehow she’d forgotten all about her own performance. She pretended that all was well as the mistresses returned to the dressing area and she told herself she’d practiced her poem several times. And she’d have the book right in front of her, wouldn’t she? She’d simply read the words, read them the way Harry had taught her. And she’d sway as she walked—the way an alluring mistress would.

  She’d forget about the long-ago Christmas incident, where she’d read a heartfelt poem and been severely punished as a consequence.

  “Where’s my book?” she said, but the excited chatter of the ladies was too loud for anyone to notice what she’d asked.

  She tossed aside some of the gowns. “Where is my book?” The other mistresses were finally paying attention. “I left it right here. I’m reading ‘Kubla Khan.’”

  “I know,” said Bunny. “It was right here. I saw it before we went to counsel Hildur.”

  Everyone looked, but no one found it.

  Joan’s eyes widened. “You don’t think Sir Richard—”

  “He couldn’t have done it,” Athena said. “He was in the audience.”

  “The whole time?” Bunny asked.

  “I’ve no idea,” said Molly. “And it got rather prickly there when Hildur, um, expressed her feelings before her performance. Perhaps he slipped away then.”

  “And did what with the book?” Bunny’s eyes were wide with worry.

  “Most likely destroyed it,” Athena said.

  Hildur narrowed her eyes. “I go get him. I find that book! And then I kill him!”

  Joan laid a hand on her arm. “I’m sure it’s too late. He probably dumped it in the lake.”

  “It’s the only logical conclusion.” Athena sighed.

  Bunny shook her head. “I’m so sorry, Delilah.”

  “Let’s tell the men,” Joan said. “At the very least, they’ll pummel him. And perhaps there’s a slight chance he still has it on his person.”

  Molly looked out over the lake, which shimmered in the moonlight. She heard the murmur of the men’s voices, an occasional chuckle, and swung back around to face the other mistresses. “Sir Richard’s not that stupid. He would have gotten rid of it right away. Joan’s right—he’d have thrown it out there.” She gestured at the lake. “All he had to do was swing his arm, and it would have sailed out far enough that no one would ever know for sure whether he did it.”

  All the mistresses sighed.

  “What will you do, Delilah?” Bunny laid a hand on her arm.

  “I’ll employ the same strategy we used with the gown debacle.” Molly gave her a weak smile. “I’ll outsmart him.”

  “How?” Hildur asked, her sky-blue eyes wide with concern.

  “I’m not sure yet,” said Molly. She tapped her index finger to her mouth. “The poem was too long—I didn’t even attempt to memorize it.”

  “You can read from Tristram Shandy,” offered Bunny.

  “Thank you.” Molly smiled. “But that was your reading. I wouldn’t feel right doing the same thing.”

  And then she stopped breathing.

  The same thing.

  She had an idea—a very good one!

  If she didn’t lose her nerve.

  She blew out an unsteady breath. “I’ll read your poem, Hildur.”

  “But Delilah.” Athena gave a light laugh. “She tore it up.”

  “I know.” Molly’s heart beat faster. “But it’s not that long, and we went over it so many times, I—I think I can do it.”

  She blinked rapidly.

  “I know you can,” Bunny said, and gave her a hug.

  Hildur patted her on the back. Too hard, of course. Joan fixed one of her stray curls, and Athena squeezed her hand. “Break a leg,” she urged her.

  Molly walked briskly to the stage. Alone. Except for a poem inside her that she must get out if she wanted to have any chance to win the Most Delectable Companion contest.

  Harry noted, with a sort of wondrous pride, that Molly carried herself with confidence when she entered the makeshift stage, even though—

  Good God. Even though the torchlight illuminated a goodly portion of her left breast! And there was another gaping hole in her gown, slightly above her thigh…

  No. He wasn’t seeing what he thought he was seeing. It was a trick of the light. Or perhaps it was the brandy.

  “God help me,” he muttered. It was bad enough that as she performed tonight, he’d be recalling the morning she’d read ‘Kubla Khan’ in his arms. Now he’d also be dreaming of her in that gown, imagining reaching his hand into one of those holes cut in the fabric and playing with that pert breast and—

  He forced himself to stop indulging in such a fantasy. In less than an hour, Molly’s time as his own very delectable companion would be over.

  And they would be back to being country neighbors related by marriage.

  But he had to give her credit. Without even trying, over this week she’d developed a mistress persona and protected her true identity. That was a marvel in itself. No one had come forward and unmasked her.

  She’d managed to preserve the mystery.

  Yet she’d also done the opposite. She’d worn her heart on her sleeve, told everyone what she was thinking—most noticeably, about the inequality of the games—and offered her friendship
to the whole company.

  And in private, she’d held nothing back, either—when they’d kissed and explored each other’s bodies, when she talked about her family and his, and most touching of all, when she’d told him what was in her heart.

  Harry sighed. How had she inverted everything he thought he’d known best about women and men and created something…better?

  That Molly, he must admit—the generous-hearted, imaginative Molly—was the one who had him and everyone else here ( save Sir Richard) wrapped around her little finger.

  “Hello,” she said, and made a small arc with her right hand.

  “Hello,” Harry and the other men said back.

  There was a long silence.

  There she stood, wringing her hands and staring out at her small but captive audience. Harry smiled encouragingly at her, but she seemed distracted. Unfocused.

  Almost bleak.

  “You can do it.” He willed her under his breath to remember the morning they’d looked out her bedchamber window and pretended that Xanadu was just through the woods.

  He saw her visibly inhale and exhale.

  What was wrong, exactly? Something seemed off…missing.

  Wait—

  Where was her copy of “Kubla Khan”? There was no way she could have memorized it! It was much too long, and she hadn’t had time—

  Harry half leaped up from the picnic cloth. “Delilah!” he whispered loudly.

  It was a question of sorts. But how would she answer it?

  She looked directly at him, then said with a surety that stunned him, “‘When We Two Parted,’ by Lord Byron.”

  Harry sensed immediately that the steely way she eyed him was her way of telling him to sit down—

  Behave—

  And believe.

  In her.

  Slowly, he sank back down to the ground, worried. Not so much about losing the competition. He was more concerned about Molly’s own state of mind. Ever since the Christmas incident, she hadn’t been able to speak in public.

  So why was she changing course? Putting herself in what for her must be a terrifying position?