by Carla Kelly
He opened his half-closed eyes as the highwayman threw down the pistol with a shriek. “Oh, I did not mean to do that, my lord!” he exclaimed and then ran down the road, in perfect imitation of Bolt, who had already bolted.
“How bizarre,” Lord Grayson murmured again. His mouth was filling up with blood from his head wound. He settled himself on the soft earth so it would drain out. “Wilding, you are a better valet than a road agent.” His eyes closed.
When he opened them again, it was still afternoon, and the birds still chirped overhead. He was cradled on the somewhat bony legs of his nephew and heir, Algernon Mannerly, who was weeping and sniffling. “Really, Algie, have some countenance,” he said, his voice sounding dreamy and far away in his own ears, which seemed miles apart from each other. Algernon blubbered on.
“Algie, that is most unattractive, especially from my point of view,” Henry murmured. He wanted to go back to sleep, but his nephew’s noisy tears were a distraction.
Algernon cried harder, hugging his uncle to him. “Have a care, Algie,” Lord Grayson admonished. “My head appears to be splitting in two.”
With a gasp Algernon leaped to his feet, dropping his uncle back in the roadway. Henry groaned and struggled to remain conscious.
“I … I … I didn’t mean this to happen,” Algie stuttered, backing away.
“I am sure you did not,” Henry reassured him as he lay in the road, damp in his own blood. “Pray explain yourself, Nevvy. Am I such an ogre?”
Algernon came no closer. He took out a handkerchief and began to dab at his bloody breeches. “I was supposed to rescue you from the highwayman, and you would be so grateful that you would increase my quarterly allowance again.” He started to wail louder as he dug at the blood. “Now he has killed you, and my breeches are ruined!”
Henry raised his eyebrows at Algie’s artless declaration and groaned with the effort. “And I suppose you will tell me that the highwayman was my own dear Wilding?”
Algernon made an effort and was rewarded with hiccups instead of tears. “We met at Sheffield and Johnston’s. It seemed like such a good idea over a bottle of your brandy.”
“My bran ... Good God, Algie. You plotted my death in my own house? How unmannerly of you,” Henry said. He struggled to raise himself onto one elbow. “I must tell Sheffield not to be so convincing in the future.”
Algernon wrung his hands. “Not your death, Uncle! I was supposed to rescue you! I wish you would pay attention. We didn’t think you would mind if we borrowed your matched pistols.”
Henry lowered himself to the ground again and groaned louder. “You numbskull. They have hair triggers. Lord, Algie, I can’t believe you are my heir. I fear for the family.”
He couldn’t say anything more. His mouth was getting numb and his eyes insisted upon closing. “At least go get a doctor.”
Algie stopped dabbing at his pants. “Yes! Yes! Capital idea! Why didn’t I think of that?” He started down the road. “Don’t go anywhere, Uncle. I’ll save you yet!” He was gone.
Henry turned himself onto his back. He had always enjoyed looking at the sky through a screen of leaves, but the view left much to be desired this time. His head drummed like a call to arms. To think that he had gotten through all those years in Spain with scarcely a scratch, and here he was, lying on a deserted road—and by the looks of it little used—shot by his former valet and to be “rescued” by his worthless nephew. “What were you two thinking?” he murmured, then closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, the blood was drying on his riding coat and the sun was going down. Not wanting to, but unable to resist, he put his hand to his head, just above his ear, where the drum still beat the loudest. He expected to find a crater, but there was only a neat furrow. He gingerly traced the shallow route of the ball, noting that the blood had dried there, too.
“Where in hell are you, Algernon?” he growled, rising up on both elbows this time. The last thing he remembered was seeing his nephew sprinting down the road, still dabbing at his pants as he ran. He considered the matter. Algernon Mannerly was a citified dandy who probably could not find this little back lane again if he looked from now to the end of the century. Besides that, he thought sourly, Algie is probably wild with grief over the ruination of his precious pantaloons. And Wilding? He was probably still running.
I shall have to rescue myself, Henry thought. He lay back down again, finding a more comfortable position for thinking things through. His eyes closed again, and he drifted away.
