Angel in Scarlet

by Jennifer Wilde

  “It probably won’t,” I agreed.

  “That pretty Mrs. Leigh has her eye on him,” Dottie remarked, “has had for a long time. She’ll be delighted. I don’t believe you’ve ever met her, Angel. She has silver-blonde hair and huge brown eyes and the kind of figure men go wild over—looked enchanting in that pink velvet gown I made for her to wear in Calista. An ingenue, barely eighteen.”

  “Eighteen my ass!” Megan protested. “The little slut’s a good twenty-seven.”

  “Anyway, my dear, I’m sure she’ll appreciate your giving up Charles this way, leaves the field open for her. When I was fitting her she confided that she’d do anything to get him—those brown eyes of hers were positively gleaming with anticipation.”

  Dottie smiled sweetly and took another sip of tea. Megan shot her a murderous look and then emitted a disgusted sigh.

  “I suppose I might as well marry the son of a bitch,” she told us, “if only to save him from the likes of her. Come on, Angel, my things are in the dressing room. I shouldn’t have washed my hair—I can’t do a thing with it. You’ll have to help, luv. A French twist, maybe?”

  An hour and a half later, calm as could be, looking spectacularly lovely in the pale peach velvet gown, Megan examined herself in the full length mirror and gave a satisfied nod. I had arranged her hair into a gleaming stack of auburn waves on back of her head, weaving in fragrant orange blossoms, and now I handed her the transparent peach gauze veil appliqued with smaller velvet lilies than those on her overskirt. The tiny seed pearls outlining them glistened as she put the veil over her head and adjusted it.

  “Well,” she said, “I suppose this will have to do.”

  “You look beautiful, Megan.”

  “I really do, don’t I? It’s the gown, of course. The son of a bitch is damned lucky to get me.”

  “He truly is.”

  “What if I faint, luv?”

  “You won’t,” I assured her.

  “Where’s my bouquet of orange blossoms?”

  “Dottie has it.”

  “You know what he did? He bought a house. Day before yesterday. It’s on Maiden Lane, right on the street with no front yard, just two marble steps. White with gray shutters and a steep green roof and a garden in the back yard where, he says, we can grow vegetables.”

  “It sounds enchanting, darling.”

  “Me growing vegetables! Can’t you just picture it? He didn’t lease the place, luv, he bought it. That seems so permanent.” Megan adjusted the hang of the veil, turning this way and that to study the effect. “It’s being repainted inside—the breakfast room is being done in sunny yellow, the drawing room in white. We’ll be moving in next Tuesday. Yesterday we went shopping for furniture. Charles has suddenly become frighteningly domestic. You should have seen him picking out chairs.”

  “I’m sure he was adorable, darling, but we only have thirty minutes, and I’d better go get dressed myself.”

  The gown I had selected was of creamy pale tan velvet with short, narrow sleeves worn off the shoulder, a low-cut neckline and a full, sumptuous skirt that spread out over half a dozen champagne-colored underskirts. With a thin violet velvet ribbon tied around the waist, it was exquisitely simple and extremely elegant. My hair was pulled back from my face, ringlets falling down in back, and I fastened a small spray of real violets on one side, just above my temple. The effect was understated and, I thought, quite charming. Megan and Dottie expressed their approval as I joined them in the living room. Dottie had changed into mauve velvet and looked lovely herself.

  I glanced at the clock. “Is everyone ready?”

  “You two go ahead,” Megan said. “I’m staying here.”

  “Do, dear,” Dottie said. “I’m sure Mrs. Leigh will be glad to fill in for you.”

  “You know, Dottie, at heart you’re an awful bitch. I’ve always suspected it.”

  “Come along,” I said. “We don’t want to be late.”

  “Speak for yourself, luv. For God’s sake, hold my hand as we cross the piazza. My legs have just turned to water.”

  We moved slowly down the narrow steps and out the green door, our velvet skirts making a soft, rustling noise. The air was cool, but we hadn’t wanted to be bothered with cloaks. Old Brinkley stepped out of his wig shop, grinning broadly. He wished Megan good luck. She told him to sod off. Crossing the street, we started across the piazza toward the church. Groups of people from The Market had come out to watch the bride pass by, and they cheered and waved. Megan scowled grumpily and tried to shoot them a stiff middle finger. I slapped her hand. St. Paul’s, the Actors’ Church of Covent Garden, looked mellow and worn in the late afternoon sunlight, and we could hear organ music coming from the opened door. The guests had already arrived. Megan gave me a terrified look and tried to halt. Dottie and I prodded her on and finally got her up the steps and into the vestibule where Clinton was waiting.

