Arden's Act

by Elizabeth Thomas

  After what seemed an interminable duration, the carriage pulled up in Arden's street. “I'll send Bonnie out to you,” Courtenay promised Sam, striding into the alley. I can give her better than this, he thought, surveying the plain building and recalling the small rooms in which he had most recently loved her. And she will have to take it, because she will be my wife. He entered, went upstairs, and rapped eagerly at the door.

  When it opened a crack, he assumed it to be the Malley girl. “Tell Arden it's Robert Courtenay, and then if you like, you can go see Sam in the carriage.”

  The door held absolutely still for a moment, as if whomever stood behind it hesitated. Then, slowly, Arden herself appeared. Even frowzy from sleep, she dazzled him. Even pale, he wanted her with a fierce longing.

  He swept her into his arms, but her rigidity shocked him. “Arden, love! What is it?” A pause in which she seemed to be trying to evade his gaze. “Oh, I see. You are angry at me for leaving you for so long.” He let go of her, but smiled. “But you will forgive me. I can make everything right.” He pulled his late grandmother's diamond ring from his tunic pocket and held it out to Arden. “This should match fairly well with your other diamonds, don't you think?” He went down on one knee before her. “Marry me, Arden, my love.”

  She emitted a small croaking sound, and seemed to struggle to arrange her face. She settled on a peculiarly firm expression, and said: “I cannot. It is too late. You have not heard yet. You must be the only soul in London who has not, Lord Robert.”

  “Nay, no longer Lord Robert,” he said slowly. His mind tried to grapple with how unreceptively Arden had behaved thus far. “I have given my inheritance to my younger brother, in exchange for my father's blessing on our union. I’ll no longer be the idle aristocrat you had so little regard for.”

  Another sound, more like a stifled gasp, came from Arden. She grew even paler. “You should never have done that,” she whispered, sounding thoroughly miserable. “And please, for the love of God, rise to your feet!”

  Without really thinking about it, Courtenay obeyed her. He still held the ring in his palm. “Don't tell me you cared for my place among the nobility after all,” he said. A sick feeling began to grow in the pit of his stomach. Something is very, very WRONG.

  “No, no!” Arden replied quickly. Then she appeared to reconsider. “Yes,” she said harshly. “Yes, I did. But none of it matters, even if I didn't. Has no one told you who the King's latest mistress is?”

  Shakily, Courtenay laughed. “Oh, a fine jest, Arden. Now, come, be reasonable.”

  “No jest. Ask anyone. Ask―Kitty Brinks, why don't you?”

  He heard genuine hurt in her cold voice. “You throw that at me? Now?” But Courtenay’s mind led him unwillingly back to the way people had treated him since he'd returned from France. Maybe there had been more than he had imagined to their fascinated whispers and chuckles.

  “I'll throw anything I can at you, until you leave me alone!” Arden shouted.

  Courtenay stood there a moment, finally at a loss for words. Had the woman he loved, the innocent with whom he would never have been able to share passion but for the terror of her Fanatick stepfather―had she truly taken up with the King? “You are content, then, to be one of many?” he asked her, hating the steel in his own voice.

  “Yes,” she returned. “With one so great, a small share is as much as any woman needs.”

  “Arden―another woman's husband?”

  He saw her blanch once more, and he realized some of his barbs actually wounded, no matter how adamant she appeared. The sick flower of foreboding in his stomach continued to blossom, however, and he had no idea what to do. Indeed, if Arden told the truth, no good outcome remained possible. One of his horses neighed from the street, reminding Courtenay that others held a stake in this encounter. “At least send Bonnie out to see Sam,” he said quietly.

  “Gone,” replied Arden.

  “What do you mean, 'gone'?” Courtenay asked. Almost against his will, he slapped her with his next words: “She didn't like working for a whore?”

  Again, he saw his words make impact―but very quickly, Arden reassembled her mask. “I sent her to Oxfordshire, to stay with Brian's family. And Helena,” she added, after a pause.