When he came to himself again, it was nearly dark. See here, Henry, he thought, you are getting no closer to rescue, and someone probably should take a look at your head. He struggled into a sitting position, gasping at the pain, but glad at the same time that he was not beyond help. He crawled to the road’s edge and hauled himself to his feet, clinging to a tree until the fog in his eyes cleared. With an effort he looked in both directions on the road. Bolt was nowhere to be seen. “Remind me to sell you to a knacker man, should we chance to meet again,” he said out loud. “Useless horse, worthless valet, and dreadful nephew. Was ever a man so blessed?”
The trees were close together along the road. He willed himself to keep moving as he helped himself along from tree to tree, leaning to rest often, but not sitting down, where the temptation to remain there would probably prove too great. Somewhere along the road he shucked himself of his coat. The smell of blood was worse almost than the pain in his head. There was only a sprinkling of blood around his collar, and he could move easier now.
When he thought he could not walk any farther without pitching over, he came to the outskirts of a village. The one street appeared deserted, but some discretion, probably left over from his more cautious days in Spain, compelled him to stay in the shadows. He rested against a rain barrel and considered his situation. If he staggered up to some householder’s door and threw himself into their sitting room, he would probably be whisked at his command to D’Urst Hall, which couldn’t be more than a few hours away. Pinky and his wife would see to his comfort.
Somehow, even in his extremity, the idea did not appeal to Lord Grayson. “You would probably have to suffer the tender ministrations of Pinky’s sister, and then there would be an obligation … Thank you, no,” he said to himself. Gingerly he patted his pocket, wincing at the pain and wondering why it was that every part of him was hurting now. Of course, he had fallen off a rather tall horse. Everything ached. He had to lie down, and soon. He patted his pocket again and grunted in satisfaction. His wallet was still there. “Wilding, you will never do as a highwayman,” he said. “Although I fear that I must leave you a less-than-glowing recommendation when next we meet.”
But if it was not to be Pinky D’Urst’s, what? He was too tired to think. He squinted in the twilight, wondering why even that tiny gesture pained him. There appeared to be a barn ahead of him, with saddled horses around it, and some farmer’s carts, but again, no people. He heard a roar of laughter from inside the barn. “Perhaps it is a cockfight,” he told himself. “I will just find a wagon and lie down in it until I feel better.”
None of the farmer’s carts appeared too promising, most of them smelling of cow or sheep dung. His head spinning, he staggered to a wagon closest to the barn’s back door. With some effort he crawled inside and found himself staring at a skeleton. It was seated with its legs crossed and wore a crown. “Bizarre, indeed,” he murmured when the fear left him. There were swords on the wagon bed around him, as if flung there by a harried assassin. He touched one. It was wooden. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark interior, he saw robes and ornate chairs and wigs on their stands. He thought he could see a Roman fasces, an eagle standard with SPQR written in gilt painting, leaning up against a stuffed owl.
“I must have lost more blood than I thought,” he decided and curled up on a pile of capes that appeared to be made of velvet, but on closer inspection were really threadbare corduroy. His hands shaking with exhaustion, he covered himself wi
th another cape and fell into unconsciousness.
Chapter 4
“I am already full of stage fright, Mr. Broussard,” said Katherine Billings as they neared the village just beyond Wickfield. “You are so sure that I can do this?”
“Mais oui!” exclaimed Gerald Broussard with a Gallic kiss of his fingers in her direction. “Tonight I am Lucentio, and I will see that Hortensio steers you around the stage and cues you, should you become confused.” He looked at her as they bowled along. “But somehow I do not think you will become confused, Miss Billings.”
“Call me Kate,” said the proper Miss Billings in a resigned voice. “Whatever will Mr. Bladesworth say?”
“Leave Master Malcom to me, Kate,” said Gerald. “And here we are!”
“But … but that’s a barn!” Kate exclaimed as they rolled to a stop before a ramshackle-looking structure.
“Actors cannot be choosers,” Broussard said as he helped her down from the gig. “Tonight it is the Globe Theatre, my dear Miss Kate Billings. Shall we go inside?” he asked, offering his arm as if they were entering the Theatre Royal off Drury Lane.
