We stopped at the foot of the gardens and turned, looking up past the terraced beds of pink and white rose bushes to Greystone Hall, immense and impressive with its weathered gray walls and leaded windows and the multilevel gray-green rooftops. Megan’s hood fell back and a skein of auburn hair blew across her cheek. I gathered my dark blue cloak closer about me, thinking about Jamie and the bitterness I knew he must be feeling.
“Amelia Mine was the best thing he’s ever written,” I observed. “It’s a shame it didn’t run longer.”
“The critics loved the play,” Megan said. “For the first time in his career Lambert receives brilliant notices—‘clever, inventive, a delightful romp of a play’—and it closes after two and a half months. Charles was positively marvelous as Burbage, the ladies practically fell out of their seats during the love scenes, and Jack Wimbly was inspired as Shakespeare, best performance he’s given, but the play needed a very strong actress in the lead. Young Mrs. Thayer simply hadn’t the experience to carry it off.”
I was silent, remembering the newspaper clippings Dottie had sent me after the play opened. A part tailor-made for Mrs. Howard. An actress of Mrs. Howard’s stature would have done the role justice. While charming, Mrs. Thayer is no Angel Howard, for whom the part was obviously written. Lambert’s brightest play demanded the presence of his brightest actress, Mrs. Howard, who was sadly missing. How these comments must have stung Jamie, for, had I played the part, and I would have had he given me the least encouragement that afternoon at Button’s, he would likely have had the success he so badly wanted. The success he so badly needed.
“You should have played Amelia,” Megan said.
“That was out of the question, Megan.”
“Poor Lambert. He had so much in his favor—a genuinely fine play, full of wit and verve, a superb set, gorgeous costumes, a perfect leading man, an excellent supporting cast—and, alas, a weak leading lady. Mrs. Thayer gave it a good try, but the part was too much for her.”
“I know Jamie must have been terribly disappointed.”
“He was devastated, luv.”
“What—what is he doing now?” I asked.
“Hurting,” Megan replied. “I don’t know who he got to put up the money for the production, but they lost it all, and rumor has it that Lambert is deeply in debt.”
“He’ll pull through,” I said. “He always does.”
We started slowly back toward the house, moving up the levels of terraces, the fragrance of roses scenting the cool November air. The sky seemed a darker gray, the color of slate, and I suspected we might soon have snow. Megan emitted a sigh and gazed at the roses.
“It’s lovely here,” she remarked.
“Very,” I agreed.
“And so quiet. Do you miss it, luv?”
“Miss what?”
“The theater. The excitement, the vitality, the color. The greasepaint, the applause.”
“I’m very happy here, Megan.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I—I have nothing to complain about. Clinton is wonderful. I love him very much.”
“But?”
“There really—there really isn’t all that much to do,” I confessed. “I have hours and hours each day when—when I find myself restless, at a loss. I don’t mean to sound like an awful bitch—Clinton couldn’t be kinder, couldn’t be more considerate—but—I’m used to being involved in something.”
“Exactly,” Megan said.
“At first I was kept busy with the house—going over the plans with Adam, selecting colors and fabrics, picking out furniture—but after that—” I hesitated, feeling terribly disloyal. “I visit the tenant farms now and then and perform small acts of charity. I take long rides. I read a great deal. When Clinton is around, it’s fine, but—the estate takes up so much of his time. I must sound dreadfully ungrateful.”
“Not at all, luv.”
“I do miss the theater, yes, I’ll admit it, but I—I’ll soon get used to this new way of life.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“It—it’s simply a matter of adjustment. It wouldn’t be so bad if we had some kind of social life, but Clinton’s class has turned a cold shoulder on him ever since our marriage.”
“Dottie told me about the ball,” Megan said.
“It’s much harder on Clinton than it is on me. I say sod ’em, but Clinton grew up in that world. Those are his friends, his colleagues. He never says a word about it, but I know he’s been deeply wounded. I feel it’s my fault.”
