“I believe the bard himself would allow a few liberties to be taken by a fellow countryman.”
“Well, I won’t have it.”
“Let him speak,” a voice called from the audience that sounded suspiciously like one of her brothers.
“Fine.” She waved the book at him. “Do I need this?”
“Probably not, but one never knows what might happen in the theater.” He grinned. “Give me your next line.”
“Not that I have a choice,” she said under her breath. She paused, willed herself to stay calm, and tried again. “So Romeo would, were he not Romeo—”
“Not that one,” Cameron interrupted. “The one after ‘I never will be Romeo.’ ”
The audience laughed.
“Go on,” he urged.
“Very well.” She clenched her teeth. “What man art thou that thus bescreen’d in night so stumblest on my counsel?”
“By a name, I know not how to tell thee who I am.” He paused.
“Don’t stop.” She huffed. “There’s more.”
“And yet try I did, fair Juliet, but I am no more than a mere mortal man, weak and fearful of loss. And in my feeble attempts to reveal all, alas, I failed in a manner most miserable. For I feared the outcome of my deception.”
“Of course you did.” She sighed, tossed the folder aside, and braced her hands on the balcony railing. No doubt this was not the kind of theatrical production Great-aunt Lucinda had envisioned, but then it was no longer her adventure either.
It was no longer Lucinda’s adventure.
She had realized some time ago that her great-aunt’s adventures had become hers, but here and now, with the man she loved making the silliest kind of grand gesture, on a stage in front of her entire family and God only knew who else, this had nothing to do with Lucinda. This was now indeed Lucy’s adventure. And Lucy’s life. And there would be no regrets.
She thought for a moment, then addressed the audience. “ ’Tis obvious there will be no performance of star-crossed lovers here tonight.”
Cameron placed his hand by the side of his mouth and leaned toward the audience in a confidential manner. “A shame perhaps, but ’tis hoped the play you see before you now will end far better than with death to all.”
Appreciative chuckles ran through the audience.
“You say you feared the outcome of deception and yet, noble Romeo,” Lucy continued, “the truth might well have served you better than deceit, for did not the playwright himself say in yet another play we shall not perform tonight . . .” She swept her arms in a wide gesture toward the audience. “Truth is truth to the very end of reckoning.”
“ ’Tis not the soundness of the truth I ran from so much as its revelation. And in that, as all else, I was a fool.” He stared up at her. “And I was wrong.”
“And have you now learned a lesson about the virtues of truth and the consequences of deceit?”
“I have indeed, fair Juliet.” He clasped his hand over his heart. “And I swear to you from this day forth, none but the truth shall fall from my lips.”
“’Tis a nice enough vow and yet . . .” She heaved an overly dramatic sigh and turned toward the audience. “Romeo has sworn his regret, an apology that, in truth, might well be seen as lacking. His remorse appears cursory, his regret more flippant than sincere.” She addressed the audience. “Ladies of the theater, what say you? Has he earned forgiveness?”
A polite smattering of applause sounded from the audience.
“Or, like a truly repentant man, should he be made to grovel?”
Enthusiastic applause erupted, accompanied by more than a few cheers.
She leaned forward, rested her elbow on the railing, and propped her head in her hand. “Well, Romeo, as all truly repentant men have done before you, you may proceed to grovel.”
“If groveling is the price to be paid for the forgiveness of the fair Juliet, so be it.” He leapt onto the trellis that ran up the flat to the balcony and started to climb. “I shall grovel for the rest of my days at your feet if you wish.” He reached the balcony, his head now level with hers, and met her gaze directly. “But I would rather worship at them.”
A definite sigh arose from the ladies in the theater.
His tone sobered. “I would move the heavens above and the earth beneath my feet were it possible to undo what cannot be undone. But note, fair Juliet, that knowing my misdeeds have wounded you has shattered my heart, and while I pray for your forgiveness for this wretched cur, I shall never forgive myself.”
“Oh.” Her heart caught and words failed her. For a long moment she could do nothing but stare at him.
