Two Wrongs Make a Marriage

by Christine Merrill

  ‘Perhaps you would prefer that I do not blurt my secrets and opinions out for all to hear.’ She narrowed her eyes and glared at him. ‘There is such a thing as too much honesty, Jack Briggs. And, sometimes, there is not nearly enough.’

  ‘Point taken,’ he said, glaring back at her. ‘Since we will never agree on a happy medium, it is better that we part.’

  ‘We would be quite hopeless for more reasons than that,’ she said. ‘You would likely expect me to follow you about the country, waiting in the wings as you play-act, applauding your every falsehood. I think we can both agree that is no life for a gently bred woman.’

  But perhaps, if you loved me, you might have suggested it.

  He kissed her again, on the forehead, but his lips were cold and the contact brief. ‘In time, you will meet the man who deserves you. I hope you are happy with him.’

  It sounded like a sincere blessing. But there was something in it as well that sounded like a curse. In return she said, ‘And you should go back to the sort of women you favour. It is hardly my place to wish you joy of them.’

  ‘I shall,’ he assured her. ‘Very much so. They are simpler than you. But just as easily forgotten when I am through with them.’ He offered her as courtly a bow as any he had made on stage before placing his hat upon his head and pulling on his gloves. ‘I bid you adieu. I’d say that parting was such sweet sorrow, but I know how you hate it when I lie.’ And with that, he turned and was gone.

  Chapter Twenty

  Jack whistled as he walked down the path to the beach and as he got into the little sail boat. He continued until he was well out from shore. It was an annoyingly cheerful song for such a grim day. The slate-coloured clouds threatened a storm and warned that it was no day for an extended outing.

  But then it was not to be a grim day at all for Lord Kenton. He was young and in love. The world must think him happy. And Jack Briggs should be happy as well, for it was the first time in over a year that he’d had his freedom and a chance at his old life back.

  Yet it was a struggle to keep up the role. He could be in bed with Cyn right now. The minx had done her best to keep him there a little while longer. She had not resorted to embarrassing and sloppy sentiment. Instead, she had used her body. It was much harder to part from eyes and thighs and lips and breasts all eager for his kisses.

  The man who would have her was lucky indeed. Jack stopped whistling and cursed that man, whoever he might be, to all the hells he deserved for the heaven that he was about to receive. His Cyn would likely pick some proper gentleman, just as she had been trained to. The fellow would be as dumb as a fencepost and probably faithless. But he would have money and a title, which was all she had wanted from the first.

  It was no concern of his. She would be a widow and free to do as she liked.

  And she had given him a full demonstration of just what she liked. She had been the enthusiastic lover that he’d wished and hoped for on that first day when she’d waylaid him. It was highly unlikely that she would wait past the minimum time of mourning before finding another to warm her bed. Declarations of a life of abstinence had been conspicuously absent from their parting.

  As had words of love. On his part as well. He hadn’t bothered, for she’d have seen it for the lie it was. Jack Briggs did not love anyone.

  No one save himself, of course.

  Which was why it went against his nature to aim the little boat back towards shore and straight for the nearest rock. It was a mad risk, but he could think of no better way to provide an explanation for his disappearance that would provide sufficient evidence of death, but no body. So he tied the rudder and threw himself over the side into the icy water.

  Dying was both harder and easier than he’d thought. The chill hit him like a slap, ringing on his skin, shocking his mind into paralysis. Then he was sinking, dragged beneath the surface, his boots a lead weight at the end of his legs, his fine clothes growing heavy in the water. His head cleared, reminding him of the need to fight for shore. And another voice came, calm, clear, and louder than the urge for self-preservation.

  Why bother?

  His shocked limbs did not move as his brain processed the idea. It would be easier to do nothing. Spayne wanted a death. A body to go along with the wrecked boat would be the final thing that would convince all. A last gesture to complete the finest performance of his career, and a fitting curtain call. Never mind what Jack felt for himself. The parts of him that were Kenton were profoundly depressed that it had come to this. Returning to his old life meant an end to warmth and peace and comfort. An end to the intriguing challenges of the estate and the knowledge that he must grow to become Spayne.

