She missed Rosa's sudden intake of breath. She was too busy plotting. Gilbert was going to send for her when there was a part for her in London. If it was the only way she could achieve her ambition she'd throw all notions of proper behaviour aside. She'd show them all.
***
Chapter 5
'Max, dear, you look tired. Was the trip hard work?'
'Not especially, Mom, but New York was hot and humid. I'll be glad of a few days at home.'
'A few days?' Mrs Higham said. 'More than that, surely, after you've been away over six months. Jenny's missed you. The Wisharts have plans for an evening entertainment while you're here, to raise funds for your Shakespeare theatre, since you seemed so taken with it. Isn't that generous? They thought some of our amateur Thesbians might perform scenes from the most famous plays. They'd like you to take part. You were very good at school.'
'That was a long time ago,' Max said swiftly. 'It's generous of them, and I don't mind describing the fire, and the need for a new theatre, but I haven't time for learning a part or rehearsing.'
'What a shame. Perhaps Jenny can change your mind. They're all coming to dinner tomorrow. We'll be on our own tonight, just your Dad and us, but no doubt you'll want to visit with Jenny tomorrow. She'd be happy to ride with you.'
Max regarded his mother with both affection and exasperation. Mrs Higham had none of the normal subtlety of her sex. If she wanted something she made it perfectly plain from the start and her persistence generally wore down the opposition until she achieved her objective. She was obviously determined to throw him and Jenny together and hasten the match she and Mrs Wishart had been planning since Jenny's birth sixteen years before. He was only surprised the balcony scene had not been suggested for him and Jenny to perform at this proposed entertainment. Perhaps it would be. Fortunately, he reflected, he had inherited some of his mother's determination – or perhaps he should call it obstinacy – and though it might be wearing he could withstand her pressure.
Why wasn't he ready to gratify the families and marry Jenny soon, he wondered on the following morning as they rode together to visit Max's grandmother, who lived on a farm several miles out of the town. She was young, fresh and pretty, blonde and blue-eyed, and with a slender girlish figure. Though she appeared apprehensive at first she was soon laughing uninhibitedly at his stories of his European trip, and telling him the Woodstock gossip. He made an effort to set her at ease, and decided that she was a little in awe of him after a separation of several months. She'd matured considerably in his absence, was less of the child he recalled. Perhaps it had been her youth preventing him from thinking of her as his prospective wife.
'Do you really mean to go back to New York next week?' she asked rather wistfully as they were approaching her home, a large house at one end of Main Street.
'I have work to do,' Max told her. 'I was away for longer than I'd planned, and there are several commissions to complete.'
'You stayed because of that dreadful fire. We heard all about it.'
'I stayed to help, but I'd met someone who wants me to design several picture houses for him in Birmingham. Helping at the theatre was good experience,' he said, and wished the image of Rosa that appeared every time he thought of Europe would go away, or at least diminish in intensity.
'I wish you could stay for longer,' Jenny said shyly.
'I might come for a few weeks in August, when New York gets unbearably hot.'
'We could ride together every day. It's been fun.'
'You ride when I'm not here,' he said bracingly.
'I get bored seeing the same people. Woodstock's so small. I want to go on a European tour, but Papa says – ' she broke off and blushed painfully.
'That you may be too young?' Max suggested smoothly. Poor kid, he thought, they'd probably promised her a honeymoon in Europe. Then his pity turned to irritation. He wished people would leave him alone. He intended marrying Jenny, but he was determined to choose the time himself, and he wouldn't be forced into anything.
'Well, yes,' Jenny muttered.
'Tell me about this entertainment. What parts are you playing?'
*
'Agnes, you're the only one who can help,' Celia insisted.
'I'm always helping,' Agnes grumbled.
Celia sighed. 'All I want you to do is let Gilbert send letters to your address. Father has forbidden me to have anything more to do with him. He tore up my last letter and I know that old cat Winnie will tell him if she sees any more.'
'You shouldn't talk about Miss Barlow like that,' Agnes protested, but she giggled.
