“I love Dottie dearly,” Megan remarked as we left the stage, “but I don’t think I’d care to appear in another play with her.”
“I know what you mean,” I said.
I had left word with Millie that if a gentleman asked permission to see me after the play, she was to grant it, and when I entered my dressing room she informed me that I would indeed be having a visitor. I hastily removed my costume and stage makeup, cleaned my face, dried it and applied a touch of shadow to my lids, a suggestion of subtle pink rouge to my lips. I put on my white silk petticoat and Millie helped me into the sumptuous gown Dottie had created especially for me. It was a gorgeous, creamy white satin embroidered all over with delicate violet and sapphire-blue flowers. The small puffed sleeves were worn off the shoulder, and the heart-shaped neckline left much of my bosom bare. The bodice was formfitting, the full, spreading skirt parting in scalloped flounces to reveal an underskirt of row upon row of white lace ruffles. Millie stepped back and gazed at me with something like awe.
“Loveliest gown I ever saw. You look breathtakin’, Miss Angel.”
“Thank you, Millie. You may go now. I’ll see you Monday evening.”
Millie nodded and left and I stepped over to the mirror to examine my hair. No time to do anything with it. I’d just have to let it fall to my shoulders in loose, natural waves. I was inordinately nervous, felt as skittish as a schoolgirl, and that, of course, was ridiculous. He would come in and I would be very polite and thank him for the roses and return the necklace and that would be it. Then, with Dottie and Megan and the rest of the cast, I would drive to the newly redecorated flat over Brinkley’s where Megan and Charles were giving me a party, complete with champagne and food sent in from Button’s. No reason for my pulses to leap like this. No reason at all. There was some white wine left. I longed to have a glass and had just decided to pour it when he knocked on the door. It was several moments before I could bring myself to open it.
He looked at me with glorious gray eyes the color of smoke. He smiled, the full pink lips curving gently. I stared, at a complete loss for words. He wore white kid pumps with silver buckles, white silk stockings and breeches and frock coat of gorgeous sky-blue velvet. His white silk vest was embroidered with silver leaves, and delicate white lace spilled from his throat and over his wrists. This elegant attire accentuated his virile beauty, for beautiful he was. He did look like a storybook hero. I had thought so the first time I laid eyes on him fourteen years ago in the garden at Greystone Hall.
“Hello, Angela,” he said.
His deep, throaty voice was still incredibly seductive, but there was a husky rasp to it now and, too, an edge of sadness. The radiant bloom of youth that had made him so dazzling years ago had faded, and the handsome face had mellowed. The arrogance was gone and there was character in its place, a lived-in look that made it even more attractive. His thick blond hair was paler than I remembered, pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck with a thin white ribbon. His heavy lids drooped slightly over eyes that, I saw now, seemed sad too. I gazed at him, and a full minute must have passed before I replied.
“Hello, Lord Meredith.”
“I wouldn’t blame you at all if you refused to see me,” he said. “I still feel wretched about the way I treated you—what? Five and a half years ago? My conduct was inexcusable.”
“It was indeed,” I replied.
“Do you want me to go away?”
“It was a long time ago. Come in, Clinton,” I said.
He stepped into the dressing room and I shut the door, remembering, surprisingly unresentful. He had changed. With the exception of physical features, the man I was looking at now bore no resemblance to the arrogant, randy youth who had attempted to bed me all those years ago. Maturity became him well, I thought. I offered him a glass of wine. Clinton shook his head.
“I—I heard about your wife’s death,” I said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t reply. The gray eyes darkened with sadness for a moment, and then he frowned slightly. I felt awkward, sorry that I had brought it up. He sighed, shaking off the mood. His eyes held mine.
“I’ve thought of you often,” he told me.
“Have you?”
He nodded. “I’ve thought about how I treated you and wondered if you could ever forgive me. I felt very guilty, Angela. I felt even guiltier after Julia died, for—you see, I never loved her. I was fond of her, I tried to be a good husband to her, but—I was still in love with you.”
His frankness startled me. He could see that, and a faint smile curved on his lips.
