I deliberately set about charming him. While the role I was playing might be best suited to the talents of a Mrs. Perry, I played it to the hilt but with considerably more finesse than that lady would have employed. Clinton was delighted that I was so vivacious, so considerate of Burke, so attentive. Dottie kept casting me dark looks throughout dinner, not taken in for a minute. Conversation centered around the theater—neither man cared to discuss the forthcoming legal battle—and I regaled Burke with bright and amusing anecdotes and he finally confided that he had seen almost all my plays and had been an admirer for years. Later, over dessert, he unbent enough to confess he had actually purchased a reproduction of An Angel in Scarlet.
“A remarkable painting,” he observed. “I wish I could have seen the original.”
“You mean you’ve never seen it? My husband purchased it—it’s hanging in the drawing room. I’ll show it to you myself.”
After the dessert plates had been removed I asked Clinton to escort Dottie to the library, where we would take our coffee, and, linking my arm in his, led Burke to the drawing room. Candles glowed brightly, the light imbuing the portrait with vibrant life. The pensive girl in scarlet velvet looked down at us, and I released Burke’s arm so that he could move closer. He inspected the portrait for several moments, silent, and then he turned to look at me. The woman in red silk brocade smiled quietly, her eyes attractively troubled. Burke saw the troubled eyes, and his own were immediately concerned.
“Is something wrong, Lady Meredith?” he inquired.
I nodded, the helpless, hopeful female now. “I’m so glad to have this opportunity to speak to you alone. There—” I paused, a deliberate, theatrical pause that made him even more attentive. “There’s something I’d like you to do for me if—if it’s possible. I don’t know all the legalities involved or even if you could do it, but—”
I paused again, looking at him with beseeching eyes. Jonathan Burke grew guarded. The man was no fool and, admire me though he did, he certainly wouldn’t undertake any job that might compromise his integrity. I realized that. I respected him for it. I didn’t want him to do anything unethical, I just wanted him to do it secretly, without my husband’s knowledge.
“Perhaps you’d better tell me what the problem is, Milady,” he said.
“It—it involves a friend of mine, a man to whom I owe a great deal. He is having serious financial difficulties, and—well, I happen to be in a position to help him, but I—I wouldn’t want him to know I was the one helping him out of his difficulties.”
“I see.”
“I wouldn’t want my husband to know, either,” I said. “He has so much on his mind right now—I wouldn’t want to bother him with this. I happen to have a great deal of money of my own, under the name Angel Howard. It’s in the Bank of England. A Mr. Richard Bancroft handles my affairs there.”
“I know Bancroft well. What exactly is it you want me to do for you, Lady Meredith?”
I told him. I gave him names and details, and he listened carefully, nodding now and then, his expression extremely grave. When I finished, he was silent, a frown creasing his brow, and I could see that he was not at all certain he wanted to undertake my little commission.
“Legally, there would be no problem whatsoever,” he said finally. “All I would require would be a letter of authorization in your handwriting, giving me power to act as your representative.”
“Then—”
“I’m your husband’s lawyer, Lady Meredith. I’m not at all sure I could do this without his knowledge.”
“Clinton would want to help,” I said. “He would want to use his own money—that’s the primary reason I haven’t told him about it. This is something I want to do myself. I—I don’t want to bother him with it at this particular time.”
Burke started to say something, hesitated. I could see him weakening.
“I thought I could rely on your help, Mr. Burke, but if you feel you can’t undertake the job, I—perhaps I could write to Mr. Bancroft. Perhaps he could recommend someone who might—”
I let the sentence dangle in air, looking hurt, looking brave. Burke weakened even more, and then he tightened his lips and nodded curtly, his decision made.
“That won’t be necessary, Lady Meredith,” he said.
“You—you’ll help me?”
He nodded again. “I’ll need that letter of authorization.”
“I’ll see that you have it before you leave in the morning. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
“The pleasure is mine, Milady.”