  “Ah,” he said, “the radiant bride.”

  “Go to hell,” she snapped.

  Clinton grinned and kissed her on the cheek. The music swelled, filling the shabby old church with sonorous beauty, then gradually grew softer. Megan’s eyes grew moist. She hugged me tightly and hugged Dottie and then wiped a shiny tear from her cheek and straightened her veil. She composed herself, even managed a smile, and she did indeed look radiant. Dottie handed her the bouquet of orange blossoms. The music was softer now, eventually fading away, and when it began again it would be time for Megan to make her entrance on the arm of Lord Meredith, who was giving her away. Megan emitted a heavy sigh and linked her arm in his as the first strains pealed out.

  “Let’s get this bloody show over with,” she said.

  Despite all the tension and nervous turmoil beforehand, the wedding went beautifully, the ceremony simple, the principals wonderfully poised. Charles looked handsome and impressive, showing no sign of inebriation. He smiled as Megan joined him at the altar banked with lilies and peach-colored roses, and she smiled back. Dozens of tall white candles were burning, creating a softly diffused glow as they exchanged vows. Charles slipped the ring on Megan’s finger. His was a mite too small, and he winced as she jammed it up over his knuckle. Dottie dabbed at the corner of her eye with a lace handkerchief as the organ music swelled, as the groom kissed the bride, and in no time at all they were sweeping up the aisle, Charles smiling a proud smile, Megan looking vastly relieved.

  “Thank goodness that’s over with,” I said as Clinton and I stepped outside.

  “You had problems with Megan?”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” I replied.

  A carriage had already whisked Megan and Charles away to Hanover Square, where they would change and prepare for the reception. Clinton took my arm, guiding me down the steps and past the old tombstones in the yard. Behind us wedding guests continued to stream out of St. Paul’s, rich, theatrical voices creating a merry, excited babble. Dottie had stopped to chat with David Garrick, who would bring her to the reception later on, and Clinton and I walked slowly across the piazza toward our waiting carriage, pausing now and then as people greeted me. Rupert Guild, a plump, ruddy-cheeked, red-haired character actor famous for his Falstaff blocked our way, blue eyes atwinkle.

  “Angel, pet!” he cried. “Smashing to see you! When are you returning to the theater?”

  “I’m quite retired, darling. This is my husband, Lord Meredith. Rupert Guild, Clinton. You may remember his Falstaff.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Milord. How does it feel to be a thief?”

  Clinton arched a brow, amused. “Thief?” he said.

  “Robbed us all of London’s brightest light. Theater isn’t the same without our Angel. Have to rush, pet,” he told me. “I’m playing Caliban at the York tonight and it takes me hours to make myself ugly. Won’t be able to get to the reception. Give Megan a big bearhug for me.”

  Inside the carriage, Clinton wrapped a heavy cloak around my bare shoulders and scolded me for venturing out without one even if St. Paul’
s was just across the street. I sighed, drawing the velvety folds around me. He was in a pensive mood as we rode home, and I knew that Rupert’s words, though spoken in jest, had bothered him. Clinton loved me so much and wanted me to be happy, and he felt marriage to him might seem dreary after the color and excitement of the theater. I did miss it, true, and there were indeed times when I felt bored and restless, but I had tried my best to hide it. I reached over and took his hand now, squeezing it tightly. Clinton looked up, surprised by the gesture.

  “I wish we weren’t having this bloody reception,” I said.

  “I thought you were looking forward to it. You’ll see all your friends, have an opportunity to catch up on all the gossip.”

  “The gossip doesn’t interest me and I’ve seen quite enough of my friends for a while. I’d much rather be alone with you.”

  “You would?”

  “You—you’re the most important thing in the world to me, Clinton. I’m so glad you married me.”

  “I’m rather glad myself,” he told me.

  “After this reception, I want us to spend a lot of time alone together,” I said.

