Arden's Act

by Elizabeth Thomas

“Never really did,” answered Kitty, laughing a little. “Just kind of appreciated him now and again, you might say. Well, here's your flat, Arden. Have a good rest, I'm sure you'll be needin' it soon.” She punctuated the last with an obvious wink.

  “Good night, Kitty,” said Arden, opening the door of her building. She wished she felt as confident of Robert's return as her friend did. Yes, she knew Robert loved her. But what did he mean by “putting all in order”? What if he couldn't do it? What if, apart once more from herself and Helena, he thought better of “being with her forever”?

  She climbed the stairs to her apartments to find them empty. At first she thought Bonnie must be having a difficult time tearing herself away from Sam, but then she remembered the valet had gone with his master. Wherever they have gone, Arden thought, dropping into a chair, I hope Bonnie brings back dinner.

  A loud, demanding knock on the door of her flat interrupted her stomach in mid-growl. Her heart leapt within her chest, and she jumped up, fatigue and hunger forgotten. It would seem Courtenay had not taken so long after all!

  “I knew you couldn't stay away,” she crowed, opening the door.

  She recoiled and cried out at the dark figure on her threshold. Treadwell stood before her, his black Puritan garb sucking the remaining daylight from the late November sky. When Arden's mind had finally accepted the report of her eyes, she barked a question: “Is Mother well?”

  “Well as she may be, having given up her only daughter as an unredeemable strumpet,” Treadwell replied. What for him passed as a smile lit his homely face, sending a chill through Arden. Still, she thought, there is nothing wrong with Mother.

  “Thank God,” Arden said aloud. “Then I need have nothing more to do with you.” She slammed the door upon him and swiftly slid the bolt home, still feeling as though she had been kicked in the stomach.

  “I wouldn't be so hasty if I were you,” came the hated voice through the door. “Wouldn't you like to know what's become of your servant and your tiny Papist brat?”

  She quickly loosed the bolt and flung open the door. Treadwell pushed his way inside. “What have you done with Helena?” Arden demanded, whirling to face him as he took a place near the opposite wall.

  “She and your servant are quite safe. For the time, at least,” responded Treadwell, with a vile grin.

  “Where is she?”

  “Nowhere you can find her.”

  Arden launched herself at him, hands grasping towards his throat. Treadwell slammed his fist into the side of her head. Her ears rang, and she staggered. Who would have thought the old lecher had such strength? Her fingers found purchase in the coarse cotton of his shirt collar, which she gripped tightly.

  “Cease at once,” Treadwell warned her. “Even if your brazen temper could help you overpower me, you would not gain what you truly seek. If you murdered me, for instance, I could never return your brat to you.”

  Slowly, Arden loosed her grip and returned her hands to her sides. Somewhat distant, past her fear and rage for her daughter, she could feel her head throbbing from Treadwell’s punch. “What do you want?” she snarled.

  “The services of a slut.”

  And all this time, I thought myself safe. Arden could scarcely imagine anything more horrible than mocking the act of love with this sour Fanatick beast. But if it was the only way to win Helena's safety? “Very well,” she said, turning towards her bedroom. “Come take what you want.”

  “Oh, no,” said Treadwell. “Sorry, dearie, but you've grown past my personal appetites.”

  So Brian was right.

  “I have you in mind for greater than the likes of myself,” Treadwell continued. “At least, if one can believe the London gossips. No, Arden, I want you to seduce the King.”

  Arden turned back to face him, bewildered. “So, I get the King to sleep with me, and you'll bring Helena back? And Bonnie? But why? Why would you take my baby, just to force me to couple with the King of England?”

  “Because you're not just going to lay Charlie Stuart once,” said Treadwell. “You're going to bang him every which way from Sunday for as long as it takes you to win his trust. And the weather might be a factor, too,” he added.

  “What in the bloody blazes of Hell are you talking about?”

  “Such language,” chided Treadwell, shaking his head. “But very well. I'll tell you exactly what I've made you a part of. Only the Lord God Jehovah knows, Arden, but it may be enough to save you from the very Hell you mention.”

