by Carla Kelly
The marquess was there at five o’clock the next evening for his costume and makeup. He greeted everyone affably and nodded to Kate as they passed in the hallway before the green room. “Hello, my dear Kate,” he said, bowing. “Have you sent back the daily letter?”
She nodded. “Of course I have.”
He appeared unruffled by her words and more like the Hal she remembered. “Ah, well, there will be another one tomorrow. And the day after, and the day after, until you tire of returning them. The message is the same, by the way, and will probably make you even more angry than you are now.” He chuckled, shook his head, and continued toward the makeup room. “But I will take my chances, dear wife,” he called over her shoulder.
She stared after him. “You are the most aggravating man who ever stuck his legs into breeches,” she said softly.
“Yes, I am,” he agreed, his voice serene. “And you are positively certifiable.”
She laughed in spite of herself, covering her mouth with her hand too late.
She waited by herself in the wings for the curtain to rise on act one. Hal joined her, putting on his spectacles.
“Did Messrs. Kemble and Kean arrive?” he whispered.
She nodded. “Oh, Hal, this could mean everything to Phoebe.”
Davy was approaching the ropes to pull open the curtains. Hal touched her arm. “You and Will should know one thing. When I arrived at the Hall, and asked Algie if he had any messages for me, he said he did not.”
“We feared as much,” she whispered back.
“There was a rather incriminating mound of hot ashes in an otherwise empty grate in the sitting room.” The curtain opened, and he put his lips closer to her ear. “I sent him packing and cut him off without a sou. I probably will need a runner now. He was wondrous pissed.”
She turned to look at him, and he quickly kissed her on the lips, then strolled on stage for the opening line. She could only follow, her face red, and perfectly in tune with her following line, “ ‘La, Squire, you distract me beyond all that is allowable. I am nearly undone.’ ”
To her distress he looked back at her and winked before he stumbled on cue into a coat rack and an end table and into Malcolm’s arms. The audience roared its approval. Offstage, and out of the corner of her eye, Kate saw Gerald clasp both hands high over his head in triumph.
Each act only got better as the Rowbottom daughters traveled the rocky road of courtship. When she dared, Kate glanced into the audience, searching for any sign of approbation from John Philip Kemble, who sat, arms folded, his expression unreadable, halfway up the house in an aisle seat. I wish he would smile, she thought, and redoubled her own efforts to perform Gerald’s wonderful lines.
Finally it was over. The crowds left reluctantly, as usual, and Malcolm, his face serious, called them all down into the front row seats. Hal sat apart from them, looking at the floor, until Ivy motioned him closer. With a smile he joined her, taking the youngest daughter onto his lap. She settled back against him with a sigh of pleasure.
John Philip Kemble, elegant in black, stood before them. “First, may I congratulate you on a fine performance. It was everything Mr. Kean had suggested, and more.”
The actors looked at each other and smiled. Gerald grasped both Phoebe’s hands, his face pale. He edged up on his seat and leaned closer, as if willing the words from Kemble’s mouth.
With a nod to Malcolm the great manager of Covent Garden turned to Gerald and Phoebe. “Malcolm, I fear I will displease you here. I would like to make Gerald Broussard an offer to join us in London.”
Kate blinked. She waited for him to say something about Phoebe, but he did not. The others looked at each other in surprise. But Kemble was still speaking.
“Gerald, we would like to commission you to write us several original plays and to help us mount a production of Well Married. What say you, sir?”
“Well, I … I …” He looked at Phoebe, whose face was white with disappointment.
“Kemble, you have all the finesse of an elephant in a drawing room,” came Edmund Kean’s carrying voice from the middle of the house. “Kindly put this young lady out of her misery, who is clutching our Frenchman as though she would never let him go!”
He left his seat and strolled to the front, hoisting himself onto the stage with the ease of someone in complete command. “My dear Phoebe,” he began, “how old are you?”
“Sixteen, sir,” she said, struggling with tears and losing.