“Lead on, sir,” she said. “I must be out of my mind.”
Globe Theatre it may have been for the night, but to Kate it still smelled like a barn and looked like one. True, it had been swept out, and benches placed in rows, but even the pungent odor of tallow candles could not compete with the fragrance of cows and horses. Kate looked around with interest. The stage was a platform raised upon wooden barrels and was perfectly bare, except for a rank of short candles on its edge, still unlit.
She looked at Broussard, who was smiling at her. He touched her arm. “To make the magic work, Miss Billings, I beg you to look at it through an actor’s eyes. Tonight we perform Shakespeare.”
“And we do not insult the Bard with Cibber’s profanations, but use the words of the master,” boomed a hearty voice behind her.
Kate whirled around to see a massive figure dressed in Elizabethan garb, bearing down on her. “Beg … beg pardon?” she stammered, her eyes wide. Before she could move, the man had grabbed her in a strong embrace, lifting her off her feet. “Welcome to the Bladesworth’s Traveling Company!” he shouted and kissed her on both cheeks.
Before she could say anything, Gerald Broussard intervened. “Mr. Bladesworth, let me introduce Katherine Billings to you.”
Malcolm Bladesworth set her on her feet suddenly and stepped back a pace. “My dear Monsieur Broussard, I do not believe that I asked for a Katherine Billings.” He rubbed his whiskered chin and twinkled his eyes at Kate. “Correct me if I am wrong, but weren’t you to pick up one Penelope Cranville?” While Katherine looked at him in amazement, he stalked around her. “This, I know, is not Miss Cranville, who is quite fifty and much less bounteously endowed. My eyes must have been momentarily blinded by her magnificent bosom.”
“Really, sir,” Kate protested.
“Yes, really!” He looked at Broussard, who was trying to hide his own smile. “Not that I am disappointed, mind you, provided the lady can act.”
Gerald took Kate by the arm. “This is Katherine Billings,” he said again, “and I have … how do you say it? … made a muddle.”
With scarce effort Bladesworth picked up Kate and set her on the stage, leaving her legs to dangle over the edge. He sat beside her. “Explain yourself, Gerald, and be quick. We go on in half an hour.”
As Katherine Billings listened in growing amusement, Broussard explained himself. While his command of English was excellent, the task of explaining his muddle became such an exertion that it reduced itself finally to sentences half-French and half-English, and a multitude of gestures, all delivered under the glare of Malcolm Bladesworth.
“And that, sir, was my mistake,” he finished in a rush. “But she knows the lines and said she would help us tonight.”
Bladesworth was silent a moment, rubbing his fingers over the faded corduroy of his cape. He glanced at Katherine. “Cibber’s or Shakespeare’s lines?” he rumbled.
“Oh, Shakespeare’s, sir,” she responded quickly. “My father did not care for Cibber’s changes in the text.”
Bladesworth took her hand in his meaty one. “Then will you be Hortensio’s ‘lusty widow’ tonight? If you know the words and look sufficiently saucy, we can steer you around the stage.”
“I know the words,” she replied. Good manners told her that she should withdraw her hand, but she did not want to. It was nice to have her hand held by someone who seemed genuinely interested in her.
He kissed her hand with a loud smack that seemed to ricochet off the back wall. “Done then, madame!” he shouted. “I suppose it would be too much to ask, but do you sing, as well?”
“Well, I do. At least a little.”
Bladesworth got off the stage and helped her down. “The muses are smiling ’ponst us, my boy,” he told Gerald. “Then Kate, my dear, you can entertain the rustics between acts three and four.”
“But—”
“Ivy!” he shouted suddenly. “Ivy, love of my life, my Adam’s rib. I need you!”
There was a rustle offstage, and then a woman as small as Bladesworth was massive stepped out, also dressed in a shabby costume of the Elizabethan era. Ivy Bladesworth hurried forward and held out her arms to her husband, who gently helped her off the stage. He smiled at her fondly, even as she stood on tiptoe to put her finger to his lips.
“Hush, Malcolm. We already have people lining up outside.” She nodded to Kate. “And who might you be, my dear?”