  Arden clenched her fists and forced her arms to stay still at her side. Fear and rage so mingled within her that she had great difficulty concentrating on her tormentor's words. Beginning to war with her mind's constant refrain of “where's Helena? Please, please give her back” was the dread-inducing query, “just what is he up to?” Not to mention the nearly overpowering desire to rip the self-righteous ass to shreds.

  “With a group of my brethren―some of the most godly men one could ask for―I have formed a plan. You will win the King's trust. When we give the word, you will lure him, unguarded, into a secluded outdoor location. Then we will put him to death.”

  Arden hated the shocked noise that escaped her. For a moment everything threatened to go black. She held on to consciousness, knowing Helena needed her to do so. “How dare you, you traitorous scum!” she hissed. “What's to prevent me right now from running outside and alerting everyone to your plot? Watching you die a traitor's death sounds immensely satisfying!”

  “What prevents you?” sneered Treadwell. “Why, the certainty that the moment my fellows hear of my arrest, they will first cut your daughter’s throat and then your servant's.”

  Arden had been ever-so-slowly backing toward the doorway, but this statement stopped her cold. “Godly men all, to be sure,” she whispered.

  “In fact, you will be the one most likely to face a traitor's death. If our plans should fail,” added Treadwell, grinning. “You will be the one nearest the King when the attempt is made.”

  She could imagine it, suddenly. The rope around her neck, choking her until she lost consciousness. Then the rude administration of smelling salts so that she would be fully aware when they slit her belly and drew forth her entrails. Worst of all the knowledge of Helena motherless, left to the mercy of Fanaticks if left alive at all. “No!” she cried aloud. “Robert will save us. And you will be sorry you ever drew breath.”

  Treadwell actually chuckled. In other circumstances, Arden would have been amazed. “I admit, your Papist paramour gave us a pause the other night. We thought we had waited too long to enlist your help with our enterprise. Such a relief to learn how quickly he left town.”

  Arden hoped her stepfather could not see the doubt in her eyes. Treadwell had honed right in on her insecurities about Courtenay.

  “And if he should actually be so besotted as to return to you,” Treadwell continued, “you will not breathe a word to him about our plans. Not only would you endanger your brat, but you know well Courtenay often goes about alone. Not nearly so difficult to ambush him as the King. Ever so much easier to make it look like a robbery gone bad, and continue merrily on with our business.”

  “The business of regicide,” said Arden, her voice sounding haunted and hollow in her own ears.

  “The business of doing the Lord's work,” corrected Treadwell. “This Charlie Stuart on the throne is even more of an affront to God than the last one. The sin, the iniquity—ah, but look who I'm talking to? Still, your talent for sin shall have its purpose. And you had better use your very best stagecraft, your very best whorecraft, because if Charlie Stuart doesn't trust you completely—” He drew a gnarled finger across his throat.

  Arden didn't know what to say. She stared dully at her tormentor.

  Treadwell didn't seem to mind her lack of conversational ability. “So,” he concluded, “if I don't hear King Charlie's got himself a new slut in which to spill his seed by the end of the week, I'll come back to see you. Maybe I'll bring you a baby's
curl. Maybe I'll bring you something worse. Can I count on you, m'dear?”

  “Yes,” Arden whispered.

  “What?” asked Treadwell mockingly, a hand to his ear.

  “You heard me, damn you!” Arden had never hated anyone more. “And I will do a damned fine job betraying the King I love, and the man I love, all at once. You leave me no other choice, and you know it. The worst of it is, I will never truly escape you, for we will both be damned together!”

  “Temper, temper,” said Treadwell. She had never seen him so merry before. Trying to keep her legs from shaking, she moved away from the door in preparation for driving him out. “At least get out of my sight for now,” Arden ordered.

  “For now,” agreed Treadwell. In an odd, mutual accord, each edged along opposite walls until the Puritan was at the door and the actress across the room. Finally the man turned his back to her and left. Arden listened until she could no longer hear the heavy thud of his feet on the stairs, then ran and threw herself on her bed, sobbing. As the horror overwhelmed her, she had neither friend, lover, nor ghost to hold onto.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Robert let his father talk him into staying until Edward could arrive. On pretext of a family emergency―only pretext because no one actually sprawled at death's door―the younger Courtenay son obtained permission to leave his studies at Oxford. Robert did not know if his brother realized he would probably not return. The knowledge his brother had already gained would no doubt prove useful to him as a future lord of the manor, but no need now to obtain an actual degree.