'Why not? Just because she knew Mother when she was a baby doesn't give her the right to tell me what to do. I wish she'd go and live with her wretched sister, like she's always threatening. Father's already provided a pension for her.'
'Is Gilbert still in London?' Agnes asked wistfully.
'Yes, but he's going on tour soon. Unless he can write I won't have the slightest idea where he is, or when I can join him.'
'Are you really planning to run away? Are you going to – well, you know – live with him?'
'He's promised to get me a part with his company, nothing else,' Celia insisted. 'Agnes, you know how much acting means to me, this may be my only chance.'
'But if Mother saw your letters, she might tell your father, and we'd both get into trouble.'
'Can't you ask the postman to give them to you secretly? Oh, all right,' she added as Agnes shrieked in alarm. 'Let's think of something else. Does your mother read your letters?'
'No, but she asks who they're from.'
'I'll tell Gilbert to address them to you, and make the writing different each time. You can tell your mother they're from girlfriends at college or visiting relatives. But swear never to read them!'
'Well, perhaps,' Agnes wavered.
Celia eyed her impatiently. 'Agnes, have you ever been in love? Or wanted something so much it hurt?' When Agnes blushed she gave a sudden crow of laughter. 'Of course, Adam Thorn. Agnes, do this, and I promise I'll help you with Adam.'
'How could you? Besides, he wants Rosa, he always has.'
'She doesn't want Adam, she's still mooning over that American. She might turn to him, one day, and although he may think that's what he wants, you'd be doing him a service if you could stop it happening.'
Agnes wanted to be convinced, Celia knew. She exerted herself to suggest ways to make Adam fall in love with Agnes, and soon Agnes had agreed not only to having Gilbert's letters sent to her, but also to letting Celia use her father's newly installed telephone if she needed to contact Gilbert quickly.
'But only if the house is empty,' she said nervously.
*
'You owe it to Jenny to speak before you go back to New York, Max.'
Max looked at his father with a mixture of affection and exasperation. 'I don't contemplate marriage for several years, and she's very young. It wouldn't be fair to tie her to a long engagement when we'd see each other only occasionally.'
'It needn't be a long engagement. You can support a wife with your godfather's legacy. You needn't wait until you're established.'
'She's very young.'
'She's sixteen, ripe for marriage. The Wisharts expect you to make the arrangement formal very soon. It's been an understood thing for years, but we need a proper announcement, a party. Otherwise you risk offending them and making everyone here very uncomfortable.'
Max thought of Rosa and sighed. He'd thought of Rosa every day, wondering if they'd ever meet again and whether he'd feel the same tug of attraction. If she'd been the sort of girl to fall into bed with him he might have suppressed the need for her. And yet, a wayward thought thrust forward, she hadn't objected to his kisses. She might have proved as accommodating as some of the other girls with whom he'd dallied in France and Germany. He shook his head impatiently. This was foolish. He had to forget Rosa. 'I'll speak to Jenny after the entertainment,' he promised. 'There's only a day left and she's very busy with
rehearsals.'
'Good lad. And then you can set up a practice here in Woodstock. If you're building theatres and picture palaces all over the States, it won't matter to you where you're based.'
'I know you and Mom want me to live here, but I prefer New York,' Max said, trying not to grind his teeth. His father was insensitive to anyone else's wishes, but he was old, he'd been forty when Max was born, and had a weak heart. The doctor, his father's partner and an old friend, had warned Max not to upset him. If he came home to marry Jenny now, they could move back to New York later. No, it would be easier to remain firm now, and promise lots of visits. After all, he'd acceded to their main demand. He sighed and went to saddle his horse. A long hard ride might clear his head, and the exercise tire him so that he could sleep without dreams of a tall dark girl with soft, exciting lips, in the scented dusk of an English garden.