I smiled and, taking his hands, squeezed them. Burke relaxed, his reservations gone, delighted now to be of service. We went to join the others in the library, where coffee was served. The men had port afterward, and while they were talking together with glasses in hand Dottie came over to the sofa where I was sitting and plopped down beside me. Her voice low and inaudible to the men, she informed me that I didn’t fool her one bloody bit and demanded to know just what the hell I was up to. I gave her a fond look and patted her hand.
“I’ll tell you later, darling,” I said.
Burke left the next morning with the letter of authorization I had secretly passed to him after breakfast, and the following Monday he returned to Greystone Hall for another consultation with Clinton. I managed to speak to him in the drawing room before he joined Clinton in the office, and Burke proudly handed me a sheaf of very official-looking documents. He informed me that for all practical purposes I now owned The Lambert Theater. James Lambert had been informed that the papers were now in the possession of “an interested party,” who would not press for payment, and that the same party was eager to provide financial backing for his new play.
“Was—Did he seem pleased?” I asked.
“He seemed dumbfounded,” Burke replied. “He didn’t press me for a name,” he added, “but he was most interested to know when he would get the money. I took the liberty of drawing up a contract for your protection. The chap signed it promptly, didn’t even read it thoroughly—it’s included in the sheaf of papers. The money has already been transferred into an account under his name at the Bank of England. As financial backer, your share of the profits will be—” He paused when I waved my hand.
“The details aren’t important,” I told him. “The important thing is that he’ll be able to produce the play.”
“If the play is successful, you stand to make a considerable sum,” Burke said. “The contract is very carefully worded. If you’d care for me to go over it with you—”
“That won’t be necessary. Are—are you sure he has no idea who his mysterious benefactor is?”
“Positive. Frankly, he didn’t seem to care. I must say, the chap isn’t very business minded.”
“He’s an artist,” I replied.
Dottie was on the sofa in the back sitting room, her favorite spot, sewing beside her, an expression of deep concentration on her face as she made another annotation in her copy of The Country Wife. A fire was crackling pleasantly in the fireplace, and, once again, the sky outside was wet and gray. A tear slid down her cheek when I told Dottie what had transpired. She put her book down, giving me an irritable look that was nevertheless full of affection.
“You’ve made me spoil my makeup,” she grumbled, brushing the tear aside. “You’re an exasperating minx, Angel, you always have been—letting me stew all this time, letting me worry. There are times when I’d like to shake you. Why didn’t you tell me what you were doing?”
“I wanted to be sure Burke could carry it through. It’s done now. Legally, I own The Lambert.”
“And you’re financing the new play. It must have taken—”
“Every cent I had,” I told her, “and there was a lot. The money isn’t important. I—I couldn’t see him lose The Lambert, Dottie.”
“Of course you couldn’t.”
“He must never know what I’ve done—his bloody pride. He’d think it was charity. It—it was the least I coul
d do, Dottie. I want him to succeed. I want him to see all his dreams come true. He’s a brilliant man—a wonderful man, too, in his way. There were dozens of times I would cheerfully have murdered him, but—”
I cut myself short. Dottie looked at me with those wise, wonderful eyes, seeing so much, seeing, perhaps, more than I saw myself, but she didn’t say anything. She gathered her sewing into her lap and quietly began to stitch, and I poured myself a cup of tea and stepped over to the windows and gazed out at the wet gray sky, remembering, a poignant feeling welling inside. A long time went by before I finally sighed and set the cup down and went to see about lunch.
