Angel in Scarlet

by Jennifer Wilde

  “I know what it means to you, Hugh, but—you don’t have to prove anything. Can’t you see that? It isn’t who a person is that counts, it’s what a person is inside. It isn’t who you were born, it’s what you make of yourself. Wealth, a title, an estate—those things aren’t important. What’s important is what we have right now—our love, our health, our ability to work and make a future for ourselves. We don’t need anything more.”

  “I’m going to win,” he told me.

  His voice was solemn, and I saw that it would be futile for me to say more. The dream obsessed him, and my words might as well have been spoken to the wind. We went on home, and a light summer rain began to fall. I cooked a lovely meal, and later we sat in the parlor reading, the rain pattering down, and later still we went upstairs and made love. Everything was as peaceful, as pleasant as ever during the days that followed, but I felt as though an invisible cloud hung over our happiness now, and I sensed it was only a matter of time until it ended altogether. I felt a sad resignation inside, even as we strolled hand in hand over the sunny fields and through the woods, even as we kissed before the dilapidated stone bridge and made love in a small clearing lavishly bestrewn with wild crimson poppies. When, a week later, he walked into the kitchen in the morning and told me he was going to London, I went right on buttering the toast, beautifully composed.

  “I assume you’ll have breakfast,” I said.

  He nodded. “I’ll walk to the village and take the horse and rig. I should be gone most of the day.”

  “You intend to come back, then?”

  He gave me a look, surprised. “Of course I’m coming back. I have some business I need to tend to, that’s all.”

  We ate breakfast and he left, and I milked Matilda and put her out to graze. I fed the chickens and came inside and tidied the house and time seemed to creep, each hour an eternity. What was he doing in London? Was he planning to pull another robbery? Not today. Lord Blackie worked only under cover of darkness. He had “business to tend to.” What kind of business? Did it have something to do with Italy, with the people he had working for him there? Why, after all of this time, did he have to make a trip to London? The afternoon stretched ahead of me, and I thought I might as well answer the latest letters from Megan and Dottie. I discovered I was out of stationery, and that gave me an excuse to walk to the village. At the stationer’s I purchased elegant creamy-tan paper and envelopes and, on impulse, one of the London papers, although I hadn’t bothered to read the ones Hugh had bought earlier.

  Back at the cottage, I wrote to Megan and wrote to Dottie, bright, cheerful letters that belied my true state of mind. I sealed them and sighed and glanced at the clock. It was barely four. Would the afternoon never end? I picked up the newspaper and began to turn the pages idly. What cared I what was happening at court, what was happening in the Colonies, what Lady Claymore had worn to the opera, who Lord Duff had visited in Scotland? I turned the page and scanned one of the articles and started another … and then I began to read closely, carefully, gripping the paper with hands that suddenly began to tremble. Who is Andrew Dawson, the writer asked his readers, where is he now? Is he Lord Blackie? Andrew Dawson was the name Hugh had been using at The Blue Stag.

  The writer then recounted, in vivid prose, the events of June the eighteenth, when Lord Blackie had scaled the wall of Newark House on Grosvenor Square and climbed into an attic window and made his way through the darkened rooms to the chamber where blonde and lovely young Lady Newark was fast asleep, her jewel case on the dressing table. As he was removing the exquisite diamond and ruby bracelet and earrings her doting husband had recently given her, Lady Newark awoke and let out a terrified shriek that brought her husband and two stalwart footmen running. The thief in black tackled one of the footmen, shoved Lord Newark aside and made his escape down the staircase and out the front door, the second footman in hot pursuit.

  A chase through the streets of London ensued, and the footman lost sight of his quarry. He continued to prowl around, searching, and later on he thought he saw a man in black slipping into the courtyard of The Blue Stag, a huge building on Holywell, off Fleet, housing some two hundred tenants. Bow Street was alerted and inquiries were made the next day. One of the tenants, a woman named Rose Pickering, a plump middle-aged blonde in pink wrapper with maribou trim, hostess by trade, said yes, she ’ad seen a gent in a black suit, ’e was comin’ ’ome just as she was, but it was only that nice Mr. Andrew Dawson, ’andsome chap, real refined. Yes; it was around two in the mornin’ and no, ’e ’adn’t been wearin’ no black silk ’ood, ’ow’d she be able to recognize ’im if ’e ’ad been? The journalist succinctly captured Rose Pickering’s character and did a splendid job of reproducing her speech.

