“And now his lovely daughter graces the theatrical firmament. Our brief association has proved most pleasant—and promises to be profitable. This season finds my company sadly depleted. Mr. Sheridan’s great success with his new play—a masterpiece, I’m sure—has deprived me of dear Miss Mellon and other leading players from Drury Lane. The people of Liverpool tell me, ‘London actors, or none!’ and I must oblige them.”
“Your company includes Mrs. Chapman from Covent Garden,” Oriana reminded him. “And Mr.
Young. And the comedian, Mr. Knight.”
“Nevertheless, I am in need of reinforcements. For that reason, I plead with you to remain in Liverpool.”
“For how long?”
“Until August.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot stay. At the end of the month I begin my annual summer engagement at Vauxhall. I have a prior commitment to Mr. Simpson and Mr. Barrett to sing once every fortnight.”
“Could you not stay with us for another week? I’ll make it worth your while.”
She very nearly advised him to spend his money improving this ramshackle theater, but she held her tongue. “I’ll consider it,” she replied, knowing perfectly well that she must reject his invitation.
On her way back to her lodging, she composed a letter to Dare Corlett.
To Sir Darius Corlett, Ramsey, Isle of Man. Sir, I trust this letter finds you in good health and spirits …
Too formal.
Dear Sir Darius, I apologize for my hasty departure, and hope you can forgive me for…
Renting his cottage in the glen? Encouraging him to make love to her at Skyhill House? Running away from him?
My dearest Dare, You are constantly in my thoughts, day and night. My life seems dull and dreary without you. If only you were here to talk with me, and make me laugh, and hold me in your arms, kissing me until I’m witless, just as you did when we…
Realizing that she’d walked past Mrs. Woodell’s house, Oriana turned back.
Reaching into her cloak for the door key, her fingers brushed the quartz Dare had given her. She let herself in and climbed the staircase. On the landing she paused to look at the stone, a new habit of hers, and held it so the light would strike the facets.
From above, a high-pitched voice called, “Here at last! I’ve been waiting forever!”
Startled, she dropped the quartz. “Harri! You’re supposed to be in London!”
The actress bounded down the steps to embrace her, laughing all the while. “We arrived today, on the mail coach. Mother was thoroughly rattled, but she’s sleeping now.”
“I want all the news from town. But first I must find my treasure.” Kneeling down to search, she found it by the wainscoting.
“Oh, how pretty! What is it?”
“Quartz crystal. It came from Sir Darius Corlett’s lead mine.”
Harriot noted the softening of her friend’s voice, the yearning in the fine hazel eyes, and drew the only possible conclusion about her relationship with the mine owner.
She followed Oriana to her chamber, the nicest one in the house. The singer never had to economize, or share her bed. She could afford to travel by post chaise instead of the mail coach, without counting the cost.
Her interest in Oriana’s latest romance went unsatisfied, and she was forced to answer questions about recent events at Drury Lane theater. “Pizarro is all the rage,” she reported. “Kemble is better suited to his role than his sister Mrs. Siddons. She plays a camp follower, in a most majestic fashion.
Sheridan is once again the most celebrated playwright in the realm. It’s his greatest achievement in twenty years, and the theater is packed to the heavens every night. But I worried that I’d be stuck in town forever, with nothing much to do—another actress understudies Mrs. Jordan. When I reminded old Sherry that I was wanted at Theatre Royal in Liverpool, he let me come.”
“Mr. Aickin will be glad. He’d rather have you than me. An actress is more useful to him than a singer.”
It pleased Harriot to hear that she was appreciated here in Liverpool, after listening to her mother’s bitter comparisons of herself and her more famous friend. She needed no reminders of Oriana’s superior talents, or her beauty, or her aristocratic Beauclerk cousins. According to her mother, Oriana was sluttish and immoral, and therefore didn’t deserve her successes. Harriot knew that she’d strayed from the path of virtue only because she’d believed in Mr. Teversal’s promise to wed her. And she’d seen that a brilliant career and having a duke for a cousin couldn’t mend a broken heart or restore a sullied reputation.