It rained that evening and all the next day and Wednesday as well. Thunder rumbled in the distance on Thursday morning, sounding like ominous drumrolls, but the rain had temporarily ceased. I shall never, never forget the events of that day, each detail sharp and clear. Clinton was cheerful at breakfast, Dottie in an inordinately chatty mood, telling us just how she would interpret the role of Lady Fidget, which she had definitely decided to do. It was a marvelous part and she would really be foolish to pass it up and it would be a wonderful challenge to act with Davy though she knew a thing or two about scene stealing herself and had no doubt she could hold her own. She would make all of the costumes, of course, and she thought a pink and silver striped silk with silver lace would be ideal for Act Two, didn’t I agree? I drank my third cup of black coffee and nodded listlessly and wondered how anyone could possibly be so talkative so early in the morning.
I had my meeting with Mrs. Rigby in the drawing room and she tactfully mentioned that all the silver needed polishing and said it might be a good idea for the maids to polish today after the floors were done and the furniture all dusted. The Blue Room needed to be turned out, and those Boulle cabinets in the upstairs hall could use a thorough cleaning with turtle oil. I gave her “instructions” to do what she had already decided to do today and she gave me a cheerful nod and bustled out, black taffeta skirts rustling. Thunder still rumbled, louder now, it seemed, and it was so grim and gray outside we had candles burning at nine-thirty in the morning. As I stood there in the drawing room after Mrs. Rigby departed, a flash of lightning illuminated the gloom outside. Apparently the rain we had had the past two days was only a prelude to the downpour to come later on today.
Clinton had several reports to read and accounts to go over, and he had already gone to his office, where he planned to spend most of the day catching up. Two large cartons of books I had ordered had arrived from London a few days ago, and they were still on a table in the library, unopened. I decided to spend the rest of the morning sorting out the books and putting them on the shelves. Dottie decided to keep me company. She brought her copy of The Country Wife along and thought it might amuse me if she read the play aloud while I worked. I took the books out of the cartons and examined them idly and put them on the shelves, and Dottie moved about the room with book in hand, reading the play and declaiming Lady Fidget’s lines with considerable brio. She wore full theatrical makeup and a dusty-rose frock trimmed with black lace, a black velvet bow affixed to her pompadour. My lack of attention deterred her not one whit, and when, finally, the books were all shelved, she concluded with a flourish and frankly admitted that she was going to be marvelous in the part.
Clinton joined us for a light lunch at one. He looked weary after poring over papers all morning and was unusually quiet, preoccupied, no doubt, with estate matters. A thick, pale blond wave spilled across his brow, and there were faint gray-mauve shadows beneath his eyes. He was wearing comfortable old black leather knee boots, snug gray breeches and a fine white lawn shirt opened at the throat, the sleeves rolled up over his forearms. Poor darling, I thought. He worked so hard, and he endured Dottie’s bright chatter with a polite show of attentiveness, although his mind was clearly on other things. I took his hand as we left the dining room, and he gave me a gentle smile.
“Your fingers are ink-stained,” I said, entwining my own around them.
“I’ve been making notes and writing letters of instruction to various of my trusty lieutenants. Tedious work, but necessary if we’re to continue to live in the style that so admirably suits us.”
“I thought perhaps you’d like to take a break this afternoon.”
The gentle smile reappeared. “Is that an invitation?”
“Definitely.”
“I’d love to accept, my darling, but I really do need to get all this paperwork finished. Disappointed?”
“Very.” I squeezed his hand.
“I’ll try to make amends later on.”
He kissed me lightly on the brow and then went to check on the post, always arranged on a table in the foyer by the ever-efficient Putnam. There were several letters for him, which he carried off to his office. There were letters for Dottie as well and, tired from her bravura reading this morning, she told me she was going to spend the afternoon up in her bedroom, reading her letters, answering them and resting till tea. She went on upstairs, dusty-rose skirts making a silken rustle. I felt rather at a loss with the whole afternoon to fill. Going back into the library, I browsed for a while and eventually took down one of the new books I had examined earlier and carried it over to a large, comfortable chair near the fire.