  And an end to his life with Cyn. He’d had a wife. He could have had a family. Most of all, he’d had the love of both a father and a spouse. They had not said so, exactly, but now that it was gone he was as sure that there was no point in living without it.

  A wave crested over his head and he looked up at the fading light, clinging to the gulp of air that he’d instinctively taken before he hit the water.

  Then he shook himself free of Kenton and kicked to the surface. He managed the swim to the rock, which left him cold and shaking, almost too weak to pull himself out of the water. But he was still alive, and owed no thanks to love for that. It was his own self-interest that ruled him, that could keep his heart beating with or without a wife and family.

  The decision was made, but the fates were still against him. The damned boat could not manage its part, hanging up against the stones largely unharmed. In the end, he had to swim back to it, haul himself over the side and hack at the hull with a hatchet until the thing went down, but it did give him a nice piece of clearly marked wreckage to wedge between the rocks along with a torn bit of his shirt. Not as convincing as a corpse, perhaps, but a much saner choice than noble suicide. When they searched for him, there would be no doubt what had happened.

  And so he was finally free. He made his way to shore to the clothes he had hidden there, dried, dressed, then built a small fire and warmed himself as he burned every last trace of Lord Kenton.

  All save one. The ring his father... No. The ring Spayne had given him was still on his hand. He stared at it for a moment, remembering what the earl had suggested. Then he pulled it off, set it on the ground and reached for a rock to smash it.

  His hand froze in mid-air as he stared down at the emerald. Sell it? How could he? For months it had been as much a part of his hand as one of his fingers.

  That was Kenton, the character, speaking to him again, whispering righteous nonsense in his ear. Of course Jack would sell it. The thing was worth at least thirty pounds, even melted down and passed to the meanest fence.

  But it was worth far more than that, if he counted its true value. He balanced it in his hand for a moment, feeling the weight. It was heavy with tradition, just as Cyn’s ring had been, and made from another stone of the set that the king had given the first Earl of Spayne.

  He wet his lips and said aloud, to add a matching weight to his argument, ‘I do not want to go back to the gallows over a simple misunderstanding.’ If an actor was caught with this ring, people would suspect theft, and possibly murder. The real Kenton would not have given it up without a fight. Even now, he had to struggle not to return it to his finger, where it belonged. He raised the rock again.

  Yet he could not manage the blow that would crush it. To Jack Briggs, it should be nothing more than ready money, but it was all that was left of Kenton. And despite his dramatic protestations in the water, the man was not ready to die.

  Jack sighed. He did not really have to make the decision now. Perhaps at some future date, when his skills faltered and he could no longer hold the speeches in his head, not even fit to do a convincing King Lear. He must simply keep it safe and out of sight. He slipped the ring into an inner pocket beside the fat purse that Spayne had given him. Though it was rather shabby by Kenton’s standards, the plain coat he wore now was better than anyt
hing Jack Briggs had owned. The bespoke fit made it clear to all that he was a gentleman, down on his luck, but still able to pay for a night’s lodging. He would have no trouble with innkeepers dressed as he was. He would have no trouble with anything for quite some time.

  Why did this not make him happy? He was rich, single and free. He was very much alive, which was more than he’d expected as he marched up the steps towards the noose a year ago.

  He fingered the circle of gold in his pocket and noticed the light aimlessness of his right hand. Thirteen months should not be long enough for a simple piece of jewellery to become a part of one. But this one had got heavier as he’d come to carry some of the burden that had come with it. When he’d been faced with the pressing demands of Lord Kenton’s actual responsibilities, he’d gone back to Spayne and demanded help.

  The man had shrugged and said, ‘Do the best you can. Anything is better than nothing. And that is what they are used to from me.’