Studying the lovely, solemn face, Harriot tried to think of a rallying quip to make Oriana smile. “How lucky tha other and I arrived in time to witness your Liverpool debut.”
“And I’m fortunate to have you here. I’m more nervous than I should be.”
“You, nervous? Absurd!”
“It’s my first time here. Expectations are very high.”
That a singer so gifted and renowned could doubt her ability to please a Liverpool audience was incomprehensible to Harriot. She wondered if that mine owner was responsible for Oriana’s dispiritedness.
“Aren’t you going to tell me about your Manxman?” she asked.
Her question brought a sudden flush to Oriana’s pale cheeks. “I already did—in my letter.”
Actress that she was, Harriot could distinguish between feigned indifference and the real thing. “You said he was arrogant and disagreeable. Did he make an indecent proposal?”
The auburn head drooped. “He got what he wanted without ever asking.”
Harriot couldn’t think of a reply that wouldn’t sound critical or judgmental—like her mother.
“I wanted so much to earn his esteem,” Oriana continued. “And I did. I wasn’t burdened by my fame, or my notoriety. I was a prim and proper widow, leading a quiet life in the country with her fowls and her cow and her goat. We became friends. He confided his darkest secret and shared his highest ambitions.
He is a brilliant man, with a very sharp wit. But we spent too many hours alone together,” she said wretchedly. “A sort of madness came over me. Afterward, I couldn’t bear to see him again, so I took the next packet boat for Liverpool.”
“Oriana, if you’d stayed, he might have proposed!”
“How could I accept him, after concealing my identity for four weeks? I had a concert to prepare here, and must return to London and rehearse at Vauxhall. All this work was supposed to help me forget.
Only I haven’t.”
“Perhaps you don’t really want to,” said Harriot, feeling very wise, and terribly sad.
“Here we have a set of mahogany chairs in the highest style, for the dining room. To be covered in whatever material you desire.”
Dare ran one hand across the carved back of one chair. Damned uncomfortable against the spine, he reckoned. “Not quite what I had in mind.”
Directly behind him, Wingate gave a faint hum of concern. The butler carried a long list of necessities, and after nearly an hour in the furniture warehouse, very few items had been crossed off.
“Your new house, does it have a library?” the salesman inquired.
“Certainly.” And Dare would never again enter it without remembering Oriana Julian.
“We offer an extensive selection of map tables and folding steps.”
“I’ve seen enough. For today,” he added, so the man wouldn’t feel slighted.
A tedious and uninspiring business, stocking his villa with chairs, tables, carpets, and everything else it lacked. He should be enthusiastic about the task, but Oriana’s disappearance had stolen the luster from his project. In his daily wanderings along Liverpool’s crowded streets, he’d paid closer attention to the female passersby than the goods on show in the shop windows, seeking an oval face of surpassing beauty, framed with auburn curls, and a pair of clear hazel eyes set beneath exquisitely arched brows.
But it appeared only in his fitful dreams, and no
where else.
“Shall we stop at the carpet seller’s, sir?” suggested Wingate, after they exited the warehouse.
“Tomorrow,” Dare decided. “You’re dismissed for the rest of the afternoon.”
Four days ago he’d disembarked from the Dorrity with every intention of finding Oriana, confident that he could locate her in this familiar city. But his systematic and, in his opinion, brilliantly orchestrated search, had turned up not a speck of evidence that she was here now, or ever had been. Mrs. Julian was not included on the subscription list for the largest circulating library. Not a single maker of musical instruments had ever heard of her. She was not, he had determined, a benefactress of the local infirmary, the Seaman’s Hospital, or the charity school-he’d visited all. He’d attended the most recent gathering in the Town Hall Assembly Rooms, to no avail; he hadn’t encountered her there. None of the dressmakers or shopkeepers recognized her name.