  Accompanied by Miss Pickering and the hefty, disgruntled concierge, the gentlemen from Bow Street went up to Dawson’s rooms, only to discover that they had been hastily vacated, all personal belongings removed. Dawson had disappeared, no trace of him to be found anywhere in the city, and while this provided no conclusive proof of guilt, the journalist writing this article firmly believed that if Bow Street found the mysterious gentleman calling himself Andrew Dawson, they would find Lord Blackie. I set the newspaper aside, gazing into space, thinking about what I had just read. The events so vividly described had taken place on the night of June the eighteenth, and … yes, Hugh had arrived here on the morning of the nineteenth. He had undoubtedly begun to pack soon after meeting Rose Pickering on the stairs, leaving The Blue Stag before dawn, renting horse and rig when the livery opened, under another assumed name, of course, paying in cash, then storing the reproduction and his other personal effects under the same name and driving directly out here. The time elements fit perfectly. Andrew Dawson had disappeared, leaving not a trace, and … and Hugh had come to stay with me here in the country not because of his undying love for me but because he felt it was no longer safe for him to remain in London.

  Shafts of dark red-gold sunlight slanted through the windows, making blurry pools on the carpet. It faded even as I watched, red-gold to pink-gold to pale silvery-gray. I went outside and put Matilda in the barn. The sun was gone now and the sky was slate gray, growing darker, a purple-gray haze settling over the countryside. Crickets rasped in the cracks between the flagstones leading to the back door. Shadows spread. Oak leaves rustled quietly. I went inside and made myself a light meal and forced myself to eat, and I waited. I knew it would be better, far better, if Hugh didn’t return, if he never came back, if I never saw him again, yet as the clock ticked solemnly in the parlor I grew tenser and tenser, desperately afraid he wouldn’t return, desperately afraid something had happened to him. The clock struck nine, nine-thirty, ten, and the sadness and pain inside were almost impossible to bear.

  I heard his footsteps on the lane. I leaped to my feet, relief flooding my soul. It was only through the greatest exercise of will that I prevented myself from rushing out to meet him. The gate opened, closed. Somehow, I know not how, I managed to compose myself, and when he came into the parlor I greeted him casually, as though he had just come in from the barn. I had put the newspaper away. I did not mention the article to him, nor did I question him about his trip to London. I knew that I loved him. I knew that this love for him was my obsession, as Greystone Hall was his, and I knew I would continue to hold him to me for as long as possible. Those things unspoken must remain unsaid, for I hadn’t the strength nor the character to confront him and send him away.

  July ended and August began warm and sultry. We bathed naked in the stream and lay on the bank and let the sun dry our bodies. We took long walks together and picked wildflowers and Hugh helped me with the chores and it was serene and peaceful and wonderful, having him there, loving him, his body next to mine when I awoke in the mornings, his presence bringing joy even when we were sitting together in silence, reading in the parlor. It was a fool’s paradise, yes, I was fully aware of that, and I was aware that it must inevitably end, but I intended to savor eac
h joy as it came and cling to what happiness I could until the inevitable happened. And so the days passed, one melting pleasantly into the next, a fool’s paradise better than none at all.

  I received a long, chatty letter from Megan. Lambert would soon be starting rehearsals of the new play, she informed me, and Charles Hart would be playing Bothwell to Mrs. Perry’s Mary. Megan herself had been offered a strong supporting part, but she had flatly refused to take it. Hell would freeze over before she’d go onstage with that woman in the lead. La Perry had been intolerable before with her airs and affectations, but now she was downright impossible, convinced she was the greatest actress who ever trod the boards and making everyone around her miserable. Megan wasn’t sure just what she’d be doing in the new season, but something was bound to turn up. Now that I was no longer with him, she had no desire to work for Mr. James Lambert.