“You shouldn’t,” she told me. “Clinton wanted you, luv, and he knew full well what he was letting himself in for. You matter far more to him than a lot of powdered fops and their haughty dames. He loves you, and, I must say, I’ve never seen a man who seemed happier with his lot.”
“I want him to be happy,” I said quietly. “It’s the most important thing in the world to me.”
“Things will brighten up when you get to London,” Megan said. “Clinton’s friends might be bloody snobs, but he’s certainly tolerant of your friends. He has been a marvelous host, luv. Charles and I both adore him.”
“And he’s fond of you. Having you here has been marvelous.”
Reaching the top level, we paused for a moment. The lawn here directly behind the house was smooth rolled and edged with flower beds that in spring were full of daffodils and daisies. Tall evergreens shivered in the breeze. Megan smoothed back her auburn hair, running her fingers through the lustrous coppery brown waves. Since Charles, she seemed more settled, I thought. The vitality and sparkle were still there, as lively and engaging as ever, but the restlessness was gone, and there was a new maturity in those vivid blue eyes. Both of us had changed a great deal since that day at Miller’s on Fleet when she begged me to help her hide from her former lover. That seemed a lifetime ago.
“Has—has Clinton ever mentioned Hugh Bradford, luv?” she asked, pulling up her rust velvet hood.
I shook my head. “His name has never come up.”
Megan knew the whole story, even the fact that Hugh was the notorious Lord Blackie. I had finally told her about that, and Megan had been intrigued. She was the only person I had dared confide in, but I needed to talk to someone about it and knew I could trust Megan completely.
“Clinton doesn’t know about you and Hugh?”
“He hasn’t an inkling,” I replied, “and—he must never know. There was bad blood between them when they were youths. It—it would upset Clinton terribly if he were to find out.”
“I can see why, luv,” Megan said. “Do you think Hugh will return to England?”
“I haven’t any idea. I hope he doesn’t. It could only mean trouble for everyone.”
“You’re over him,” she said.
“I just want to forget. Hugh belongs to—to a past that is firmly behind me.”
Hearing shouts, laughter and the sound of horse hooves pounding on the cobbles, Megan and I circled around the back of the house to the stables, arriving just as Charles and Clinton were dismounting. Both men were dusty, disheveled and flushed with the ruddy glow of male satisfaction. Charles was dressed all in brown, a crumpled burnt-orange neckcloth at his throat, his dark blond locks attractively tumbled. Alighting nimbly from the powerful chestnut he had been riding, he proudly held up a clump of quail all strung together, at least seven of them. Megan gave him a look of total disgust. Clinton, in black knee boots and navy blue breeches and coat, chuckled at her reaction to the dead birds and slipped out of the saddle, his sky blue neckcloth as crumpled as Charles’. Hercules stamped and let out a wicked snort as Ian took the reins and led him into his stall for feed and grooming. Another groom led the chestnut away.
“Quite a day!” Charles exclaimed. “Seven quail! Bagged four of ’em myself!”
“Bully for you,” Megan said dryly. “Slaughtering innocent birds isn’t my idea of heroism.”
“A man has to eat,” he protested.
“I’m
not eating one of those poor creatures, I assure you. You’ve got a streak of dirt on your cheek. You look a mess.”
“I feel marvelous! Give us a hug.”
“Not a chance. You smell of blood.”
Charles turned to Clinton and grinned broadly. “Women!” he seemed to say. Clinton grinned back. Both men were inordinately pleased with themselves. One of the footmen came out to take charge of the string of quail, his powdered wig and velvet livery looking quite incongruous. His expression stoic, he bore the birds away, and I could imagine Henri’s outburst when those bloody corpses were carried into his kitchen. Clinton handed the guns to yet another servant with instructions that they were to be cleaned and oiled, and then he brushed a spot of mud from his elbow.
“I could use a strong port,” Charles said.
“You could use a bath,” Megan told him.
“Can’t a man have any fun?”
“You call that fun? I call it senseless slaughter. I suppose you think it’s terribly manly to shoot helpless little birds.”