Each time he pieced together the events of their last day together, desperate to make sense of them, he inevitably failed. The Mellon woman’s letter had distressed Oriana. She had responded to his lovemaking with uninhibited passion. And after making him the happiest—and most hopeful—of mortals, she’d vanished from his glen.
Tonight he would continue the hunt at the Theatre Royal.
He might as well use those concert tickets his friend had procured at his request. A review of the first performance had appeared in this morning’s newspaper. Disregarding the flowery compliments to the London vocalist and rebukes to the unruly spectators, he’d scanned the names of the most celebrated attendees. No mention of a Mrs. Julian, but his hopes had soared when he learned that a Miss Mellon and her mother had been spotted in the audience. If Oriana’s friend was in Liverpool, she must be here also.
Until he saw her again and received the explanation he was due, he must endure this hateful uncertainty. His dismay at her abrupt departure had given way to a burning indignation, and he suspected that listening to an overweight soprano screech in gibberish at the top of her lungs—for hours on end—was only going to make it worse.
Chapter 10
The dressing room lacked a door, affording no privacy whatever, and the stage manager had failed to rig a curtain. Oriana hadn’t bothered demanding one, though, for she’d arrived at the theater fully dressed and had spent all her time on the stage. And with no acquaintances in the house tonight, Oriana wouldn’t linger in this dismal little room.
Francis Aickin rushed in, crying exultantly, “Another triumph! Gad, I thought the clapping and shouting would never cease!”
Oriana arched her brows. “During my recital, or after?” She would remember this night’s audience as the most unruly she’d ever faced, far worse than on Tuesday evening. In a contest with the Italian cabal at the opera house, she would choose the Liverpudlians as the more disruptive group.
“I hope your warm reception in this city has softened your resolve to leave it so soon,” the manager went on. “Won’t you agree to an additional performance, out of consideration for those poor souls who had not the privilege of securing tickets?”
His question was so blatantly self-interested that she burst out laughing. Her work was finished, and she was so glad to be free of Aickin that she found his persistence—and greed—more humorous than aggravating.
Turning toward the door, the Irishman said invitingly, “My dear sir, if you identify yourself, I’ll gladly present you to Madame St. Albans.”
Still smiling, she turned around to see who was there.
“No need for introductions,” said Sir Darius Corlett, his voice harder than Manx granite. “She knows who I am.”
A thunderous tide of alarm washed over her. He’d followed her to Liverpool—had actually attended her concert. Dear heaven, he’d looked as though he wanted to strangle her, and no wonder!
The manager’s speculative gaze darted from Oriana to her visitor and back again. He grinned and winked at her, then said, “I’m sure you and your gentleman prefer privacy. We shall continue our business discussion at another time.”
His insinuation sparked her temper. “No need to scurry away till the matter is settled,” she said sharply. “As I’ve told you repeatedly, Mr. Aickin, I cannot sing again in Liverpool. I should be most grateful if you would pay out my fee immediately, so I can depart for London.” It was lowering to plead for her salary in front of Dare, but her pride must not get in the way of her livelihood.
“Certainly, certainly. My treasurer is still reckoning tonight’s receipts, and tomorrow you’ll receive your share.” With a shallow bow to Oriana and another to the baronet, Mr. Aickin made a speedy exit.
Nervously playing with the tassels dangling from the gold cord around her waist, she admitted to Dare, “For the past two days, I’ve been writing a letter for you.”
“How very thoughtful.” The stony voice contradicted his polite words. “My compliments on your remarkable performance. Not only here, but also while you lived at Glencroft.”
“You’ve every right to be angry. But I had a very good reason for—for—”
“Duping me?”
“There was no deception, Dare. Not exactly.”
She felt so odd standing before him in her green-satin stage dress, designed to resemble Turkish attire, her cheeks rouged and powdered, brilliants in her hair.
“Where were you seated? I didn’t notice you down in the pit.”
