by Carla Kelly
The night air revived her spirits somewhat as she put distance between herself and the theatre. She found a tree with a low limb and hiked herself into it, resting her cheek against the cool, rough bark and watching the stars through the leaves as they began to wink on in the evening sky. She was used to solitude; Papa never seemed to realize how the hours passed when he was inhaling the special air of old cathedrals and art galleries. Solitude was the quiet friend of her childhood.
But tonight was different somehow. She felt lonely. She thought of Malcolm and Ivy, living a difficult life, always on the edge of disaster, but facing it together with a certain gallantry that she knew would never be hers, not as present conditions prevailed. She looked down at her hands and twisted the wedding ring on her finger, wishing she could cast away the impossible burden she had saddled upon herself.
“A penny for your thoughts, wife.”
Hal stood, hands in pockets, just below her at the base of the tree. Without an invitation he pulled himself into the tree, too.
Her heart full of misery, but her voice light, she held up her ring finger in the moonlight. “Beware hasty weddings and cheap rings,” she joked. “It is turning my finger quite green.”
Hal looked and shook his head. “That comes from hanging about with Captain Sharps and other shady coves. You really ought to keep better company.”
She sighed and said nothing. He nudged her shoulder.
“You can tell me, Kate,” was all he said.
“My burdens aren’t yours,” she replied. “I am sure you’ll resolve this difficulty with your nephew and soon return to your own pursuits. And I have stuck myself with this theatre and I am afraid.”
“That was last night’s theme, if I remember,” he said and took her hand.
She glanced down to see the Bow Street Runner strolling by. Yes, by all means, she thought, carry on this stupid deception. Will Muggeridge tipped his hat to her.
“Do you return to your lodgings at the Scylla and Charybdis?” he asked.
Hal draped his arm around Kate’s shoulder and tugged her close. “No, my dear sir. We are staying at the theatre with the others.”
“Not much privacy there for a newly wed couple,” Will said.
“Economy is the key word here,” Hal replied.
The runner threw back his head and laughed. “This must be a new experience for you, my lord,” he said when he could speak again.
“Whatever do you mean?” Hal asked.
The runner struck a sulphur off his boot and lighted the pipe he held cradled in his hand against the slight breeze. He stoked it slowly until the bowl gave off a steady red glow. “I can humor you, my lord, as long as you want, but I know who you are.”
“You’ll have to prove it,” was Hal’s quiet reply.
The runner shrugged, tipped his hat to Kate again, and walked slowly toward the inn. Hal released Kate, and she jumped down from her perch. She started briskly toward the theatre and then stopped and turned to Hal. “You probably should tell him who you are. I am sure Mr. Muggeridge wants only to escort you in safety back to London.”
“What, and miss all this fun?”
Kate whirled around and increased her speed. Hal grabbed her arm. She turned to face him again, wishing he would not hold her so close.
“We are only an amusement to you, sir,” she snapped. “You will tease and play to alleviate whatever boredom you are feeling, and then when you are tired of this entertainment, you will be gone. This is a serious matter!”
“More than you know,” he murmured, pulled her in close suddenly with his hand on her neck, and kissed her.
It was the sort of kiss she had read about in those fervid romances that Papa so deplored, but which kept her company when he would not. The reality of Hal’s lips on hers covered her like a warm bath or a rainy walk in Italy’s hot summers. He was much too close for her to keep her eyes open, but she wanted to jump outside her skin and see this thing that was happening to her.
Too soon he was releasing her, even though he still held her close. She kept her eyes shut and breathed in the fragrance of his skin and the elusive odor of bay rum that lingered improbably, even under the layers of theatre dust that coated them both.
“There, now,” he said, as if she were a student and he the teacher. “You needed kissing.” He touched her chin, released her, and started toward the theatre. He turned around, hands in his pockets again, and walked backward.
“By the way, Mrs. Hampton, that was a wise decision you made,” he said, his voice cheerful.
“Wh … what?” she asked, opening her eyes and wishing the moment would linger.
“Gerald Broussard will write you a good play, I am sure of it. Good night, my dear. Don’t stay outside too long.”
