by Carla Kelly
Kate set the paper aside and took a deep breath. “Lord Grayson—”
“Hal,” he corrected.
“Hal, I have never been in charge of anything before in my life. I’ve only done what I am told to do.”
“What better time to learn leadership than now?” he asked and handed the pencil back. He picked up the paper she had set aside. “I suggest you write down everyone’s name and decide how you want to use them.”
She started to write, then stopped. “Oh, dear, I’ve not told anyone I bought the theatre! Perhaps that should be my first move.” She went to the door and Hal followed. Kate paused before she opened the door and looked back at the marquess with frightened eyes. “Hal, suppose they will have nothing to do with my scheme? I will be stuck with a theatre.”
“And bats,” he added, taking her hand. “Let’s go find out, shall we?” When she tried to pull her hand away, he grasped it more firmly. “My dear, we must be the loving couple for the omnipresent runner, drat his carcass.”
“So we must,” she agreed and opened the door.
The runner still sat in his chair at the foot of the stairs, his hand to his face, which bore red finger marks. He glared up at Kate. “I could prefer charges against you,” he muttered.
Hal wrapped both arms around Kate’s waist and pulled her back against him. “If you touch her again, you’ll rue more than finger marks on your face, Muggeridge,” he said.
The runner rose to his feet in one smooth motion, as though pulled upright by invisible wires. “Is that a threat?” he asked, his voice low.
Hal shook his head. “Nay, sir, it is a promise.” He released Kate, took her hand, and hurried her down the hall.
“Very impressive,” she said, skipping to keep up with his long stride. “Although you don’t need to hold me so close.”
Hal looked back at her and grinned. “Be quiet, wife. We have a very skeptical runner to impress.” He knocked on the door. “And let us hope the Bladesworths like your scheme.”
“They must,” she said, moving closer until her shoulder touched his arm. “Oh, they have to.”
Malcolm Bladesworth was silent during Kate’s recitation of the events of the morning, only motioning his other children into the little room while she explained her purchase of the Banner Street Theatre. No one spoke when she finished.
Hal watched Katherine, moved by the dignity of her quiet presence. They sat close together, and he could feel her leg trembling, but none of her fears registered on her face. He wanted to put his arm around her, but there was no runner to use as an excuse.
Malcolm finally cleared his throat. “Kate, the theatre is a risky business,” he said, and there was nothing encouraging in his voice.
“Then we will have to make it pay,” Kate said simply. “Malcolm, I would like you to be my artistic manager. I depend upon you to make this the most wonderful theatre in the north part of England. It must be.”
After another long moment of silence Malcolm held out his hand. “Done, lady.”
They ate a thoughtful dinner in the taproom, no one speaking much. The runner watched from a corner table. Hal rested his arm along the back of Kate’s chair, noticing the way she picked at her food. He leaned closer to her. “You couldn’t keep a sparrow alive on what you are consuming, Mrs. Hampton. Do make a better effort.”
Kate made a face at him. “Don’t bully me, sir!” She started to say something else, but changed her mind. “That confounded runner!” Instead she smiled sweetly at Hal, exclaimed, “Yes, dear,” in loving tones that carried to the corner table.
Malcolm finished first. He folded his napkin and patted his ample stomach. “Kate, it is still light. I suggest we take a look at your purchase. Do you have the key?”
They walked in companionable silence along streets deserted by shopkeepers and tradesmen for dinner tables all over Leeds. Hal strolled in perfect charity with the world, Kate’s arm resting on his. Bladesworth couldn’t help himself. He hurried ahead with Ivy running and skipping to keep up. When they were half a block ahead, Hal noticed that Gerald Broussard took Phoebe by the hand.
“Is there a budding romance among the youngsters?” he asked Kate.
“You’re just noticing?” she asked. “Phoebe may be only sixteen, but I think people grow up quickly in the theatre. I believe I will go back to my room tonight and pick out my own gray hairs. I have probably sprouted a whole head of them only since this morning.”
He looked down at the soft ebony curls that peeked from under her bonnet. “Not a gray hair in sight, Mrs. Hampton.”