“I’m not being very subtle, I fear, but—it took a great deal of nerve for me to come here tonight. I decided to tell you how I feel at once, without playing clever word games. I love you, Angela. Do you want to slap my face?”
I slowly shook my head, still startled.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I didn’t know if I would ever have courage enough to come, Angela. I’ve been in mourning, and most of the time I sat in the drawing room at Greystone Hall, thinking about myself and not very pleased by the picture that emerged. You were a comfort to me, Angela. I looked up at the painting over the mantel and took comfort, knowing that you were doing so well in London.”
“Painting?”
“An Angel in Scarlet. It’s my prized possession.”
“So you’re the one who bought it,” I said.
Both of us seemed to have run out of words. We were silent, looking at each other, and I felt a curious warmth for this man I had every reason to despise. A woman is always flattered to learn a man is in love with her, and I could tell he was completely sincere. As remarkable as it might be, Lord Clinton Meredith was in love with me. It sometimes happened that way, without any real logic. After a brief encounter, sometimes at first sight, love came, and it was as real and as potent as love that develops over a long period of time. He loved me, had loved me for years. I was dumbfounded, but I wasn’t at all displeased.
“I had hoped you might let me take you to a late supper,” he said finally.
“I—I think I might enjoy that,” I replied, “but I’m afraid it isn’t possible tonight. My friends are giving a party for me, and—”
“I understand. I didn’t really expect you to accept.”
“It’s my birthday, you see, and—You knew that,” I added, suddenly remembering the necklace.
“I made it a point to find out.”
I moved over to the table, picked up the white leather box and turned, handing it to him.
“It was—it was very thoughtful of you to send me the necklace, very generous as well, but I couldn’t possibly accept it.”
Clinton didn’t reply at once. He opened the box, removed the necklace, set the box aside, holding the necklace out between his hands. The fiery gems shimmered brilliantly, seeming to burn with glittering life. He examined them closely, then sighed.
“I had this created especially for you,” he told me. “It took the jeweler months to locate just the right sapphires with violet fire—these came from Africa, I believe. I wanted them to go with your eyes. You won’t accept the necklace as a token of my admiration?”
“Surely you can see why I couldn’t.”
“You have given the gift of your beauty and talent to thousands, Angela, and you have brought them great joy. Will you not permit me the joy of giving you a small gift in return?”
“I—”
“There will be no obligation, I assure you. If you wish me to, I will leave tonight and never see you again. Knowing you have the necklace will give me much pleasure. Don’t deny me that.”
“You’re extremely persuasive,” I said.
“Then you’ll accept it?”
I hesitated, and, looking into his eyes, I saw that he was sincere, saw that he would be hurt if I refused his gift. Finally, reluctantly, I nodded, and Clinton smiled a beautiful smile and carefully put the necklace back into the box. I hoped I hadn’t made a very bad mistake.
<
br /> “You’ve made me very happy,” he said, setting the box aside. “Your friends will be waiting for you, I expect. I’d better leave now. Thank you for seeing me, Angela.”
“It’s been my pleasure.”
He looked at me. “You mean that?”
I nodded. I did mean it.
“Do you think we might be friends?” he asked.
“I think it highly possible. I’m sorry I couldn’t have dinner with you tonight. I would have enjoyed it. Per-. perhaps you could come to see me tomorrow afternoon. I have an At Home every Sunday from two until five. My friends drop in any time between those hours. I’d love to have you come. I live in Leicester Fields, Number Ten, a small white house with light tan shutters.”
“I’ll be there,” he promised.
I showed him out, and Megan burst into my dressing room a few moments later, a stunned expression on her face.
“My God, luv, I saw him! I was lurking in the hallway deliberately, I admit it, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. I couldn’t believe my eyes! He’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen. And rich! You kept the necklace. Please tell me you kept the necklace.”
“I kept it,” I said.
“And you’re going to see him again?”
“I’m going to see him tomorrow.”
“Hallelujah,” she said.