  The letter I received from Dottie a few days later was both astonishing and delightful. She was going back on the boards, after all these years. Goldsmith had popped into the shop to talk to her about costumes for the revival. He told her he remembered her well as Mrs. Malaprop and said he wished there were someone like her around to play Mrs. Hardcastle, Kate’s mother. He paused, blinked his large owl eyes, tilted his head to one side and started to nod, growing more enthusiastic by the moment. Why settle for someone like Dottie? Why not Dottie herself? She had been dumbfounded, had informed him that she had long since retired, but Goldy persisted. Once the idea occurred to him, nothing else would do but that she take the role. It was a lively, exuberant comic part for an older actress, and he simply couldn’t see anyone else in the role. Wore her down, he did, finally got her to accept, and although she pretended to be blase about it, I could tell that Dottie was excited about returning to the theater in such a splashy, flamboyant role. It had been years since she’d donned greasepaint and wig, but it might be a lark, she confided. Goldy was such a dear, and they were certain to have a rollicking good time even if she was a disaster.

  “Do you miss the theater?” Hugh inquired when I told him about the letter. “I detect a rather wistful note in your voice.”

  “I don’t miss it at all,” I replied.

  I didn’t. Not at all. Did I? Of course not. All that tension, all that noise, all that confusion and strain, the constant pressure, the constant crises night after night. Of course I didn’t miss it. The peace and serenity of these past two and a half months gave me a wonderful perspective, made me see just how frantic the past four years had been. They had been exciting, yes, and challenging, glamorous, too, but who needed all the stress and temperament? The life I was leading now was much more appealing, and with all the money I had made I didn’t need to work.

  Although I told myself I couldn’t care less what happened, I was human, and I couldn’t help but be curious about Jamie’s new production. Much of my bitterness was gone now, and … and I really couldn’t blame Jamie for what had happened. Men were notoriously weak when under the influence of a conniving female like Mrs. Perry, the male ego no match for the feminine wile. I couldn’t bring myself to wish him ill. I never wanted to see him again, true, but I wished him luck. I hoped his play was the success he wanted it to be, although its chances were slim indeed. He was a complex, volatile, brilliantly gifted man who needed constant assurance of his genius. Perhaps Mrs. Perry would provide it. They deserved each other, I thought ruefully, and then I smiled at my own lack of charity. No one deserved Mrs. Perry, but Jamie, it seemed, was stuck with her. It served him right, poor sod.

  It rained during the last week of August, a heavy deluge pouring from a sky the color of pewter, and afterwards it was much cooler, the air fresh and clean, the countryside vivid, trees a newly washed green, fields gold and tan and misty gray. I came downstairs early one morning wearing a pale blue cotton frock with narrow pink and lavender stripes, my hair brushed and gleaming, feeling at peace with myself, with life, content with my fool’s paradise. The study was littered and I decided to tidy it up before cooking breakfast—Hugh was still in bed upstairs, fast asleep. I put away the books I had taken down and put away the stationery I had used and fluffed the cushions on the old pink sofa and stacked the cups and saucers and picked up the London paper Hugh had been reading last night with such concentration. It was folded open to an article he must have read at least two or three times and, idly, my eyes began to scan the lines of print. I felt the color leave my cheeks.

  It was a society item, the kind relished by humble folk who thrived on gossipy news of their betters. The Duke of Herron and his lovely Duchess had gone to the opera last week, the Duke in powder-blue satin and lace and diamond studded shoe buckles, the Duchess in a stunning confection of pink taffeta and silver lace, dazzling one and all with her newly acquired diamonds. The tiered diamond necklace with seventeen grape-sized diamond pendants suspended had been designed especially for Maria Theresa, Empress of Austria, but, in a rare burst of economy, that lady had decided it was far too costly for the state coffers and it had been placed on the market, snapped up at once by the extravagant Duke of Herron. Although they would soon be leaving for the castle in Scotland, the Duke and his Duchess were currently snugly ensconced at Herron House, their elegant town house on Leicester Square. I put the paper down. I carried the cups and saucers into the kitchen. When Hugh came downstairs half an hour later, breakfast was ready. He looked at the mound of fluffy eggs scrambled with cheese and cream, the buttered rolls, pot of honey and jar of plum preserves, the plate of ham and crisp bacon and informed me that I was much too good to him. He ate with gusto. I sipped a cup of black coffee, watching him eat, knowing full well what he planned to do, knowing I could no longer keep silent.