“You need not call me that when the runner is not around!” she protested.
Hal gestured with his head. “My dear, he is following us.” Kate sighed and tightened her grip on his arm. “What is his game, sir?” she whispered.
“I wish I knew.”
The theatre was swathed in deep shadows when Malcolm took the large key from Kate and let them in. The younger Bladesworths lighted the lanterns they had brought along and set them on the stage.
Hal looked around him, noting the cobwebs that festooned the curtains, ropes, and pulleys. As he stood contemplating the vast darkness of the auditorium, he felt more than heard a sudden rush of wind by his ear and a strangled cry from Kate, who leaped toward him and grabbed his arm. It was a perfect opportunity to put his arm around her.
“It is only one of those infamous bats you expect me to conjure away, Kate.”
She waited a long moment before releasing him from an iron grip. “Let that be your first duty.”
Malcolm let himself off the stage and walked into the darkness of the auditorium. When they could no longer see him, he called from the blackness. “Phoebe, favor us,” was all he said.
Phoebe Bladesworth stepped forward toward the makeshift footlights made of lanterns from the inn. “What will it be, Father?” she asked, shading her eyes and trying to catch a glimpse of her parent in the gloom.
“Let it be Kate’s choice,” came the voice. “It is her theatre.”
Hal felt Kate start. “It is my theatre, isn’t it?” she asked, her voice filled with wonder. “Oh, Hal.” She was silent only a moment before he felt her draw herself together. She stepped away from him toward Phoebe.
“Let it be something from Shakespeare, my dear,” she said.
Phoebe smiled at Kate and blew her a kiss. “Let it be Portia then, from The Merchant of Venice. ‘The quality of mercy is not strain’d; It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven …’ ”
Her voice carried, clear and lovely, to the back wall that no one could see in the darkness. When she finished, all were silent, still caught in the power of her talent, plain to see, even on a dusty stage, half-hidden in gathering gloom, with bats circling and swooping.
A bat dived too close and broke the spell. Phoebe dodged backward into Broussard’s waiting arms. He whisked out an imaginary sword and sparred with the bats while the younger Bladesworths giggled. When Malcolm returned to the stage, Ivy clapped her hands.
“Come, children. Let us leave this ‘nest of …’ ”
“ ‘… dead and contagion and unnatural sleep,’ ” the Bladesworths all shouted in unison.
They started from the stage. Davy Bladesworth handed Kate a small box. “I found this in the corner.” He grinned. “I am sure it is treasure.”
While Hal held a lantern, Kate opened the box. Costume jewelry spilled out. She laughed as the children gathered it up, decking themselves with glass jewels and brooches that winked in the light.
“How is it that these tawdry bits look so real on stage?” Kate asked Malcolm.
He bowed. “It is because we govern the magic, my dear.”
Hal handed Malcolm the lantern. He rummaged in the box and found a gilt ring. “Hold out your hand, Mrs. Hampton,” he ordered.
With a laugh she did as he said. He grasped her slender hand, wondering to himself at the exquisite fragility of her bones, the delicacy of her touch that seemed to fuel a fire in
him.
“This is for the benefit of our dear friend the runner,” he said as he slipped on the plain band.
“And I pronounce you man and wife,” Malcolm intoned. “What the theatre has joined together, let no pesky runner put asunder.”
They laughed and left the theatre, admiring the stars that blazed overhead in the summer sky and breathing in the fragrance of lilacs that seemed to fill the market town.
Malcolm stood still for a moment, his arm about his wife’s shoulders, looking back at the theatre. “The Bladesworths have come to roost,” he murmured to no one in particular. He glanced over at Kate and Hal. “My dear, we will go no more a-roving. We’ll make it pay.”
“We’ll have to,” said Kate fervently.
Hal was hoping that the runner would be back in his customary position at the foot of the stairs when they returned, so it would be out of the question for Kate to dare spend the night anywhere else. He regarded the seated man with a benevolence bordering on charity as he nodded to him and gave Kate his arm up the stairs.