“My tickets entitled me to a box, but I neglected to send my servant to hold my place, and someone stole it. I was high up in the one-shilling gallery, squeezed between two boisterous fellows who made such ribald comments about your anatomy that I wanted to shove my fist into their leering faces.”
A sharp rap on the doorframe interrupted their tense dialogue.
Tentatively the harpsichordist asked, “Madame St. Albans, may I beg a moment of your time?”
She moved across the room, giving Dare a wary glance as she swept past him.
“It’s unlikely we’ll meet again, and I wanted you to have this.” The musician presented a rolled-up paper tied with a crimson ribbon. “I made a clean copy of our music for the Manx song.”
Blinking back a sudden rush of tears, Oriana said, “Thank you, I am most grateful—and shall always treasure it.”
“Playing for the protégée of my idol, the great Haydn, has been an honor. And a pleasure.”
Touched by this accolade, she replied, “If you ever seek employment in London, come to my house in Soho square. I’m on good terms with the managers of all the theaters, and the opera house.”
“I’m not sure my wife would care to live anywhere but Liverpool,” he admitted, before taking his leave.
When she turned back to Dare, his face was even grimmer than it had been before the interruption.
“That fellow knows more about you than I do,” he fumed. “He was speaking of Haydn the composer?”
“Yes. During his residence in London, he befriended me.”
“And how many other men have done so?”
If Dare was jealous, she reasoned, his discovery of her identity had not obliterated his affection for her. On a faint laugh, she said, “Herr Haydn is an old gentleman, very grandfatherly. There was no impropriety in that or any other professional relationship.”
“You never sang for me,” he said bitterly. “Were you hoarding your talents for the paying customers, Madame St. Albans?”
Deep in her abdomen, she felt a painful twinge. Being a female had its hellish moments, and this was definitely one of them. Soon her emotional turmoil would be compounded by the grinding ache that came once a month.
“This face paint and satin gown are the real disguise-it’s what my paying customers expect to see.
Underneath, I’m the same person who sought refuge in your glen. I did not lie to you, I never told an untruth. Oriana Julian is my lawful name. I eloped with a soldier, who died in India. It was my choice to give out only those essential facts. Do not forget, you didn’t
extend the warmest of welcomes. And I’m unaware of any law, English or Manx, requiring me to share my full history with an unfriendly stranger.
Which you were.”
“My attitude changed, as you well know.”
“I’m not in the habit of confiding in people,” she replied.
“Or trusting them?”
“In London I am constantly scrutinized and criticized. During those weeks I lived in your glen, I found the solitude I had been seeking.”
“At the moment, Oriana, I care very little for the differences between your public and your private persona.”
He did care. If he were indifferent, he would have left the theater without confronting her.
“At our last meeting,” he continued, “your famous reticence was notably absent. We achieved a particular closeness.” He moved in, lancing her with his dark eyes. “Your hasty departure from Glencroft, was it prompted by that letter you received, or what we did together in my library?”
She braved his piercing stare. “Both. I was expected here in Liverpool. With Harriot stuck in London, we risked losing our rooms at Mrs. Waddell’s house. And then after my—my recklessness complicated the situation, I didn’t want you thinking I’d set a snare to trap you and your fortune. Knowing you wouldn’t care to see me again, I left.”
“You assumed I wanted to be rid of you? If so, why in hell’s name would I make love to you?”
The answer was so obvious that she didn’t bother to voice it. He was a man, one accustomed to having whomever or whatever he desired.
He vented his frustration in a gusty huff. “You understand me about as well as I understand you.
Which is to say hardly at all. When you offered me that most precious of gifts, was it because you were bored by country living? Maybe you were seeking physical gratification, or per haps settling a score. Or is that the way you typically bid a gentleman friend farewell?”
She flushed from her crown to her toes. “No!”
“Then why, Oriana? I deserve an honest answer.”
Marching up to him, she declared, “Because at that moment, I was greedy for all the things I had either lost or had sacrificed. Warmth. Affection. Desire. With you, I felt so alive.”
Improper Advances Page 10