With a wave of his hand he turned around and soon vanished in the shadows. She watched him go, then went quietly back to the tree and sat there until she felt entirely composed and a little sleepy.
The wedding cake had been put away when she returned, and but one lantern burned on the well-swept stage. She fingered the curtains. Tomorrow these must come down, she thought, so we can mend them. I shall send Hal and Davy for paint and ask Ivy what we can do about that cavern that Mr. Dawkins called the front lobby. And Gerald can find himself a quiet place free from Phoebe and all other distractions and write a play.
She walked to the middle of the stage and set the lantern down in front of her, trying to imagine a row of lights and people in the audience, waiting to be entertained. The dream eluded her; all she could see were empty seats deep in dust and a bat wheeling overhead, amusing itself with flying tricks.
She picked up the lantern and found the sleeping room for the Bladesworth girls. Someone had made up a pallet for her on the floor. Accompanied by a huge yawn that seemed to go on and on, she shucked off her dress, lay down, and slept more peacefully than she would have believed possible.
Kate woke to the sight of the smallest Bladesworth daughter rising from a tub of water to be draped about with a towel by Ivy. What a welcome sight, she thought, her hands behind her head.
“The baker loaned us his tub,” Ivy explained as she dried off her little one. “I fear you are the last to use the water, but we can promise you first rights on the next bath.”
“Anything will be welcome,” Kate said as she sat up and rubbed the back of her neck. She had wakened from a disconcerting dream, with Hal pulling her close, his hand on her neck, reeling her in like a fish on a line. He was about to kiss her when he dissolved into the Bow Street Runner, and then Mr. Cratch, who scolded her for wasting her inheritance on actors and vagabonds.
The water was tepid and didn’t bear close inspection, but it was better than nothing. After five other bathers she could not bring herself to wash her hair, too. It would have to manage with a vigorous brushing. Her clean dress felt good as she smoothed its folds over her hips and looked about for her slippers.
Her eyes alive with good humor, Ivy handed her a large white apron.
“The baker?” Kate teased and laughed along with Ivy. “It seems that you have an admirer, Mrs. Bladesworth.”
She nodded. “And I will cultivate him, too! He already has said that he will see that our handbills go along with each of his orders.”
“What a wonderful idea,” Kate exclaimed as she tied on the apron. “Ivy, I appoint you to cultivate all the shops along Banner Street. Where are the men?”
Ivy handed her a bun still slightly warm from the baker’s oven. “Malcolm is determined to arrange the prop room to his liking; Davy, Hal, and our friend the runner are washing down the walls; and Gerald is in the balcony with a large supply of ink and foolscap. And my girls are mending the curtain.”
Kate joined Phoebe and Maria on the stage, where they bent over the curtain, needle in hand. She scrutinized the curtain until Phoebe looked up.
“When we are big success, a new curtain will have to be our first purchase.” She said it calmly in a matter-of-fact tone that
made Kate blush with the memory of her own doubts. She raised her beautiful eyes to the balcony and sighed. “Gerald says I am not to pester him.”
“I do not believe that was the word he used,” her sister corrected.
Phoebe made no remark, but lowered her eyes and returned to the curtain. Kate found a long tear and seated herself cross-legged on the floor. “How does Gerald Broussard come to be with your company?”
“Oh, he has always been with us,” Maria replied. “You have never heard of the Broussards?”
“Silly, Kate does not travel in theatrical circles,” Phoebe said. “The Broussards were a well-known French troupe, who had the misfortune to enjoy friendly ties with the aristos. They fled after Louis lost his head. Papa knew them and invited them to travel with us. We have always known Gerald.”
Kate looked up from the curtain. “Where are his parents?”
Phoebe sighed. “They thought to return to France, once Napoleon was in power, but were drowned in a Channel crossing. Gerald had remained behind with us to tidy up some business and escaped death.”
“It is so sad,” Kate exclaimed.
“But so romantic, don’t you think?” Maria asked. “Almost as romantic as you and Hal,” she teased.