“It’s more manly than slapping paint on your face and plopping a heavy wig on your head and prancing before the footlights, spouting romantic nonsense and acting the fool.”
“That pays the bills,” she informed him, “and you happen to be marvelous on stage. Come along, you need a good scrub, and then you can have your port. If you behave yourself. Do you realize you could have been killed, riding that fierce beast over strange terrain, handling that gun? I was worried sick about you, you lout. You’re not going hunting again, do you hear me?”
“Are you trying to tell me what I can or can’t do?”
“You bet your arse I am. Come along now!”
She led a chastened, amiably grinning Charles away. Clinton smiled at me. I rubbed a speck of dust from his chin, and he slung an arm around my shoulders and I felt a rush of warmth and affection and gratitude. We strolled leisurely toward the house, Megan still scolding Charles up ahead.
“She’s dreadfully rough on him,” I remarked.
“And he adores every minute of it,” Clinton replied. “Men like to know their women care.”
“Maybe I should have scolded you. I do worry about you, you know. Hercules is so powerful and you’re so bloody reckless.”
“Been riding all my life,” he told me.
“I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you, Clinton.”
He smiled, tightening his grip around my shoulders. “So you do care?” he said.
“You know I do, you silly sod, and if you want proof of it, you’ll have to wait until our guests have retired for the night.”
“You’ll furnish proof then?”
“If you behave yourself.”
Megan seemed unusually quiet at dinner that evening, seemed rather nervous and distracted, fidgeting with her wine glass. She was gorgeous in a gown of exquisite bronze velvet, cut provocatively low, her lustrous auburn hair artfully styled on top of her head with three long ringlets dangling in back, a pearl studded gold wire hair spray affixed to one side. She wore a matching gold and pearl bracelet, both pieces of jewelry given to her by Charles who had apparently decided a pair of scissors now and then wasn’t enough to keep a girl happy. Handsome in dark brown velvet frock coat and a cream silk vest embroidered with dark brown leaves, that gentleman was as expansive and hearty as Megan was withdrawn. Something had clearly happened between them since they were upstairs together, and I was eager to hear about it. I hadn’t long to wait. Megan gave me a look that informed me she had very important news to impart.
“—not much hunting in London,” Charles was saying, “but there’s plenty to keep a fellow occupied. When you get to London, Clinton, I’ll introduce you to all my favorite haunts.”
“I’m not at all sure I want my husband going to your haunts, Mr. Hart,” I said.
“It sounds intriguing,” Clinton told him.
“Better than those stuffy clubs you aristocrats frequent. A man wants redblooded fare—hearty companions, buxom wenches, stout ale, lively fun.”
“I agree wholeheartedly,” Clinton said.
Megan and I exchanged exasperated looks.
“I haven’t heard from Dottie in at least two weeks,” I remarked, changing the subject. “How is she?”
“Still fighting off the theatrical managers,” Charles replied. “Garrick has offered her a small fortune, but she staunchly refuses to sign with anyone. I’m too old to tie myself down, she claims. All this attention is flattering, I’m sure, but I’ve got a business to run. If the right role comes along she’ll consider it, she says, but in the meantime she’s perfectly content creating costumes and running them up.”
“Quite sensible of her,” I said. “Dottie has her feet firmly planted on the ground. Her head’s not easily turned.”
“You should have seen the outfits she had me got up in for Amelia—forest green tights and tunic, skintight, a green cape lined with bronze taffeta—I had to wear a codpiece! Bloody embarrassing, appearing in that getup. I felt like a fool.”
“I’m sure the ladies loved it,” I said.
“They did,” Megan said dryly. “The Harlequin outfit, too.”
“White silk shirt with bell sleeves, pink and green striped tights, another codpiece,” Charles grumbled. “I know I heard snickers as I stepped out in front of the footlights.”
“One woman actually swooned and fell out of the balcony,” Megan informed me. “She wasn’t injured, but it made wonderful copy for the papers. I believe she was with a circus—I saw Lambert giving her five pounds after the show.”
“He knows his business,” I remarked.