“Sixteen,” he repeated, his eyes dreamy. “Sixteen.” The word rolled off his tongue and carried all the hopes and dreams of sixteen with it. “My dear Phoebe, I think that two more years in Leeds will find you amply prepared for the rigor that is the London stage.”
“Two years!” she exclaimed, the words wrung out of her.
“Yes, my dear,” Kemble said, his voice gentle. “It is a hard life you would choose, if you attempt theatre. Best be completely prepared for it.” He inclined his head toward Kean.
“I could not agree more. You’ll be there, my dear, but give yourself time.”
The cast was silent, some of them nodding. Malcolm held out his hand to the manager. “Very well, sir, I will continue her training.”
They shook hands. “And I will observe her progress each year, Bladesworth,” Kemble promised. “Do excuse me for snatching your playwright, but I cannot resist.”
“And I, for one, would not stand in his way. Gerald, you leave with my best wishes.”
Broussard smiled. “Thank you, Malcolm. And you, Ivy. We … I will miss you more than I can say.”
Kemble clapped his hands together. “Then it is done! We will see you in a week at Covent Garden?”
“You have my word on it,” Gerald replied quietly while Phoebe sobbed beside him.
Kemble turned to Lord Grayson. “And you, my lord? When will we see you there?”
“Never.” It was quietly but firmly delivered. “I expect to be otherwise occupied in the near future.”
“Not even one performance?” Kemble wheedled. “I hope to open Well Married in February. Do consider it, my lord. How I would love to push that in Balfour’s face at Drury Lane!”
Hal laughed. “You are completely unscrupulous! This, I understand! Perhaps we will talk, but not now.”
The men took their leave. The others quietly left the auditorium while Phoebe sobbed and Gerald, his arm around her, spoke softly.
“It breaks my heart, too,” Maria said as they prepared for bed. “I know how terrible I felt when I thought Will was leaving.” She sighed. “Two years!”
Kate blew out the lamp and lay down to sleep. It is better than never, she thought. I wish Hal had said something to me before he left. Perhaps I ought to read his letter tomorrow when it comes. She closed her eyes and slept.
It seemed only minutes before someone was shaking her awake. Maria, her eyes wild and her hair tumbled around her face, had raised her off the pillow as she shook her. Kate was awake in an instant, all sleep gone.
“Gracious, Maria, what is the matter?” She squinted at the window where early dawn was breaking. “Is the building on fire?”
Maria groaned and thrust a note into her hands. “It is worse, Kate! Phoebe and Gerald have eloped!”
Chapter 1 9
Kate didn’t bother to dress, but dashed after Maria into the green room, where Malcolm sat, his head in his hands. Ivy was fanning him, her face as white as her nightgown and cap. Wordlessly she pointed to the paper on the table.
Her fingers shaking, Kate picked it up, noting with some irony that Phoebe had scrawled her tidings on the back of the latest marriage lines signed by Agatha Rowbottom and Squire Pinchbeck. “‘Dear Mama and Papa,’ ” she began, but Ivy held up her hand.
“Oh, please, not aloud. I cannot bear it again,” Ivy pleaded. Will, still in his nightshirt, hurried into the room with a glass of water for Ivy, who dumped in some powders, swirled them around, and commanded Malcolm to drink. He did as she said, his eyes alr
eady glassy with hurt and disappointment.
“Phoebe and Gerald have eloped to the border,” Will whispered, his eyes on Malcolm. “If they caught the midnight mail coach to Gretna Green, they have five hours on us.”
“Oh, my Lord,” Kate murmured. “Why would she do such a thing? I mean, I know she loves Gerald, but …”
“She is too like her father,” Ivy said, resting her head against Malcolm’s broad back. “She is proud, and a little hurt that Mr. Kemble did not choose to make her fortune right now in Covent Garden.” She looked at Maria and Will, who stood with their arms around each other’s waists. “My dears, please go after them. Gerald will see reason right away, I am sure, and I trust you to bring her back.”
Will detached himself from his fiancée. “I can engage a post chaise, and if we change horses at every posting house, perhaps we can get there in time to stop a marriage across the anvil.”