“Oh, heavens!” Kate scoffed. “Don’t let your imagination run you in circles.”
“Why else would he stay?” Phoebe asked. “Surely he could elude this runner and avoid the clutches of his odious nephew. I think he loves you.”
Kate ignored their laughter and then bent over her work again. He wanted to stay with the Bladesworths, did he? She wondered again how long before he would tire of the exertion. Hadn’t Abner Sheffield said he was lazy?
She sewed in silence, listening as Maria and Phoebe traded lines from Shakespeare plays, correcting each other when memory failed them, and laughing when they mixed up roles with plays. She could see Davy and the runner washing down the walls, but where was Hal?
After an hour when her back was beginning to ache, she heard a familiar weighty tread on the stage. Hal stood behind her, observing her efforts. He was dressed in a handsome garb a little out of fashion, but which elegantly suited his tall frame.
“Sir, wherever did you get such an outfit? Am I ruined now and my fortunes depleted?” she asked, beaming up at him.
He turned around for her benefit and pulled open the coat to reveal a waistcoat of startling hue. “Your father is a complete hand,” he told the Bladesworth sisters. “He came up with this creation from the depths of the costume wardrobe. I defy anyone not to see this waistcoat from the back row.”
Phoebe nodded and threaded the needle again. “Sir Hugo Dreadmore from Least Said, Soonest Mended. He is a great villain and meets a suitable end in the fifth act.”
Hal bowed. “I am not familiar with that play, but I am sure he is killed for his wardrobe. The toils of fashion have never been my problem, so let us hope I can avoid his fate.” He pulled something from his watch pocket and dropped it casually in Kate’s lap. “Here you are, good wife. Something that won’t turn your finger green.”
It was a ring, slim and gold. Kate held it up to the light, exclaiming with pleasure at the delicate flowers etched in the band. “I am sure you shouldn’t have done this,” she said, wanting to scold him, but touched by his thoughtfulness. She took off the gilt ring and replaced it with the gold one. The fit was perfect. “You know you cannot afford this right now,” she said, her voice low.
Hal accepted the gilt ring from her. “My dear, I may be living on the cheap this summer, but I am not entirely dead to duty. It was only a simple matter of pawning my signet ring.”
“You didn’t!” She spoke too loud, and the runner looked up from the wall he was cleaning, his face alert. She lowered her voice. “That must have been difficult for you.”
“Not at all, not at all. And do you know, with that pawn, I was able to purchase enough paint for the interior of this bat haven. And two painters to go with it.” He bowed to Kate and flicked her cheek idly with his finger. “You see, I am still lazy, wife.”
“Hardly, sir,” she murmured, her head bent over the curtain to hide her blush. “Is it better to work harder or think smarter?”
He grinned at her, knelt down with less effort than he would have expended two weeks ago, and brushed the top of her head with a kiss. “I am beginning to think that marrying you was the smartest thing I ever did.”
“We are not married,” she whispered back, striving for emphasis even as she presented a smiling face for the benefit of the runner, who had stopped washing the walls and was trying to appear that he was not listening.
To her intense aggravation Hal’s grin only deepened as he took hold of her left hand. He turned it this way and that until the dull glow of the ring caught fire. “It would appear that we are, my dear.”
As quickly as she dared, especially with the runner so intent upon her business, she pulled free from the marquess’s grasp, attacked the curtain more fiercely with her needle, and jabbed her leg. “Ow!” she exclaimed and rubbed her thigh.
Hal continued to kneel beside her, his face full of sympathy. “What, wife, should I kiss it to make it better?”
Kate gasped. “Don’t let that thought even cross your mind!” she hissed, wishing the runner would mind his own business so she could give Hal Hampton the massive scold he deserved. “I suspect you are far, far more dangerous to my peace than Squire Leavitt ever would have been!”
Hal threw back his head and laughed, got to his feet, patted Kate on the head, and strolled off the stage, whistling to himself. At the edge of the stage he blew her a kiss, to Maria’s delight.
“He is a complete hand!” she said.
“He is a rascal!” Kate insisted, still rubbing her thigh. “Why does he flirt with me like this?”