  Robert had seen the brief missive their father had sent to Edward. “No one is dying, but your college need not know that. It is imperative that you come home now.” He did not blame his brother in the least, then, for the manner of his greeting.

  “God's teeth! You're here? It must be serious. Father really is dying, isn't he?” Edward demanded, throwing off his light cloak and stalking into the drawing room. Though now in his twenties, Edward still stood a bit shorter than Robert, and possessed a slighter build. His eyes shone a lighter brown, almost golden, and his nose stood out more prominently from his face. As Robert studied him, he couldn't help wondering what Arden would think of Edward. She'll find him adorable, no doubt, he thought, smiling at his lover's innate sweetness.

  “No, I am well enough,” replied Lord Courtenay, coming up behind Edward. To the younger man's credit, he didn't startle, but moved aside gracefully. Their father preceded him into the room. “Though it's not for lack of attempts to give me apoplexy,” the senior Courtenay added, taking a seat and indicating Edward should do the same.

  “To get right to it, Edward lad, you are now my heir. We'll have the papers drawn up and both of you shall witness them. Then all shall know this is with the consent of all concerned.”

  Edward sat a moment, taking it all in, but after a long silence he turned to his brother. “What's the matter with you?” he asked, bluntly. “Did you have something hacked off in a duel that would render it impossible for you to continue the family name?” Despite the merriment of his brother's words, Robert detected brotherly concern in those golden eyes.

  “No,” replied Lord Courtenay, before Robert could respond. “But I still maintain that is the member causing the problem.”

  “You've finally contracted the pox, and the Braquilanges have found out?” guessed Edward. The look of concern increased.

  “Now there's a story you and Baron Braquilanges could put about, Father, if it helps save you embarrassment,” said Robert. “I don't really care.”

  “Yes, I know, that's the trouble,” grumbled Lord Courtenay. Irritation remained, but overall he seemed good-natured about it now.

  Finally, Robert took pity on his brother's growing bewilderment. “I'm going to marry Arden Malley,” he told Edward.

  “The actress?”

  “The very same. And Father doesn't think her good enough to become Lady Courtenay, can you imagine?” Robert looked hard at his brother, daring him to second the paternal opinion. Edward kept a wise silence. Only the appearance of surprise remained on his face, and that quickly faded.

  “What about Mademoiselle Braquilanges?” Edward asked. At first the query seemed general, then the younger son turned to Lord Courtenay. “Father, you're not planning to make me marry the Braquilanges girl, are you?”

  “No, no, you may keep your Howard bride,” said their father.

  Edward sighed with relief. Robert couldn't help wonder-ing how his brother would have responded if their father had tried to make him wed his discarded child fiancée. Unlike Robert and Mademoiselle Braquilanges, Edward and Susan Howard already knew each other, and Edward seemed quite fond of his intended. Too, the girl was already seventeen. No doubt there would be a wedding soon, once the change in Courtenay heirs had been officially acknowledged.

  “Don't worry about Mademoiselle Braquilanges,” said Robert, because he knew his brother actually cared about the young girl's well-being. “She has plenty of time for her father to find another candidate, after all.”

  “If she will accept one,” said Edward, thoughtfully. “Of course, she's only thirteen, but I have heard she truly likes the convent where the Braquilanges have boarded her.”

  “So perhaps I am doing her a great favor,” chuckled Robert.

  “Nonsense!” declared their father. “The girl would have done just as she was told and smiled doing it. Unlike some I know. But,” sighed Lord Courtenay, “that is no longer anything but a moot point.”

  “Yes,” Robert agreed. “Eddie, I want to know if I am harming you in any way by giving up my claim. Do you mind becoming Lord Courtenay someday, and taking on the responsibility of the entire estate?”