I tried to read. I couldn’t. Thunder rumbled constantly, and there were repeated flashes of lightning like violent silver-blue demons hurling themselves against the windowpanes. Half an hour must have passed before I finally put the book aside and stood up, feeling restless, feeling vaguely disturbed, although I usually wasn’t bothered by storms. Stepping over to the window, I looked out at the sky. It was a much darker gray, tinged with purple, and clouds roiled about in dense profusion, puffy and black. Skeletal silver fingers ripped at the sky, and, for an instant, the earth was a blinding silver-blue, then gray again. The window looked out over the side of the house, and I saw the old gray stone wall, the tree limb, the trellis with a marble bench beneath it, and the memories came flooding back.
As I looked out, it seemed I could see a little girl crawling out onto that limb, and two figures entwined on that marble bench, a lovely lady in blue and a handsome blond youth who looked like a prince. The wind roared savagely, sweeping the couple away, and another figure appeared, a boy with black hair and belligerent expression, three large greyhounds bounding about at his heels. Lightning flashed and then the greyhounds were gone and the little girl was no longer in the tree, she was on the marble bench, across the boy’s knees, his hand lifting to smack that round little bottom. I shut my eyes, willing the ghosts away, and when I opened them again the bench was bare. It had all begun that day, so very long ago. The little girl hiding in the tree had come to love both youths she spied on, the handsome blond prince in sky blue satin, the stableboy in muddy boots, our lives inextricably entwined down through the years.
A clap of thunder shook the earth. The windows rattled. Another flash of lightning exploded, shattering the gray with blazing silver-blue, but still rain didn’t come. I moved back, disturbed by the elements, disturbed by the emotions inside. I went out into the foyer and stopped in front of the mirror to shove a chestnut wave from my temple and brush the skirt of my low cut violet blue gown. Thunder rumbled, rumbled, moving closer, and there was another deafening clap so powerful it seemed the house shook. Poor Dottie. She couldn’t possibly rest in weather like this. I decided to go up and see if she was all right. I turned, frowning, and then I saw Clinton.
He was standing not ten feet away, a sheet of paper in his hand. He looked at me with troubled gray eyes that seemed to be seeking the answer to some burning question. His cheeks were ashen. He didn’t speak, just stood there staring at me as another fusillade of thunder rumbled outside, sounding like mighty cannons being fired.
“I want to talk to you,” he said at last.
His voice was calm, much too calm, carefully modulated, and that frightened me. I looked at the sheet of paper in his hand, and I knew. It had happened at last. I felt a
weak, tremulous feeling inside, and I knew I couldn’t give in to it. I was afraid my knees were going to give way. They didn’t. I took a deep breath, and when I spoke my voice was as calm as his own had been.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
It was a foolish question. I knew. I knew. I wanted to burst into tears. I wanted to turn and flee up the stairs. I stood facing my husband with perfect composure. A heavy blond wave had fallen across his brow. He shoved it back. The tail of his white lawn shirt was tucked carelessly into the waistband of his snug gray trousers.
“I received a letter,” he said.
“Oh?”
“From him.”
“Him?”
“From Hugh Bradford, Angela.”
It was what I had feared, what I had been dreading all these weeks, and now that it had actually happened I felt, perversely, something very like relief. I was almost glad it was out in the open, for nothing could be much worse than the constant dread I had been living with since Hugh Bradford’s return.
“I see,” I said.
“Do you?”
“I think so. He—he told you about our—He told you that we had been together.”
“He said that you had been lovers, that you are still in love with him. He said that the only reason you married me was to get back at him for leaving you. He said you had merely used me to hurt him.”
“That isn’t true, Clinton.”
“No?”
“You know it isn’t true.”
He didn’t reply at once. He continued to look at me. His cheeks were no longer ashen. His face was hard, the muscles tight, and his gray eyes were hard too. The hurt, troubled man who had come into the foyer was now stiff, unyielding, a Clinton I didn’t know. That alarmed me. The tremulous feeling returned, worse than before. The fear returned as well.
“Clinton—”
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