  Managing had not been nearly as hard as he’d thought and more interesting than he’d ever have suspected in his old life. Much of the politics was play-acting, and he had always been good at that. The management of tenants and rent was common sense. And being married...

  It was all gone, he told himself again. He’d given it up, just as he’d always planned to.

  He walked down the road to the nearest inn, wishing for the horse he’d left safely back by the docks. But he thanked God and Spayne for Kenton’s boots, which fit well and meant that the walking would not bother him.

  * * *

  By the time he reached the alehouse, he was well and truly parched, and in need of more than one drink.

  His purse would be lighter by the end of the evening, he was sure. He’d be blind drunk and have a woman in his bed. Perhaps two. As many as it took to put the recent past behind him and get back to being who he was.

  It appeared he was in luck. His first pint was delivered by a buxom ginger-haired girl named Rose who was as interested in him, and his money, as he could wish her to be.

  ‘What’s yer name then, sir?’

  ‘John Briggs.’ He had very nearly said Kenton before stopping himself. This was the moment of decision. He gave a half-hearted flourish of his hand. ‘Itinerant thespian, at your service, madam.’ There were many inns that would not have him at all after that admission. But he’d best get re-accustomed to the sudden frostiness which came with the knowledge of his profession.

  The girl gave him a blank look. ‘You speak well for a foreigner.’

  ‘An actor, my dear,’ he said patiently. ‘A playwright. A singer of songs. Teller of tales. Weaver of dreams.’ He reached out and pulled the gold coin he had palmed, from behind her ear. ‘I belong to the trunk that you have been holding in the best room above. And I paid in advance.’ Let her make what she would of that.

  She eyed the coin in his hand, as though surprised to see it there, and wondering how he’d come by it. Then she decided it did not matter and gave him a look that was properly impressed. ‘An actor. I expect you are full of pretty words for a girl like me.’ She batted her lashes and waited to be dazzled.

  Shakespeare.

  Now he struggled to think of a single quote that did not make him think of the woman he was trying to forget. ‘I did not say I was a good actor, did I?’

  Since he was being of no use, she took control of the situation and the chair opposite him, leaning forwards so that he could have an ample view down her bodice. ‘Who needs talk when you have money. Are you in need of company?’

  Hadn’t he thought just the same, only a few moments ago? But now, when the opportunity presented itself to rectify it, he said, ‘I prefer my solitude. I am quite tired, you see.’ Where were his manners, flirting with the girl and then rejecting her a moment later? And where was his skill? His protestations of fatigue were in no way convincing.

  She glared at him for wasting her time, so he pushed the coin across the table and in front of her. ‘See to it that my meal is sent to my room. And that is all I will need from you tonight,’ he added, as he imagined the girl forcing her way in after the plate.

  She did a creditable attempt at a flounce as she left his table, but it was lost on him for he was already heading for the stairs. While the old Jack would not have refused such an offer, Kenton was not willing to let go of his conscience just yet. Tomorrow, perhaps. The girl would be just as willing as long as he had another coin. For tonight, he could open his trunk to assure himself that nothing had been taken from it in his prolonged absence and re-acquaint himself with his old life.

  The large brass-bound crate that waited in the bedroom at the top of the stairs was the sum total of his possessions. Or at least, it had been until Spayne had caught up to him. Jack had nearly lost it that day, thinking it sold by the innkeeper, but the earl had rescued it as well as him, and shipped it on when they’d settled on this as the place of his eventual death and rebirth. Jack fished in his pocket for the key, with the chain that had been attached to hang the thing safely about his neck when he was on stage and could not guard the contents. As an afterthought, he strung the Kenton ring beside it and dropped it back inside his shirt to rest over his heart.

  It was strange to feel the weight there. Kenton had no need for such securities. For these long months, the key had rested in a bureau drawer, very nearly forgotten. Someone here had watched over the luggage, keeping it dry and oiling the lock. The mechanism turned smoothly, and he popped the latch and lifted the lid to reveal his treasures.