Although the house in Leicester Fields was small, the drawing room was large and airy with windows looking out over the square. Done in shades of white, pale tan and gold, with a lovely pearl-gray carpet on the floor, it was an ideal place for entertaining, roomy enough to accommodate several people while small enough to give a sense of cozy intimacy. My Sunday At Homes had come about almost by accident. As it was my day of leisure, friends had started dropping by to visit, enjoyed themselves, came back the following Sunday, and it had become habit. Journalists frequently referred to “Mrs. Howard’s Sunday salon,” but that was putting far too grand a name to it. Friends simply came by and stayed to enjoy one another’s company, and if they all chanced to be writers, painters and actors that was pure happenstance.
Tabitha, my saucy but efficient maid, helped me put the finishing touches on the buffet table and then scowled at the lavish array of food. “Seems a shame to waste it on that lot,” she remarked. Tabitha had red hair, large brown eyes and a turned-up nose, her cheeks liberally sprinkled with freckles. She had been in my employ ever since I took the house, had her own room upstairs and took marvelous care of the house and me, too. Though only nineteen, she fussed over me like a mother hen, seeing that I got the proper rest, the proper food and all the services suitable to “a lady of the theater.” Tabitha did not approve of the crowd who came on Sundays. They ate far too much and got much too rowdy, particularly that ’orrible Boswell and that pompous young Mister Sheridan who was always quarreling with everyone.
“I believe that’s someone at the door, Tabby,” I said.
“I ’eard, Miss Angel. I’ll go fetch ’em in.”
She flounced out, pert as could be in her salmon-pink dress, white apron and mob cap. I checked my appearance in the mirror. I was wearing a simple buttercup-yellow muslin frock sprigged with small dark gold flowers, a gold velvet sash around my waist. My hair, newly washed, gleamed with rich brown highlights, and my complexion looked quite fresh, despite the fact that Charles hadn’t brought me home from the party until almost four o’clock in the morning. A sulky Tabby had been waiting up for me. There were faint mauve-brown shadows on my eyelids, but the effect was not unattractive. Sighing, I turned away from the mirror to greet my first guests.
“I say, Tabby,” I heard Gainsborough remark in the hall, “my man Jenkins has been asking about you.”
“’Im!” Tabby snapped. “It’ll be a cold day in ’ell before I spend my afternoon off in ’is company, I can tell you for certain.”
“I told him to go around to the kitchen. I figured you might give him a cup of tea when you aren’t too busy with your duties.”
“That’s all I’m givin’ ’im, I promise you.”
Gainsborough chuckled as she led them into the drawing room, the artist in a slightly rumpled white satin suit, his wig askew, his wife in a very becoming sky-blue taffeta gown with white lace fichu. She was carrying a large tray.
“I brought some small iced cakes, two dozen in fact,” Mrs. Gainsborough announced, “and some sliced tongue, too. I’ll just set this tray on the table. I had hoped to bring a ham glazed with sweet mustard, but, alas, I didn’t have time to bake it.”
“And I brought your birthday present,” her husband informed me, holding up a brightly wrapped package. “Sorry we couldn’t come to the party last night, but Mrs. G. is much too old to keep such hours.”
“Speak for yourself, Thomas. I can stay up as late as anyone, Angel, but he starts to nod off as soon as the sun goes down. No fun at all these days. It’s frightfully dreary being married to such a man.”
“Open your present, Angel,” Gainsborough said grumpily.
He handed it to me, and I removed the bright paper to discover a small drawing in ink and pastels depicting a rustic landscape I recognized immediately from my summer in the country: a daisy-strewn field behind a broken stone wall, a line of feathery trees in the background. It was beautifully framed in dark, polished wood. Gainsborough beamed when he saw my delight.
“I—I walked over that field several times,” I said. “It’s magnificent, Thomas. I’ll treasure it always.”
“I did it year before last when we were at the cottage. I thought you might like it.”