“Ah, my dear, we must spend another night together,” he commented as he showed her into the room. “Only this time, I insist that you have the bed. My head has not ached since early this morning.”
Kate stood in the middle of the room. “This is so improper,” she said, her voice filled with doubt.
“But I do not know what we can do about it,” Hal finished helpfully. “I will take a glass of stout below stairs while you, well, you know …” He left the room before she could think of any more objections.
When he returned, the room was dark and Kate was in bed. She had made up the pallet on the floor by the window and folded Malcolm’s huge nightshirt on top of the pillow. Quietly he got into the nightshirt and lay down. This reminds me of my days in the Peninsula, he thought to himself as he tried to find a friendly board.
The room was quiet as moonlight settled over the bed. He could see Kate’s hands on the covers, folded together tightly. In another moment he heard muffled sobs.
“Kate, don’t cry,” he said, his voice gentle. “You know I will never breathe a word of this to anyone.”
The sound of her weeping tore at his heart. “Kate, please don’t!” he implored, sitting up on the pallet. “What is the matter?”
He did not think she would answer him.
“I am afraid,” she said at last. “Oh, Hal, I am afraid this will be a huge disaster.” She sobbed louder.
He had heard women cry before. His fiancée had cried when he left for the war. His mother and sisters had hung on him and wept, and it had caused him the acutest feelings of ill usage. But this was different. Kate cried as a child would cry who was afraid of the dark. It was the hopeless sound of someone used to shedding tears alone.
You can only slap me, he thought, as he walked quietly to the bed and sat down next to Kate. He gathered her in his arms, and she did not object as he held her close. He let her cry until she was worn out, then he wiped her eyes, made her blow her nose, and lie down. He sat in the chair, his hand resting on her hair until she slept.
He returned to the pallet and lay down. The moonlight streamed in the window. He glanced over at the sleeping woman. The gilt ring on her hand glittered for an instant, and then she rolled over. He watched the graceful curve of her back and hips and felt a wonderful contentment he had never known before.
She needs me, he thought, as his eyes closed. I hope she will love me, too.
Chapter 10
When Kate woke, the room was empty. She sighed with relief and snuggled back into the covers, pulling them up to her chin and relaxing completely in that boneless way of cats and small children. The window was open, and the scent of lilacs drifted toward her. She sniffed appreciatively, glorying in the fragrance of early summer, pleased to be in England again after so many Italian springs, dedicated to the pursuit of art and cheap lodgings.
Kate turned on her side and tucked her hand under her cheek. Not that Italian springs were unpleasant—far from it; but they came with a dazzle of tropical color and a slap of humidity and no subtlety. No, summer in Yorkshire was infinitely preferable. She breathed deeply of the smell of shaving soap still on the pillow and closed her eyes, imagining what it would be like to wake up with a man lying beside her.
There was no one in the room, but she blushed anyway, and then turned even more fiery as she permitted one stray thought to lead to another. She wondered how nice it would be to make love in the morning, with the smell of lilacs and the scent of shaving soap, and a soft mattress underneath. I could enjoy that, she thought, especially if the man were somebody solid like Lord Grayson, someone a girl could hang onto.
“Goodness,” she scolded out loud and sat up, folding her hands in front of her. Her eyes caught the glimmer of the gold-colored band on her left hand. She turned it around on her finger and noted with a chuckle that it was already turning her finger green. So much for theatre magic, she thought. Someday I would like to have a real gold ring, and a husband to love, and perhaps children.
It was all a mystery to her, how such things happened. She allowed herself the luxury of a great stretch as she contemplated the wonder of it. Certainly marriages were still arranged.
She chuckled again, thinking of Lord Grayson and his strenuous efforts to avoid his family’s selection. If I am to marry, she thought as she dangled her bare legs over the edge of the bed, it will be due entirely to my own exertions. But I am not lazy like Lord Grayson. Perhaps when this theatre scheme pays, I will have the time to cast my own net.
She frowned. “If this pays,” she amended. “If I do not lose my bonnet, pelisse, petticoat, and stockings in the bargain and end up without a sixpence to scratch with!”