  The pots of stage paint and rouge had gone stale or dried up from lack of use. They would have to be replaced, of course. A series of beards and wigs that he had once thought quite realistic would need to go as well. Now they appeared motheaten and he could not imagine bringing them close to his face without a shudder of disgust.

  Wrapped in a piece of worn flannel, he found the crown that he had worn for any number of performances: Henrys four through eight, both Richards, John, and other kings as well, indiscriminate of era or nationality. It was gilded and set with glass jewels, and had been the envy of his fellows. But now he saw it for what it was, a dull thing, clearly false, too light compared to the coronet which Spayne had allowed him to wear one night in jest.

  ‘See how it feels, my boy.’ The earl’s voice had been almost seductive and Jack had allowed himself to succumb. ‘Kenton would know of this. He would expect it. If you wish to be him, even for a while, you must walk as if it is always on your head.’

  Jack tossed the false crown aside with a curse, trying to shake the memory of the very real weight of the coronet and the sense of pride and confidence it had brought. That had been just as much an illusion as the dross in front of him. He was not Kenton. He never had been.

  He took up one of the costumes instead, the rich robe that went along with the crown. Not so rich, of course, now that he’d seen real court robes. The velvet on this was threadbare, the ermine little more than white rabbit, trimmed with splotches of paint. The antique coat beneath it, which he’d worn in She Would if She Could, had been a true gentleman’s coat, when it had been new. As a costume, it was quite better than anything else he could afford. But the gold lace was tarnished and missing in patches on the great bucket cuffs. He slipped into it, for it had always made him feel better, young and dashing, full of wit like the comedies of Goldsmith and Sheridan that it suited.

  Today, it bound and pinched. It was too narrow in the shoulders and too short in the sleeves. It had been fine thirteen months ago, but now, it seemed to be made for a smaller man, a lesser man, an actor who could twist himself into the shape needed to fit it and pretend that it had been made for him.

  He yanked it off and tossed it back into the trunk, slamming the lid. When last he’d seen it, he had been quite proud of this accumulation. He was sure it looked the same as the day when he’d put it aside.

  But he was equally sure that he never wanted to see the trunk or its contents again. He might as well have stored the
lot at the bottom of the ocean, for all it mattered. It was ruined and useless, to the last button and thread. His old things did not fit him. It was as if, far later in life than was natural, he’d grown the last few inches to make a proper man, and this new self could find no peace in playing a king when there was work to do, or apeing Romeo, only to go to bed alone.

  He reached up and yanked the chain from his neck, freeing the key and fitting it back in the lock to save the innkeeper the trouble of breaking it when it was sold.

  The ring he slipped back on his finger. Then he went down the stairs and to the stable to arrange for a horse.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  They were burying an empty coffin.

  The mourners knew it, of course. The fishermen had discovered the broken boat, washed up on shore, with a scrap of linen the only evidence that her sometime husband had been aboard. But with the outpouring of sympathy she’d received, some sort of public memorial service had seemed necessary.

  The church was near to full, friends and acquaintances dabbing delicately at their eyes and remarking at the suddenness of her widowhood, the tragedy of it, and the level head and likability of Kenton. He would be missed by all and Thea was to be a symbol of pity and sympathy.

  Spayne was there as well, giving up his seclusion for a trip to the metropolis, white faced, tight lipped and clearly suffering the loss.

  The only one absent was Henry de Warde, who had sent a tersely worded note, but showed no sign of returning to town, even to gloat, while the memory of his embarrassment was still fresh.

  Her mother was draped head to toe in black and weeping so hard that Thea feared the woman would throw herself into the open grave. Could she not manage to maintain decorum? ‘Come away, Mother,’ Thea had said, sincerely worried. ‘You needn’t weep so.’

  ‘But I cannot seem to help myself,’ her mother said. ‘I have had such news, my dear. And I cannot decide whether to weep from joy or sadness.’ To Thea’s surprise, she wiped away real tears. ‘I did not want to share it with you today, for it might make your expressions of grief even more difficult.’