“Ivy, let me introduce Katherine Billings,” Malcolm said in a stage whisper that still smote against the back wall. “Gerald has snatched up the wrong woman.”
“Really, Gerald,” Ivy scolded in her mild voice.
“She is a governess on her way to Leavitt Hall near Wakefield,” explained Bladesworth. “Miss Billings, Mrs. Ivy Bladesworth.”
Ivy took Katherine’s hand in hers. “And now you find yourself among low company, Miss Billings. I suppose Malcolm will tell me that he has gently persuaded you to join our troupe?”
Kate smiled. “I have consented to remain for this evening’s performance.”
“And sing between the acts,” Malcolm reminded her and then struck another pose. “ ‘Her voice was ever soft, gentle and low, an excellent thing in a woman.’ King Lear, act five, scene three, my ‘super-dainty Kate, for dainties are all cates.’ ”
Ivy laughed at Kate’s expression. “He always quotes and quotes until I can’t remember if it is Shakespeare or Malcolm! You are so kind to help us,” she said, still clasping Kate’s hand. “Tomorrow you will go on to your previous engagement?”
Kate withdrew her hand. “As to that, I do not know if I would be welcome now. After all, I was to be in Wakefield today and not tomorrow.”
Mrs. Bladesworth rested the back of her hand on Kate’s cheek in a gesture that was a distant memory of her own mother, dead these many years. “La, my dear! You need not fear. A pretty face is always a welcome sight, even if it is a day late.”
Tears sprang to Kate’s eyes. “That may be the problem, Mrs. Bladesworth,” she said in a rush of words and then stopped herself. “But you cannot be interested in my problems. You don’t even know me.”
“Dear Miss Billings, don’t you know that all women are related?” Mrs. Bladesworth grasped her hand and pulled her along. “Now we need to find a dress that fits a lusty widow. Ah, you come along too, Maria and Phoebe.”
The woman, with her own daughters in tow, hurried Kate along to a cow stall with a tarpaulin thrown over part of it, calling out orders as she removed Kate’s bonnet and told her to unbutton her pelisse. “I should have introduced my daughters. Maria is the one looking through the trunk.”
A blond girl, all dimples and china blue eyes, peered around the trunk and dipped a quick curtsy. She pointed with her chin as she shook out a dress. “And that is my sister, Phoebe, making calf s eyes at Gerald.”
“Maria!” declared Phoebe,
stamping her foot and speaking in a voice as carrying as her father’s.
Unperturbed, Maria stuck out her tongue. “Ninnyhammer!”
Mrs. Bladesworth placed Kate’s bonnet on a mound of hay. “Girls! Let us at least pretend that you have manners!” She faced Kate, her hands spread out in age-old appeal. “My dear, you will think us dreadfully ramshackle.”
Kate hid a smile as she draped her pelisse next to the bonnet and obligingly turned for Mrs. Bladesworth to unbutton her traveling dress. I don’t know what I should be imagining, she thought. Whatever trepidation she had felt was fast being replaced by a warmth she had not experienced before, not in years. I wonder if this is what a family feels like, she thought, as she raised her arms and Mrs. Bladesworth removed her dress.
“Now, my dear, you will be wanted in act three, scene three as a wedding guest. Hang about Hortensio. Hortensio!”
Kate grabbed the dress that Mrs. Bladesworth held, clutching it to her as a tall youth hurried to the stall and draped his arms over the railing. He nodded to Kate amiably, unmindful of her discomfort, and held out a handful of stiff-looking bristles to his mother.
“This is my son, David. This is Miss Billings. She will be your lusty widow tonight.”
He dipped his head in Kate’s direction as she clutched the dress higher, and then dangled the bristles at his mother. “Mama, I cannot get these to stay on my face!” He glanced at Kate. “Miss Billings, can you manage these? I cannot.”
Mystified Kate shook her head. Mrs. Bladesworth took the whiskers from her son and hurried from the stall, speaking over her shoulder to her daughter, who still rummaged in the trunk. “Marie, find the corset—you know the one—and help Miss Billings. Come, David, and let us age you fifty years in the next ten minutes!”
“Ah!” Maria pulled a wicked-looking contraption from the trunk. “Hurry, Miss Billings!”