I gave him a hug and, with Tabby’s help, promptly hung the landscape up over a side table between two windows with long tan silk curtains. As I did so, Gainsborough stared out a window at Sir Joshua Reynolds’ house across the square, hoping to catch him in some mischief, perhaps. Mr. G. wasn’t at all pleased that I lived so near his archrival and feared that I might sit for him. Sir Joshua had, indeed, asked to paint me, but I had told him that I was far too busy to have another portrait done just now.
Megan and Charles arrived a few minutes later, Megan fetching in a new frock of beige and brown striped silk, Charles looking unusually handsome in brown velvet breeches and frock coat, eyelids drooping lethargically over his sleepy eyes, his dark blond hair charmingly tousled. When, several weeks after the fiasco of Mary, My Queen, Charles had replaced an ailing Dick Philips in The Henchman, that rather lackluster production had turned into a great success. With his striking good looks and potent sexual magnetism, Charles was perfect as the amoral, womanizing rogue and had become the idol of the ladies. They were constantly writing passionate letters to him, hiding themselves in his dressing room, throwing themselves at him. While Charles took it all with easygoing good humor, Megan found it considerably less amusing. It wasn’t easy living with a man every other woman in London longed to sleep with, she informed me.
She took me aside, blue eyes full of excitement. “Is he coming?” she asked me.
“He said he would. It’s early yet.”
“I don’t mind telling you, luv, if I didn’t have Charles on tap I’d give you some strong competition for Lord Clinton Meredith. I can hardly wait to see him again. Grab him, luv. Men like that are few and far between, and they’re never rich to boot.”
I smiled and told her I had no intentions of becoming romantically involved. Megan gave me an exasperated look and then went over to ask Mr. G. when he was going to break down and paint a portrait of her. Boswell arrived, as boisterous as ever and full of bawdy anecdotes about his doings in the city, and Goldsmith came in shortly thereafter, looking uncharacteristically affluent in a new brown frock coat and a rather startling tan vest with bold orange stripes. Sir Joshua walked over, which put Thomas into a snit, and Betsy Sheridan came at two-thirty, sporting a feathered pink bonnet and without her brother who, she explained, was spending the day with Perdita Robinson, the clever and ambitious actress who had been monopolizing his time of late. Betsy rushed over to Charles Hart, gazin
g up at him with rapt adoration.
By three-thirty things had become lively indeed. Thomas and Sir Joshua were having a heated discussion about the merits of their respective techniques, while Boswell was scandalizing Mrs. G. with a vivid account of a hanging he had recently witnessed at Tyburn. Dottie was sipping tea and talking with Jack Wimbly, the actor who played Tony Lumpkin, and Megan was charming a couple of journalists and keeping an eye on Charles who was dazzling Betsy and the pretty young actress who had come with Jack. Tabby scurried about refilling glasses and teacups and passing out snacks. Goldy was snoozing quite contentedly in a large tan chair, unable to keep his eyes open after two glasses of wine.
Gazing out the window, I saw an elegant coach pull up in front of the house, and I motioned to Tabby. Putting down a tray, deftly avoiding Boswell’s straying hand, she went into the foyer and, a few moments later, returned with Lord Clinton Meredith in tow. He was wearing light gray velvet breeches and frock coat and a white silk vest with narrow indigo stripes, a sky blue neckcloth at his throat. His pale blond hair was pulled back and tied at the nape with a light gray velvet ribbon. A shy smile played on his beautifully shaped pink lips as I hurried over to greet him. Could this quiet, almost retiring man really be the arrogant buck I had known in years past? Could a man really change all that much? Lord Clinton Meredith was the living proof of it.
“I’m so glad you could come,” I said, taking his hand.
“I’m glad to be here. You have a charming house.”
“Come, I’ll get you a glass of wine and introduce you to my friends.”
Clinton smiled, a bit ill at ease, but he soon relaxed. Dottie took him under her wing, all friendly warmth, and Mrs. Gainsborough insisted he have some of the sliced tongue she had brought. Impressed by his title, Boswell was most engaging and chatted about shooting in the country and various London clubs. Clinton seemed to enjoy himself, but I noticed a certain reserve in his manner. Though there was nothing snobbish or haughty in his manner, I suspected he found us all rather too exuberant and outgoing.
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