Ivy shuddered at his words. “It is so irregular! Oh, please try!”
He left the room immediately. They heard him in the next room, and then he came out, stuffing his nightshirt into his breeches. “There is cash in the drawer,” Ivy called to him. She looked at her daughter and Kate. “Help me with Papa. He will be asleep soon enough, I think.”
They half-walked, half-carried him back to bed, where he sank with a great sigh, rolled over, and was soon snoring. Ivy sank down beside him on the bed, the tears rolling down her face. “I pray you will be in time!” She looked at Kate, her eyes desperate for understanding. “I know what people think of theatre folk, my dear, but this is not anything we condone.”
“I know it is not,” Kate said quietly. “Maria and I will accompany Will.” She held up her hand to ward off any objections. “Maria has always had a good influence on Phoebe, and between the two of us, she’ll do what’s right.”
Ivy took her hand. “Thank you,” she said simply, then let Kate fold her in a strong embrace. “You are like a daughter to me, my dear.”
When her tears stopped, Kate released her. “Maria and I will go get dressed now, Ivy.”
They hurried into their clothes. Maria found a bandbox in the corner and threw in their nightgowns, brushes, and a change of clothing. “Oh, I could willingly wring her neck,” Maria muttered as she strapped down the bandbox.
Kate shook her head and tied on her bonnet firmly. “I know how she feels, and so do you, Maria. Imagine if Will were to leave you for two years.” Or Hal forever, she thought. I know what drives people to desperation. Phoebe, drat her proud little hide, has my complete sympathy.
Maria managed a wry smile. “Well, put in those terms, I think I understand. But I can’t say I like it!”
Will was back with the post chaise as the market town came to life. He hurried inside to dress more carefully, and then joined the two of them in the carriage. The coachman closed the door, climbed to the box, and cracked his whip. The Banner Street Theatre was soon behind them.
To say that the day was long did not begin to describe the situation for Kate. To compound the misery, it began to rain, a heavy, pounding rain that turned the roads to glue and slowed them to a turtle’s tread. Kate found herself pushing against the floorboards, urging the coachman faster.
“Kate, it won’t help,” Will said, eyeing her feet. “Look at it this way: from the condition of the roads, I suspect it has been raining even longer here. Phoebe and Gerald are crawling along, too, I vow.” He turned to Maria, who sat close with her hand resting proprietarily on his knee. “Well, beloved, what do you say we get out those playbooks? Malcolm seems to think I will make a good Tybalt to Davy’s Romeo. I have several years of plays to catch up on, it appears.”
As Kate listened and dozed, Will and Maria traded lines, going over and over cues until he could snap out the lines from Romeo and Juliet and then Twelfth Night. They handed her another book, and she read along, laughing in all the right places, as the time passed and the rain drummed down, noisier than a house full of applause and cheers.
The darkness settled in sooner because of the rain, and then the post chaise moved even slower. It was too dark to read, so they quoted from memory, switching from one play to another, until Muggeridge ran out of memory. “Maria, that’s my best,” he declared finally, throwing up his hands. He relaxed against the squabs and then tensed as the coach moved even slower and then stopped. The chaise jiggled as John Coachman climbed down and tapped on the door.
Will opened it, and the rain blew in.
“Sir, we’ll have to stop at the next town.”
“Where are we, then?”
“Outside of Postlethwaite.”
“Damn! We’re yet fifty miles short of the border.”
“I’m sorry, sir, sorry indeed, but we can’t do any better.”
“Very well. Go on a little farther, and we shall stop at the first promising inn.”
They were silent then, watching the rain, occupied with their own thoughts. Ivy and Malcolm will be devastated, Kate thought as she rested her chin on her hands and stared out the window. As she watched, her eyes burning from lack of sleep and unshed tears, she saw flickers of light ahead. The post chaise slowed to a crawl as they drove abreast of a coach turned on its side.
Will whistled. “Look at that!” he exclaimed to Maria, who was dozing against his shoulder.
The chaise stopped, and the coachman got down again, this time to talk to the other coachman, who stood beside his yellow-painted vehicle.