  “Helena! You had no right.”

  “It's better for her. To be in the country.”

  “Doubtless you're right, considering what you've become.” The words flew out before Courtenay could stop them. Now that he actually comprehended the situation's reality, anger flowed through him like nothing he'd ever felt previously. The stubborn displeasure he had experienced over her finishing Malley's play―the thing that had parted them for so long―amounted to the tiniest mote of dust by comparison. Nothing to be done but to leave immediately, before he suffered an apoplexy in her presence. Part of him would have welcomed such a fate. He turned abruptly from his destroyer, and walked swiftly back to his carriage. When he commanded Sam to drive off, his servant managed one query against the brooding glare Courtenay presented.

  “Bonnie?”

  “Gone,” said Robert flatly, echoing the one who had broken his heart.

  *****

  When Arden found herself delivered to King Charles that night, she did not wait meekly under the bedclothes as usual. Instead she stripped entirely naked, careless of where her garments fell. A good fire warmed the room, but she would not have cared if it hadn't. Indeed, Arden would have preferred an uncomfortable chill. She braced herself against the polished oak of the King's footboard, bending slightly so that her bottom would be the first sight His Majesty saw when he came into the room. She did not have to wait long in this position.

  “Well, that's a new perspective, love,” Charles drawled.

  “I want you to take me like this,” Arden told him, not caring that she commanded a King. “Use me roughly. I deserve it.”

  “Arden, whatever is the matter?” Charles tried to move around her, to see her face, but she turned it from him.

  “No. No kindness,” she protested. “I can't bear it. Just take your pleasure. In whatever ways you've ever dreamed of, but were too considerate to ever do. Do it. Do it now!—please, Your Majesty.”

  She knew she had perplexed the King. After a moment, however, she heard him sigh behind her. “As you wish, Arden,” he said, over the rustle of his loosening robes. “It's not like I could resist the offer of your sweet bum much longer, anyway.”

  Something in Arden eased as he thrust into her from the rear. The action had been sudden, and the angle unaccustomed, but she was already roused. What minor pain the royal endowment caused seemed sweet to her. The large, warm hands that grasped her breasts from behind did not pinch or twist, but they caressed her with sufficient firmness that Arden could not bring herself to chastise her lover further. After all, he is the King. She had to grip the footboard tightly and lock her legs into position to withstand the growing intensity of Charles pounding against her. That, too, felt right. Thrust upon thrust, impact upon impact, cries torn from her lips by wild sensations. As the hour wore on, she shuddered from climax after climax before the King tired and spent himself. Each time he forced her to a breathless, dizzying peak, Arden almost forgot the look Robert's face had worn just before he'd pivoted and walked away.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Robert didn't feel the pain in his hand when he unconsciously knocked the wine bottle from his bedside table. The clash it produced smashing onto the floor, however, pained his head so much it woke him up. He looked dazedly around his luxurious bedchamber, taking a few moments before realizing he had to look at the floor to survey the damage. The bottle had shattered on the hard wood, but had managed to splash its dark red contents onto one of his Persian rugs. Another thing ruined.

  He rang for a maid, and no one came. He remembered then he had not only cut staff, but the wench who remained only came every other day to clean up. This must not be an “other” day. Sam, of course, had probably not yet returned from tr
acking the Malley girl to Oxfordshire. He had thought to go with his valet, but seeing Helena would only have reminded him his child had a whore for a mother. Sam should be back soon, though.

  Robert looked towards the windows, but they were so heavily draped he could not guess the hour. Cautious from recent experience, he drew himself slowly to a sitting position, then eased himself off the side of his bed. When he trusted his balance, he walked over and parted the heavy curtains. Fortunately, the daylight had been softened by the typical dreariness of English winter. Afternoon, he surmised. Then his heart thudded at the sight of a black figure in the street before his house. Just as quickly, he realized it wasn't Arden, and despised himself for his momentary weakness. Besides, as far as he could tell, Arden had finally given up her dark disguise in favor of plumage more befitting her rise in station.