The thought was not a pleasant one to wrestle with in bed. Kate got up and pulled on her clothes, wishing that she could shake the wrinkles from her dress hoping that tonight there would be time for a good wash in a tub. As she threw on her clothes, she thought of the Baths of Caracalla where Roman ladies used to lie naked in the water and lull away their cares until they must have been pink and wrinkled. There were slaves to dry them, and dress them, and fix their hair, and tell them lies about how fine they looked.
All I have is a mirror, and it does not lie, Kate thought as she brushed her unfashionably long hair, braided it, and wound it around her head. It tells me I have a mass of hair, a stubborn jaw and ordinary lips that no one has ever taken the trouble to kiss. She ran her fingers over her cheekbones. Well, at least I have never thrown out spots, she thought. And even though I am twenty-six, I do not have any wrinkles yet.
She glanced at the bureau top, which was littered with Hal’s shaving gear. It must be Malcolm’s razor, or Gerald’s, she thought as she carefully wiped the blade clean and closed it. Hal has nothing except the clothes he stands in. She shook out the shaving brush and put a lid on the soap. It must be pleasant to have a valet tend to your every need and never have to worry about picking up after yourself.
Lord Grayson’s signet ring still rested on the dresser. Kate put it on her finger, twirling it around and around. He was so careless! It would never do for the Bow Street Runner to prowl in here and find a lord’s ring. She pocketed the ring and went to the window to straighten the blankets that Lord Grayson had left in a jumble on the floor.
“Sir, you are most definitely not accustomed to tidying things for yourself,” she said as she folded the blankets and put them on the bed. Her conscience tweaked her as she folded Malcolm’s nightshirt and added it to the pile. She had spent two nights alone in the same room with a grown man she was not in any way related to. Kate sank onto the bed and thought of the milkmaid on the mail coach, warning her of Squire Leavitt. What on earth would she say if she knew of this? What would anyone say?
Kate told herself again that it did not matter. Once Lord Grayson regained his customary station, surely he would not mention this to anyone. I will certainly never repeat it to a soul, she promised herself. Not that it matters, she t
hought, as she ran her fingers over the nightshirt collar. Was there ever a nobody more unknown than Kate Billings?
There was a knock at the door, and she hurried to open it, hoping that it might be Hal. She would give him a little scold about his untidiness. She opened the door upon Phoebe and Maria, dressed in faded garments with their hair done up in turbans.
“Come, Kate. We are off to tackle the Banner Street Theatre. Your Banner Street Theatre,” said Maria, taking her by the arm. “And here is a cloth to wind around your hair. It is fearfully dusty there.”
Kate accepted the scarf and wound it around her head. “Have the others gone ahead?” she asked, peeking into the hall.
“Yes,” said Phoebe, “even your husband.”
“He is not my husband!” Kate protested.
“He is as long as the Bow Street Runner refuses to budge,” Phoebe replied, and then laughed as she poked Maria. “And who do you think sent Mr. Muggeridge over to the theatre to help Hal with the bats?”
“Maria!”
Maria blushed rosily. “If Will insists on hanging around like a fly at a midden, we ought to use him.”
“Will, is it? She wouldn’t say that if he were skinny, bald, and queer as Dick’s hatband,” Phoebe whispered to Kate, her eyes twinkling at her sister’s discomfort, and loud enough to be overheard.
“I am sure that thrilled my husband,” Kate replied, her voice heavy with sarcasm. She almost pulled the door closed before Phoebe stopped her.
“No, wait. Davy is coming to get your trunk and anything else that belongs to either you or Lord Grayson.” She laughed at Kate’s mystified expression. “No, silly, we are not camping out in Leeds park! There are rooms and rooms at the theatre. We will stay there.”
Kate shuddered. “With the bats?”
Maria tugged at Kate’s arm again. “Kate, now that you are part of the theatre, you must be open to a little more adventure.”
Phoebe waltzed across the room, picked up her father’s nightshirt, and held it in her arms. “Or you could stay here with Lord Grayson.”