“I believe it is a mail coach,” Kate said. “Oh, do you think …”
After a lengthy confabulation with the other driver, their coachman sloshed through deepening puddles to the chaise. Will opened the door again. “Tell us, sir,” he demanded.
The rain dripped off the coachman’s hat and down his coat. “A nasty business. It seems the mail coach broke both axles more than four hours ago.”
“Oh, God,” Kate breathed. “Maria, say a prayer.”
“No one hurt,” said John Coachman, “and everybody finally started out walking to the next village.” He shook his head and dripped rainwater on them. “I except to see some angry people at the next stop, don’t you know!”
It was approaching midnight when they finally pulled into Postlethwaite. “We can find an inn less crowded than the one on the main road,” the coachman called down from his perch.
“No,” Will called back. “We want to go to the one where the mail coach usually stops.”
“Suit yourselves.”
The inn yard was deserted when they drove in, and the inn nearly dark, except for the lights in the taproom.
“It appears that everyone has already bedded down for the night,” Will commented as he opened the door.
“Don’t say that!” Maria exclaimed.
They hurried inside and shook the rain off their cloaks in the entryway. The landlord, looking midnight-tired, met them at the taproom’s entrance. “Come in and warm yourselves. Is that mail coach still in the ditch?”
Maria shrieked and dodged under the tavern keep’s arm, throwing herself down beside a small, muddy figure sitting fiercely upright on a settle.
“Oh, thank God!” Kate murmured. She looked around. Gerald sat by himself at a table, his eyes weary, his fingers tight around a pint. He nodded to her and took another sip.
Kate hurried to Gerald as the sisters hugged each other, and Phoebe began to cry. He pulled out a chair and motioned Will into another one.
“We have both had second and third thoughts,” he said, his eyes on Phoebe. “You would be amazed what revelations of character a four-mile walk through knee-deep mud will bring out in a person.” He sighed, but there was the ghost of the old glimmer in his tired eyes. “I think Phoebe can be convinced to return to Papa and another year or two of instruction.”
“Gerald,” was all she said.
He gave a Gallic shrug and touched her hand. “She loves me, Kate, but you should have seen her face grow longer and longer the closer we came to the border!”
“
Cold feet in muddy boots?” Will teased.
“Something like that.” Gerald motioned toward the bar. “I am sure the tavern keep will find some more ale, Muggeridge. You need only tap the bell and …”
The outer door banged open, and the keep in question hurried to the entrance, calling out his welcome in a weary voice. Kate idly glanced toward the door as someone shook out a many-capped riding coat and slapped it onto a peg. Her eyes widened as Lord Grayson strode into the room, stripping off his gloves, and then stopped in astonishment at the sight of the two sisters consoling each other on the settle.
Will swallowed his amazement and put his hand to his mouth, his eyes merry. “He looks like the last rose of summer,” he whispered to Kate, who still stared, her mouth open. “Go do something appropriate, Kate. For the life of me, I can’t think of anything.”
When he had his fill of Maria and Phoebe, who had stopped her sobbing to stare at him in wide-eyed wonder, he turned slowly around, his eyes narrowing as he spotted Will Muggeridge.
“Oh, wait a minute, now,” Will said as he scrambled to his feet and backed toward the door. “Whatever you are thinking, it’s not what you’re thinking!”
“Will, that is so stupid,” Kate said. “Now, see here, Lord Grayson.”
With scarcely a glance in her direction, the marquess grabbed Will and raised him off his feet, forcing him against the wall. “So you thought to elope with Kate, did you? My good man, that won’t do!”
“Do something, Gerald!” Kate implored.
Gerald set down his pint with a bang, leaned back in his chair, and laughed until he fell out of his chair and lay on the floor, still laughing. “Mon dieu, it hurts!” he groaned and then laughed some more.
Startled by the helpless laughter behind him, Lord Grayson set Will on his feet. With an oath he went to the bar, banged on it until the glasses jumped, and demanded rum. The tavern keep obliged him. Hal took a mighty swallow and then looked at Kate finally.