“Is this any way for a grown man to make his living, I asked myself. Burbage was a brilliant part, can’t deny that, I gave my best performance yet, but those costumes—I think Dottie did it deliberately to get back at me for teasing her about her age.”
“She knows her business, too,” I said. “How does it feel to be adored by half the women in London?”
“Bloody uncomfortable.”
“It’s a trial he bears with amazing fortitude,” Megan said. “I suggest we change the subject. All this theatrical talk must be boring Clinton dreadfully.”
“On the contrary,” Clinton said. “I find it fascinating. I’d pay quite a sum to see you in those tights, Charles.”
“It’ll never happen, mate.”
Dessert was brought in—a marvelous brandied souffle, served with sweet, hot sauce—and I could see that Megan was impatient to impart her news. When coffee came, Clinton was telling Charles about his extensive gun collection. I suggested they go look at it. The men gulped down their coffee in record time, excused themselves and hurried away like two little boys on a lark.
“They’ll be occupied for hours,” I said. “It is an extensive collection. Shall we adjourn to the drawing room?”
Megan nodded, pushing her coffee cup aside.
We walked to the drawing room, her full bronze velvet skirt swaying like a great bell, rustling softly. I was wearing velvet, too, pale gray with a light violet sheen. A footman stood on duty in the luxurious foyer, striking in his handsome livery and powdered wig. When we reached the drawing room, Megan went directly over to the exquisite white Chippendale liquor cabinet and poured herself a glass of brandy, nervous and agitated.
“What is it?” I asked, concerned.
“He wants to marry me,” she said.
“Charles?”
“No, luv, the Duke of Cumberland. Of course Charles. We came in this afternoon and I was still scolding him when we got to our room and he grinned and said I sounded exactly like a nagging wife and I said someone had to look after him and he said since I was going to act like a wife I might as well be one and you could have knocked me over with a feather.”
“So?”
“I’m terrified, luv. He wants to marry me.”
“I fail to see what the problem is,” I said.
Megan took a drink of her brandy and gave me an
exasperated look as though I were being particularly dense. “Marriage, luv,” she said, “commitment, no way out, forever and ever.”
“Is that so bad?”
“Darning stockings, cooking meals, stroking egos, muddy boots in the hallway and bread crumbs in bed. Freedom and independence gone and someone else always there.”
“When that someone happens to be Charles Hart, the tragedy is considerably less dire.”
“You have a point,” she admitted.
“What did you tell him?”
“I didn’t say anything. I just burst into tears. Me! Frightfully out of character. I just started sobbing and he pulled me to him and held me and then he said he loved me.”
“And that surprised you?”
“No one’s ever said it to me before, luv. Men adore me, they have a jolly good time with me, think I’m a wonderful carefree spirit and loads of fun to be with, by they never love me.”
“Charles does.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“You love him, too,” I said.
“I know,” she admitted, “and it scares the hell out of me. What if something goes wrong? What if he grows tired of me? What if he discovers that I’m not really the vivacious, flip, smart-mouthed creature he thinks I am but a woman who secretly loves cooking his breakfast?”
“I imagine he’d be able to sustain the shock.”
“Me,” she said, “married. I can’t see it, luv. He’s marvelously handsome and incredibly magnetic and a superlative lover and making a great deal of money now and becoming very famous and he could have any woman in London and he wants me.”
“Congratulations,” I said.
Megan set the brandy down and gave an exasperated sigh and stepped over to the fireplace, the gold and pearl hair piece gleaming against her auburn locks, her blue eyes thoughtful as she gazed up at the painting of the girl in scarlet velvet. The colors glowed richly in the candlelight, the dark gold frame softly burnished. Megan gazed at it for several moments, and then she sighed again and turned to me.
“It all began that day Gainsborough spotted you on the street,” she said. “If he hadn’t painted this portrait, if you hadn’t become a successful actress, I wouldn’t have gotten good parts, wouldn’t have met Charles. Thomas Gainsborough has a hell of a lot to answer for.”
Angel in Scarlet Page 49