  Whoever the girl in the street was, however―and the figure almost certainly was female, though slight of build ―she stared up towards his windows. As Robert watched her, she occasionally paced back and forth before his house, always returning to the center of the walk and continuing to stare.

  The Fanatick girl―for who else but Fanaticks and his formerly virtuous love would voluntarily dress like that?—so held Robert's attention that he didn't see Sam dragging himself back until he'd pushed past the girl and headed for the door. Seeing Sam, however, apparently determined the strange female upon her course of action. She drew herself up with a great air of taking courage, and followed Sam up to the house.

  While watching her knock, Robert heard Sam's continued progress through the house, each purposeful step creating an answering twinge in his head. He found himself hoping the Fanatick girl would be persistent. That she would wait until either Sam turned back for her―which from his steady sounds did not seem likely―or until he himself finished whatever business Sam wanted with him and sent the valet back down for her. Diversion. He craved it.

  “They're not there!” Sam announced in frustration, entering Robert's chamber. “They never were!”

  “Who's not where?” Logical thought and conversation proved something of an effort after three days or so of solitude. Solitude and wine.

  “Bonnie,” Sam replied. “Or Helena either, for that matter. The Oxfordshire Malleys haven't seen them, or even heard from Arden. What are we going to do?”

  Robert didn't know why he felt surprise. What else does a whore do but lie? Aside from her essential function, of course. Yet, he had never considered the possibility Arden would lie to him about their child.

  “What are we going to do?” Sam repeated.

  My, but the servants have gotten presumptuous since I gave up my birthright for a whore, thought Robert. Of course it angered him that Arden had lied about Helena. Of course he would have to eventually find out where his daughter now lived. But just at the moment he did not fancy having another embarrassing scene with the King's latest mistress. “I don't care what you do, Sam,” he said finally. “As long as you would please take a moment first and go answer the Fanatick girl who's beating the door down. You can send her up to see me if you like. Especially if you cannot think of any other way to get her to stop making that infernal racket.”

  Sam's brows furrowed with a dark look, but he turned and left the room. Robert moved back and sat upon his bed, purposely leaving the chair in the corner for his mysterious female visitor. He waited, and he thought he could hear his valet's low voice rapidly exchanging information with the new feminine one. He could not, however, distinguish any particular words.

  When Sam re-entered, he bowed and presented “Mistress Margaret Brown,” who curtsied in her turn. Robert did not rise, but nodded. “You may go now, Sam.”

  “No, sir, if you will excuse me. Mistress Brown's business concerns me, too.”

  “Oh, Sam, I'm too bloody hung over to ravish her, if that's your concern,” sighed Robert. He had finally reached a sufficient state of wakefulness to vaguely enjoy watching the little Fanatick's already pale face grow two shades whiter at his words.

  “Don't scare Mistress Brown,” said Sam, without a trace of humor. “Her business truly does concern me.”

  “Very well then. Please have a seat, Mistress Brown.” Once she did so, he nodded at the Fanatick again, inviting her to speak.

  “Lord Robert,” she began.

  “'Mr. Courtenay' will suffice,” Robert interrupted.

  “Mr. Courtenay, then,” the girl repeated obediently. “I come to thee, because thou art the father of the child called Helena Malley. I speak before thy servant, because I know he is a friend of Mistress Bonnie Malley.”

  “But not a Friend like you,” Robert quipped, having deduced the meaning of her thee and thou.

  “Mr. Courtenay,” she continued bravely, “as I under-stand thou hast some knowledge from thy servant, something is terribly wrong.”

  “If there is, what would you know about it?” asked Robert.

  “I'm Arden's friend,” she said bluntly. “In fact, I helped bring thy daughter into the world.”

  Robert did not expect the sudden, humble gratitude he felt. “I am forever indebted, Mistress Brown,” he said softly.