  Clinton smiled. “I’m on to you, my darling. Christmas is coming up and you want to be especially nice to me, hoping I’ll give you something very expensive and grand.”

  I touched the spray of violets in my hair and rearranged the folds of my tan velvet skirt, pretending to be found out. “Well, as Megan would say—a girl can’t help trying.”

  “You’re a clever minx, aren’t you?”

  “Think big for Christmas,” I said. “I’ve also got a birthday coming up in a couple of months.”

  Clinton chuckled, clambered across to my side of the carriage and pulled me rather violently into his arms. When the carriage stopped in front of the house on Hanover Square, the violets I’d been wearing had fallen to the seat, my bodice had slipped askew and my skirts were deplorably rumpled. Clinton’s jabot was crushed flat and there was a smear of pink lip rouge on the side of his mouth. I wiped it off and managed to straighten my bodice before a footman opened the carriage door for us. Clinton gave my backside a rude pat as I climbed out. My sensitive, thoughtful husband was a wonderfully sensual animal as well, that being a bonus I reveled in. Taking my hand, he led me into the house.

  “My gown is quite ruined,” I complained. “It’s a good thing I was planning to change anyway.”

  “I suppose there’s no time to—”

  “You have to change yourself, darling,” I reminded him, “and our first guests will be arriving soon. Megan and Charles are already here.”

  “Damn,” he grumbled.

  An hour later, hair sleekly brushed, expression serene, he was making polite conversation with two actors who had just arrived. In his black velvet breeches and frock coat and silver-gray satin vest, frilly white lace lavishly festooning throat and wrists, he shook hands with a new arrival and introduced himself, the perfect, genial host. The tatterdemalion theatrical folk who had been skeptical about their welcome at the mansion on elegant Hanover Square were put immediately at ease by Clinton’s warmth. He didn’t seem like a bleed-in’ Lord at all. Seemed just like a regular person. Our haughty neighbors might look askance at the colorful, noisy types invading their turf, but here they were made to feel right at home. Megan and Charles were greeting guests too, Megan a vision in yellow silk brocade embroidered with golden flowers, Charles handsome in brown velvet. I had changed into a gown of pale amethyst satin with narrow silver stripes, a silver hair spray affixed to the side of my coiffure.

  “Here are the Gainsboroughs,” Megan announced. “Thomas, you old rogue, I still expect you to paint me. I’m a respectable married lady now. Can you believe it? Your wig’s on crooked, luv. Just thought I’d mention it.”

  Gainsborough straightened his wig and brushed the lapels of his wrinkled white satin frock coat while Mrs. G. gave the bride a warm hug. Young Richard Sheridan arrived, looking out of sorts, a vivacious Betsy trotting in behind him. As I greeted him, the arrogant playwright informed me that he had just completed another masterpiece. I said I wasn’t at all surprised. Megan told him she was currently at liberty and would simply love to read his play. “My, what a pretty dress you’re wearing,” he told her and then rushed off to find a drink. Jack Wimbly came jaunting in with a striking brunette ingenue in pink silk. The outrageous comic actor made several bawdy jokes about newlyweds until Charles finally told him to sod off. In full makeup and crackling purple taffeta, Dottie arrived with a sober, polite Davy Garrick in tow, an ebullient James Boswell right behind them.

  Guests continued to arrive during the next half hour. I smiled and made pleasantries and shook hands and wondered when Jamie would show up. I hadn’t seen him at St. Paul’s, but there had been a crush and I had been too nervous about the ceremony to pay much attention to who was there. Expecting him to step through the door at any minute, I felt a growing tension. What would he say? What would I reply? Both of us would be painfully polite, of course, but there was bound to be some strain. I dreaded that first encounter, even as I anticipated seeing him again. I had no hard feelings, none whatsoever. I thought of him with … with great fondness, remembering only the excitement and stimulation, the frolics and fun. It had been a tumultuous relationship, yes, but … there had been so many good times.

  “—desperately need a glass of champagne,” Megan was saying. “If anyone else arrives, Putnam can show them in.”

  “I could use some champagne myself,” Charles agreed. “I hope that rotten Wimbly hasn’t drunk it all up.”

  “The receiving line is officially closed,” Clinton announced. “Let’s go have that champagne.”

  “Coming, luv?” Megan asked me.