*
Jenny knew her lines and moved easily about the makeshift stage at one end of her father's big drawing room. She spoke clearly, but her voice was so small Max strained to hear her. He suspected she was making valiant efforts to overcome nerves. The only time she showed real animation was as Katharine with a rather youthful Henry the Fifth, fluttering her eyelashes and flirting with her fan during the courtship scene. She'd been taught French well, Max thought with amusement, and knew her swain's lines better than he did, unobtrusively prompting him during his rather long and convoluted speeches. Her performance as Ophelia, though, was wooden and she seemed uninterested. Perhaps she preferred livelier parts. He sighed, not knowing whether he wished the evening of rather insipid performances to go on for ever, postponing his promised tête-à-tête with Jenny, or longed for it to be over and his fate sealed. Then, perhaps, Rosa could be banished from his thoughts.
'You were especially good as Katharine,' he said afterwards, when he had manoeuvred Jenny into the conservatory. 'Do you prefer comic parts?'
'Comic? But Henry the Fifth is a history play, not a comedy.'
'There can be comedy even in tragedy,' he murmured. 'Tell me, Jenny, do you enjoy the theatre?'
'Sometimes. I like musical comedies, but we can't see many of them without going to Richmond or even New York. And I can't sing well enough for the local amateur productions.'
'I'm sure you sing charmingly.'
'My voice mustn't be strained, the doctor said. I didn't think Mother would allow me to do anything tonight, but Papa persuaded her.'
'You could see what you liked if you lived in New York.'
'Yes, that's what Mother says, when we – that is – ' she stopped and cast him an appealing glance, blushing painfully.
'When we are married?' he asked gently, feeling sorry for her. She really was no more than a child. 'Don't be shy, Jenny, we both know our families have wanted that ever since you were born.'
'Yes,' she muttered, so softly that he barely heard her.
'I hope you'll do me the honour of accepting me, Jenny,' he pressed on.
'Yes,' she whispered again. 'Of course. 'I – I'm honoured by your proposal, Max, and of course I'm delighted to accept.'
'You've made me very happy,'he said formally and reached for her hands, only to discover she was clasping them together so tightly her knuckles were white. 'Jenny, don't be nervous. Child, we've known each other for years, I thought we were friends, don't be afraid of me.'
'I'm not!' she protested.
'Then what is it? Are you afraid of marriage? You needn't be. I won't ask you to do anything you dislike.'
Jenny took a deep breath. 'Max, I know everyone expects it, Papa said it was all arranged, and I'd enjoy having my own house, being able to entertain friends, and he and Mother would be here to help, but I – I'm not ready. Not yet. Please, I don't want the fuss of an engagement, having to make plans and collect a trousseau.'
'Don't you want to live in New York? That's where I planned to make our home, not here.'
'I'd love it!' Jenny said fervently. 'I don't want to live in Woodstock all my life. I want to travel all over the world.'
'Then if we both prefer New York, there's no problem.'
'No,' she said, her recent animation falling away. 'But will they let us?'
He almost laughed out loud. 'They can't prevent it.'
'You don't know Papa,' she said darkly.
'When you're married to me you'll have to do what I say, and he won't be able to make me live here.'
She didn't appear to believe him. Max set himself to convince her. 'Would you like me to tell your parents we don't want an announcement yet, that I have so many important commissions I simply can't afford time to come here for formal parties? Would they believe that?'
'Could you make them wait?' she asked, awed.
'Yes, if that's what you want. Our families must know, of course, but no one else. If I can achieve that, will you trust me to manage the rest?' he asked and she smiled. Max realised with a small shock that it was her first smile during the whole time they'd been together.
*
Celia glanced over her shoulder. Although she had seen no one at Stratford station, she still felt nervous, as though someone was following her. Once she reached London they couldn't force her back home. They could, a small voice within her whispered, she wasn't twenty-one until August next year, ten months to wait, but she pinned her hope on her father not wanting a scandal. He would prefer to accept the situation, knowing that the moment she came of age she could do as she wished.