  “Thou art welcome,” the Quaker replied, managing a shy smile for the first time in his presence.

  “I did not mean to interrupt. Please continue.”

  “I visited Arden a week or so ago,” the girl went on. “I asked after Helena. Arden told me flatly she'd sent her off to the Malleys with Bonnie, because the countryside would be healthier for the child. Then, I believe, she quarreled with me on purpose, just so she could take her leave of me.

  “Now it happens,” the Quaker continued, “I was finishing a letter to my mother that very afternoon. We are long-time neighbors of the Malleys in Oxfordshire; I lived there with my parents when I attended Helena's birth. So, naturally, I added my inquiries to what I'd already written, and sent the letter with the next stage.

  “My mother's timely reply arrived last night. She said she had just visited the Malleys. Not only didn't she see anyone except Danny and Esther, but they didn't even mention Helena, Bonnie, or even Arden.”

  “It's like I said,” Sam corroborated. “They were never there.”

  “Since then, I have been reflecting on all of this. I know not thy opinion of Arden in these latest days,” the Quaker said to Robert. He arched an eyebrow in reply. “But none of this is like her at all. No matter her protests to the contrary, she is not the kind of person to send her child away, nor is she the sort to lie about it if she did. Thou may think me bold, Mr. Courtenay, but I put faith in the guidance of Spirit, and I sense coercion in back of the entire matter. I even suspect a horrible evil indeed―that Helena and Bonnie have been kidnapped!” The Quaker maid blushed at the shocking nature of her conclusion, lending a pleasant pink to her previously pale cheeks.

  “I think she's right,” agreed Sam. “It's the only explanation.”

  “The only explanation for the Malley girl abandoning you?” Robert scoffed. “Poor boy still believes in love,” he explained to the Quaker. Yet, against his will, Arden's appearance at their last interview came to his mind. How pale her face. How there had been moments―ever so brief―when she seemed about to crumble and weep before almost instantaneously resuming a stern composure. “No matter,” he continued. “I shall obviously have to go back and see Arden, and shake the truth out of her.”

  “No! Please, Mr. Courtenay, I don't think that would be good at all!” said the girl. “Arden would not behave this way if she didn't think she protected someone dearer than her own life―Helena. We only make more trouble for her if we badger her. No, we have got to help Arden―and Helena and Bonnie―without Arden's knowledge.”

  The Quaker looked so earnest, and so convinced of her own conclusions. Don't they always? Robert thought ruefully. Still, fear had finally managed to penetrate the wine-hardened walls around his heart. “Do you really think Helena has been taken? By some villain?”

  “Yes, I do, sir. An
d Bonnie with her.”

  “Do you have any idea who has them?” demanded Robert.

  “Not really, Mr. Courtenay,” she said softly. “The possibilities are endless.”

  “But we have to do something,” said Robert, rising from the bed and beginning to pace. “We have to rescue Helena.”

  “And Bonnie,” put in Sam.

  “Yes,” the Quaker agreed. “I have,” she announced, “a modest plan.”

  “By all means, tell us,” urged Robert. He prayed God it would amount to more than a Fanatick girl's crack-brained scheme. He had to admit, however, that thus far Mistress Brown had appeared extremely sensible and competent. Aside, ironically, from a tendency towards the theatric.

  “I am hoping thy servant will help me,” she began, casting a shy glance at Sam.

  “Anything for Bonnie,” he said. “Even if I must leave your employ,” he added, looking at Courtenay.

  “Nonsense. You will be helping me as well. And it's not exactly as though I've had much need of a valet of late. But tell me, Mistress Brown, what exactly will Sam be helping us with?” asked Robert.

  “Dost thou know the Scripture?” the girl asked, turning again to Sam.

  “Which one?” his valet returned.

  “Any of them. Any of the verses of Holy Writ,” she clarified.

  “Some,” Sam sighed. “Why?”