  “What? Oh—oh, yes. Of course.”

  “You look disappointed about something.”

  “Disappointed? Nonsense. I—I’m just a little tired.”

  “Nothing wears you out like being charming,” she agreed. “If I have to smile one more time I’m going to scream.”

  The house was thronging with bright, engaging people who wandered around from dining room to foyer to drawing room to sitting room, chatting vivaciously, greeting old friends, exchanging news. Liveried footmen circulated with trays of champagne, and there was a sumptuous buffet in the dining room every bit as lavish as that prepared for the ill-fated ball. A merry, festive mood prevailed, growing rowdier as the evening progressed. Megan and Charles were in fine form, the bride absolutely scintillating, the groom jovial, accepting congratulations with a broad grin. Clinton was wonderful, moving from group to group, smiling, chatting, putting everyone at ease. I did the same, telling myself I wasn’t at all disappointed Jamie hadn’t come, telling myself it was for the best.

  “Splendid fellow, your husband,” Boswell said, coming over to me in the dining room. “Had a most interesting talk with him. I happened to mention I was going back to Scotland in mid-January, and he invited me to stop by Greystone Hall on the way, spend the night.”

  “You must, Boswell,” I told him. “We have very few guests. It will be a treat for both of us.”

  “Just might do it. I’ll tell you all about my visits to Seven Dials and the fascinating underworld figures I’ve met there. Thieves, assassins, forgers—the place is a hotbed of vice and corruption, wonderful material for a student of human nature.”

  “Like you,” I said.

  “Like me. I say, who’s that stunning brunette in pink?”

  “I believe she belongs to Jack Wimbly.”

  Boswell grinned. “Not for long. What a derriere! Wonderful party, Angel. See you later.”

  The audacious red-haired Scot bustled off to charm Wimbly’s ingenue, and I moved on out into the foyer where guests stood talking in bright groups under the radiant chandelier. Others sat on the steps with plates of food, the convivial informality of Covent Garden spilling over to Hanover Square. Dottie waved and continued her chat with Richard Sheridan. I went into the drawing room and paused to hav
e a glass of champagne with David Garrick who saw a copy of one of Miranda James’s novels on the bookshelf and talked wistfully of the days when he had known her.

  Another hour passed. I saw Clinton across the way, charming a character actress, saw Charles grinning tipsily and stumbling as Jack pounded his back, saw Megan fluttering amidst the crowd like a splendid butterfly in her yellow and gold gown. I chatted with Mrs. G. I laughed with a group of rowdy young actors from the Haymarket. I listened to Betsy’s witty account of her visit with the Burneys and smiled at Gainsborough who, surrounded by a bevy of pretty actresses, looked like a beaming, bewigged pasha, relishing the adulation. Merry babble filled the air. Noisy laughter rang out. The buffet table was decimated, footmen bringing more smoked salmon, more caviar, more sliced ham. Champagne was downed with abandon, trays emptying almost as fast as they were filled. The reception was a tremendous success, the radiant look in Megan’s eyes making it all worthwhile.

  Smiling, nodding, I moved down the foyer and stepped into the small sitting room, relieved to see that it was empty, hoping for a moment to catch my breath. I sighed, passing a hand across my brow, and then I noticed the pair of legs stretched out in front of the blue wing-backed chair. Scuffed black pumps, white silk stockings encasing well-turned calves, black knee breeches. The legs moved. The man stood up. The noise of the party seemed to recede, became a mere background to the pounding of my heart. He looked at me. His green-brown eyes were full of yesterdays. He nodded. Why was my heart pounding like this? Why did I feel this wild elation, this awful dread? Why did I want to cry, want to shout with joy? Why, suddenly, did I feel gloriously, vibrantly alive?

  “Hello, Angel,” he said.

  “Jamie,” I said. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  Was that my voice? Could that regal, polite, perfectly controlled voice possibly be mine? It sounded alien to my ear, so different from the voice inside that cried out at the sight of him looking so drawn, looking so sad, his handsome face so very grave. He was too thin. There were faint shadows under his eyes, and the slight twist to his nose looked more pronounced, looked endearing. I recognized the frock coat. It was a bit the worse for wear. I recognized the green neckcloth, too. It was slightly rumpled. Poor darling. He needed someone to take care of him.