She would write and tell them she was well once she had passed the audition. A tremor of delighted anticipation shook her, and she forgot her fear of pursuit as she silently rehearsed the speeches Gilbert had suggested she used. It was only a small part, he'd warned, but it was the first step in a London theatre. She felt a rush of gratitude towards Gilbert. Sometimes, in the intervening months, despite his frequent letters addressed through Agnes, she had doubted whether he meant to keep his promise. But now, in a new production himself, he'd persuaded his friend, the producer, to give her this chance. She had to succeed to justify his faith in her.
By the time the train reached Euston she had forgotten her fears and was eager to start. Gilbert was waiting and took her small valise as he led her towards a taxicab.
'Is this all you have?' he asked, grinning.
'I couldn't carry any more. Besides, my clothes are terribly old-fashioned, I want new ones.'
'You won't be earning much,' he warned, 'and I can't afford to help.'
'I have my mother's money. She left us all some money and I haven't needed to spend it, Father gave us a dress allowance.'
'Can you touch the capital?' he asked, surprised.
'Not until I'm of age, but the interest will be enough if I'm careful. I told you there was no need to worry. I won't depend on you. Where are we going?' she added, craning to see out of the windows.
'Islington. I've hired a room in my lodging house. You don't object, I hope?' he added, squeezing her arm.
Celia giggled. 'I don't care. I don't care about anything if I can become an actress. I don't need to watch my reputation, worry about old cats gossiping in Stratford. I've become a Bohemian!'
'And we'll become the most famous team in the business. Oh, Celia, I wasn't sure you'd come. I didn't know whether you loved me enough.'
'Of course I do. And I want to be an actress, don't I? You're giving me that chance, and I couldn't be more grateful.'
'Here's our lodgings,' Gilbert said as the taxi turned into a large square. 'We'll use buses or the underground most of the time, taxis are too expensive, but we're close to the Angel.'
Celia was inspecting the terrace of flat-fronted houses. Tall and narrow, many of them looked shabby, but they represented freedom and the start of what she was utterly convinced would be a glittering future. By next year, she vowed, she would play leading roles at Stratford. Not even the badly-furnished back room up two flights of narrow stairs, with paper peeling from the walls and a window with several cracked panes deterred her, nor the ga
rrulous landlady who had shown her to the room, heaving her mountain of quivering flesh slowly up the stairs.
Gilbert had gone into his own room on the ground floor, promising they would go out to eat later, so Celia shook her head when Mrs Nesbit asked breathlessly if she'd like a cup of tea.
'I lets me ladies and gents do fer themselves, mostly. Me an' Billy lives in basement, yer'll find 'im there all the time if yer wants summat. Lorst 'is legs in bleedin' France, 'e did, so 'e's no use ter man nor beast. Used ter be a coachman, now 'e's under me feet all day.'
'Oh, I'm so sorry,' Celia said, momentarily shocked out of her own bliss.
Mrs Nesbit sniggered and nudged Celia in the ribs. 'Don't mek much diff'rence where it matters! An' 'e can't spend all 'is money in bleedlin' pubs no more, so it's an ill wind, I sez.'
When she departed Celia crossed the room, the worn linoleum crackling under her feet, to look out of the window. It overlooked small gardens filled with rows of washing lines, old prams and bits of iron bedsteads, the occasional lean-to shed, and only a few struggling spindly shrubs and flowers. For a moment she thought wistfully of the thriving cottage garden at home, the luxuriant bushes of lavender and the vivid splashes of colour where marigolds and lupins grew in summer. Michaelmas daisies had been flaunting their vivid purple heads when she left. Here there were no green velvet lawns, thriving trees overhanging old walls, or quiet fields bordering the lazily meandering river, where cattle grazed. The only animals visible were a couple of mangy dogs barking hysterically and trying to scale a high wall from which a contemptuous ginger tom, safe on his perch, taunted them.
It was London, Celia told herself firmly. It was the big city, and once she was established there would be plenty of time for trips to the country. Most of the houses she had seen from the train had been as ramshackle and depressing as this one, but there had been some with gardens, set apart from their neighbours. She couldn't expect to earn more than four or five pounds a week at first, even in the West End, but soon, when she was successful, she would find somewhere more fitting.
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