  “Mind?!” exclaimed Edward. “‘Tis a miraculous gift, unlooked for! I never wished to lose my older brother, so of course I never wanted it, but if you offer it to me without tragedy―” He cut himself off abruptly, then stammered: “Of course, much later, and God grant you many, many years, Father.”

  “We get the general idea,” said Lord Courtenay, arching a bemused eyebrow at his new heir. “Apparently all we need now is for the solicitor to arrive tomorrow morning to help us draw up the papers.”

  *****

  By the time they concluded business and sent the soli-citor on his way, Robert figured the hour too late to head for Chichester and attempt the crossing that very evening. He figured Sam had probably already made that assumption, but decided to walk over to the servants' quarters and confirm it for him. When he did, however, he didn't find Sam. Puzzled, he went back to his own chamber, only to discover Sam waiting with an air of great anxiety. The light bags their horses would carry were packed and standing neatly beside the door.

  “Surely you didn't think we'd still be departing at this hour, Sam?”

  “Oh, I know,” the valet replied. “But I had hoped. And, begging your pardon, m'lord—”

  “I am not yours nor anyone else's lord any longer,” Robert interrupted. “I am merely Mr. Courtenay.” He strode into the room, sat upon the bed, and began pulling his boots off.

  “Yes, Mr. Courtenay,” Sam amended. The servant's face, Robert thought, looked rather as though he had bitten into an extremely sour plum entirely by accident.

  “You were saying?” Robert encouraged.

  “I was hoping to change your mind as to the direction of the departure, Mr. Courtenay. I feel we should go back to London.” He hovered nervously around the man who remained his master, changes in levels of formality notwithstanding.

  “Sam, I've already told you, the very least I owe Mademoiselle Braquilanges is to apologize in person. Still,” said Robert, unable to fight his curiosity regarding the ser-vant's request, “tell me why you feel so. Has that Malley chit promised you something when we return?”

  His valet's face blushed red as a raw steak. “No, m'l—uh, Mr.Courtenay. I know it's foolish, but I just have the queerest feeling. Like something is horrible wrong back in London, and we ought t
o go back.”

  Robert felt a chill move down his own spine, but it lasted only the very briefest of moments. Nonsense, he thought. Still, he decided to let Sam make his own decision. “I can travel across the channel alone, Sam,” he said. “I don't mind. If you really feel you should go back—”

  Sam sighed. “Oh, you're probably right, sir, it's probably nothing. I'll go with you in the morning.”

  “I didn't say it was probably nothing,” said Robert, out of some mysteriously perverse desire to be strictly factual. Again, the slightest tickle of cold along his backbone, vanishing even more quickly than before.

  “Then you don't think it's nothing?” Sam queried.

  “Yes, I do think it's nothing. Go to your bed now, but wake me early. Cheer up. France awaits you.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Arden awoke with the top of her body still sprawled across her bed, her knees stiff on the floor beneath her. The blackness of night surrounded her. Determined not to let herself wake completely, she eased herself fully onto the mat-tress and pulled the covers over herself. She managed the trick and resumed an uneasy slumber.

  At various periods throughout the hours of continued darkness, Arden would start to wake, and resolutely force herself not to. She could do this because she had truly exhausted herself sobbing. Too, whatever sleep she gained by this force of will did not prove restful, and left her still tired enough to resume her pursuit of oblivion.

  A time or two, Arden even managed to fight the persuasion of daylight upon her face, but by mid-morning she could resist full awareness no longer. As she sat up on the side of the bed, still wearing the black dress in which she'd walked home, everything came rushing back to her. The stillness, without Helena's coos and cries. The odd itch of her arms, lacking a small, cuddly body to lift and hold. The heaviness hanging about her neck, a traitor's doom.

  Her stomach growled, and she felt ashamed. She went to the breadbox and found half of a day-old loaf. Slicing off the butt, she forgave herself, at least for the hunger. She hadn't eaten dinner the night before. Arden took the chunk of bread, hastily buttered, over to her writing table. She had become accustomed to doing her best thinking there, she realized. She also realized every bit of bread and butter she ate contributed to strength she would need to act for Helena.