“Perhaps it is because he loves you,” Maria said in a matter-of-fact voice as she reeled off another length of thread.
“Do you think so, sister?” Phoebe asked, her eyes on the balcony, where Gerald sat with his back to them, hunched over a sawhorse table Malcolm had created for him.
“I am certain of it,” Maria replied firmly.
“Then he must be all about in his head,” Kate reported, picking up her needle again.
Although the thought was a pleasant one, she never would have admitted that fact to Maria. It might be disturbing, she thought, if I were susceptible to his charms—oh, why on earth is that man not married already; what can the young ladies of the ton be thinking?—but I am not. As it is, I can find it flattering that a marquess thinks I am worth flirting with.
She smoothed down the curtain and tucked in several more blind stitches. Still, she thought, it would be nice to marry someday, and maybe if I am lucky enough, I will marry someone like the marquess, who is intelligent, handsome, and has kindness to spare. I wonder how scarce such men are?
“Do you think he is handsome?” she asked Phoebe suddenly.
Phoebe was still gazing at the balcony, with the longing obvious in her eyes and in the way she held herself. “Who, Gerald?” she asked.
“Silly!” Maria exclaimed. “Everyone knows Gerald is handsomer than Apollo. I think she means the marquess.”
After another sigh in the direction of the balcony Phoebe dragged her attention back to the stage. “I suppose he is, Kate. He has nice facial structure. He will be fun to make up, don’t you think, Maria?”
Maria nodded. “He has particularly fine, well-defined lips.”
They are especially nice lips, Kate thought, remembering last night. Well-trained too. She blushed again and ducked her head over the curtain, but not before Maria noticed.
“Kate,” she whispered, her eyes lively. “Has he kissed you?”
She nodded, too embarrassed to look up. The sisters laughed and Phoebe leaned closer, her voice conspiratorial. “Did you like it?”
Kate nodded again. “I think, more than I should have,” she said, her voice quiet.
To her relief nei
ther of the sisters quizzed her further. Her calm statement earned a sigh from Maria, and a long glance at the balcony from Phoebe. I really must think of something else, Kate thought. If only he were not so attractive, it would be easy. If only he would not smile so at me, or touch my hand that way he does, or put his arm around my waist and tug me in close to where I seem to fit.
Kate threw down her needle in disgust, repented immediately, and crawling around on all fours, patted the curtain until she found it again. She heard heavy footsteps on the stage and looked around expectantly.
It was Malcolm. She stuck the needle in the pincushion as he walked around, surveying the day’s work. He beamed at his daughters. “Well done, my dears,” he boomed, his voice carrying beyond the back row and into the lobby. “Think you, if this venture fails, I shall hire you out as seamstresses, and we shall cheat the poorhouse yet!”
The Bladesworth sisters giggled and bent over their sewing again. Kate watched them, struck by their calm acceptance of the situation. They are not afraid, she thought suddenly. They have always lived precariously, and it does not frighten them anymore. She thought of her own life with Papa, never knowing his true financial condition until he was dead and Abner Sheffield was pouring reality into her lap all at once. She winced even now at the shock and surprise—anger, too. Admit it, she thought, that had been her final parting gift from the father she loved, but who remained a mystery. Phoebe and Maria have no such surprises awaiting them, she told herself. I wonder if they realize how lucky they are? I have been a fool to think myself their superior.
She looked up at Malcolm, surprised at how blurry he appeared. He held out his hand to her and lifted her to her feet. “Come, my super-dainty Kate and let me show you what I am doing to your theatre.”
“It is our theatre,” she said, winking back her tears. “Yours and mine.” She gestured toward the sisters, who were watching her with all the good nature that was their special gift. “I may supply the money, sir, but yours is the heart. For this I thank you.”
To her amazement Malcolm’s eyes filled with tears. She watched as he whipped out a massive handkerchief, flourished it around his eyes, and then blew his nose. “It appears we are all in debt to each other,” he said from the depths of the handkerchief. In another moment he had recovered his composure. He held out his arm to Kate, and she took it, mystified.