  “By the way,” he said casually, “I’ll be going up to London sometime this afternoon. Business matters. I probably won’t be back until tomorrow morning. Early,” he added.

  “Don’t go, Hugh,” I said.

  My voice was flat. He gave me a surprised look.

  “Whyever not?” he inquired.

  “For one thing, it’s too risky. Herron House is certain to be well guarded with footmen everywhere, perhaps even dogs. If you’re caught, you’ll hang. And it’s wrong, Hugh. It’s wrong. I—I can’t countenance it. I can’t let you go, knowing—knowing you’ll be deliberately committing a crime.”

  “How did—” He paused, frowning. “You saw the newspaper.”

  “I saw it. I knew at once. It’s wrong, Hugh,” I repeated.

  “It’s something I have to do,” he said.

  I began to clear the table, stacking the dishes on the drainboard. “You’d risk being hanged?”

  “I’d risk anything.”

  “It means that much to you?”

  “It means more than anything.”

  “More than me,” I said.

  Hugh didn’t answer. Sitting there at the table in his fine white shirt open at the throat, a wave of sleek raven hair slanting across his forehead, he looked pained, dark brown eyes full of indecision. We couldn’t go back now. Both of us knew that. Those things unspoken had been brought into the open, and we couldn’t ignore them any longer. I took the pot of honey and jar of jam off the table and set them in the cabinet, my manner cool, icily composed. Hugh sighed and brushed the wave from his brow.

  “You don’t understand, Angie.”

  “I understand perfectly,” I said. “We could be happy, Hugh. We could buy a place in the country. We could—we could have what we’ve had this summer for the rest of our lives. We don’t need anything more. I don’t.”

  “You’d soon be miserable,” he told me.

  “No, Hugh.”

  “You’d soon grow to hate me.”

  “I’m asking you not to go, Hugh.”

  “I must.”

  I hesitated a moment, and then I took off the apron I’d tied around my waist earlier. I hung it up and turned to look at him, a tremulous feeling inside as I contemplated what I had to do, what I had to say.

  “If—if
you go, Hugh, I don’t want you to come back. I want you to pack up your things and take them with you. If you leave, if you—if you do what you’re planning to do, I don’t want to see you again. Ever.”

  He stood up, eyes full of alarm. “You don’t mean that, Angie,” he said in a tight voice.

  “I mean every word.”

  “I love you. You know I love you.”

  “Apparently not enough,” I said.

  I went outside and took Matilda out of the barn and took her out to pasture, stroking her velvety tan forehead and trying hard not to cry as we stood there in the grassy tan-green field under a pure pale blue sky. She nuzzled my arm, looking at me with large, mournful eyes, as though she sensed my grief. I patted her flank and moved away, leaving her to graze, and then I fed the squawking chickens and filled their water trough. Slipping on a pair of old white gloves and a wide brimmed white straw hat, I weeded the kitchen garden, heedless of the dirt stains I was getting on my skirt. An hour passed, another, and it was nearing noon when I finally went back inside.

  The house was still, silent. I sat down at the kitchen table and snapped a bowl full of crisp green beans, killing time, not strong enough yet to face up to the truth. I must keep busy every moment, and maybe the pain wouldn’t sweep over me in searing waves. Maybe I would stay numb, unfeeling. Maybe I could endure it if I just kept busy. He was gone. I knew that. I hadn’t heard a sound since I had come back inside. He was gone, and I would never see him again, and it was best, I would survive, somehow I would survive. It was only in novels that people died of love. The clock struck twelve, and almost at the same moment I heard the sound of horse hooves and wheels on the lane.

  I went into the foyer. His bags were by the door. He had gone to the village for the horse and rig, and now he had come back to pick up his bags. I saw him stop out front, saw him climb down and open the gate and come up the walk toward the open door, and it seemed to be happening in a dream, everything slightly blurred, seen through a fine haze. He was wearing black breeches and frock coat and a deep wine-colored vest, a frothy lace jabot at his throat. His raven hair was pulled back sleekly and tied at his nape with a thin black ribbon. His deeply tanned face was drawn, skin stretched taut across those sharp cheekbones. His mouth was held in a tight line, and his dark brown eyes were expressionless as he stepped inside and took up the bags. He looked at me for a long moment, and then he turned to go.