“Surely there is more you wish to say?” he prompted.
“Yes, of course. Although I’m not sure . . .” she said quietly, then cleared her throat. “Ah, Romeo, thy words have touched my heart and while words have no more substance than the air we breathe, ’tis in your eyes I see the truth.” She leaned forward to kiss him, the crowd would love that, but he pulled back.
He jumped onto the balcony and took her hands. “Then, fair Juliet, declare your love for me.”
“Here?” she whispered.
“I am giving you the opportunity to stand up publicly for what you believe in,” he said in a quiet voice for her ears alone. “It’s on your great-aunt’s list. You believe in true love and soul mates and destiny. Can you do it, Lucy? Can you stand up for love?”
She glanced at the audience. They were obviously getting restless. “Goodness, Cameron, you’ve made your point. This is silly and—”
“The woman I made up, the character I modeled after you could not have been as wonderful as she was if the woman I based her on was not the most wonderful woman I have ever met. She is my creation, Lucy Merryweather, but you are her soul. As you are mine.”
“You do realize this is incredibly embarrassing?” She glanced again at the audience.
“I thought it might be. But that is one of the risks of standing up for what you believe. Do you really believe in true love, Lucy? Now is your chance to prove it.”
She stared at him. Did she?
He addressed the audience. “ ’Tis an opportunity not to be missed, to stand forth before the world in declaration that thou believest in with your heart and soul. And what better to believest in than love, true and eternal and everlasting.” He turned to her. “Will thee stand forth, Juliet? Will thee stand for love? And for me?” he added under his breath.
She studied him for a long moment. “I . . .” She raised her voice. “While it has been said the course of true love does not run smooth, ’twould be foolish indeed to not seize opportunity once presented. And so, dear Romeo, I do indeed stand up to proclaim to all far and near, that I do believe in love, true and eternal and everlasting, and in spite of your faults, little worse than any other of your gender, I believe, as well, in thee.”
He grinned and turned toward the audience. “’Tis now the end of our play, no longer sorrowful and sad, but joyous and happy and glad. And so we bid you good night and good rest unto you all.”
He swept an overly dramatic bow.
She raised a brow. “And we are then at an end?”
“Well . . .” He paused. “Yes. Thou knowest, all’s well that ends well.”
Laughter washed through the crowd.
“If indeed ’tis the end.” She shrugged. “Methinks the play is not yet resolved.”
A slight look of panic shone in Cameron’s eyes. He stepped close and spoke low into her ear. “This is it, Lucy. I wrote those last lines—I didn’t just now come up with them. I don’t have anything else to say.”
“Oh, and I think you do,” she murmured, cast him a wicked smile, then gazed over the audience. “One moment, kind and gentle spectators, whilst I discuss the terms of the ending of our endeavor here this night.” She stepped back from the railing and turned to Cameron. “First, while I am more than willing to be your muse, do you swear to me you will never again use me for literary purpose
s without my knowledge?”
“I do,” he said slowly.
“And will you promise to be completely honest with me even when it’s not especially easy?”
He nodded. “I will.”
“And will you never again cause me to doubt the trust I place in you?”
“I would die before I would ever allow that to happen again.”
“Good.” She nodded. “Now,” she said with a grin, “we can end the play.”
“And do you have any idea how to do that?”
“You’re the writer. I thought you would come up with something.”
“I did and I already delivered the last lines, well thought out and well written too, I might add.”
She widened her eyes. “Yes, well, rewrite!”
“Easier said than done,” he muttered. He thought for a moment, then cast her a smug smile and stepped away. “ ’ Twould be a shame to end a play with nothing more than words.” He reached out and pulled her into his arms. “ ’Tis said a story of love and romance should end with no less than a kiss and the promise of a happy ending.”
“A promise?” Her heart beat faster.
“A vow then.” He smiled into her eyes. “What say you, Juliet? Will you have me for the rest of our days?”
The audience held its collective breath.
“Will you be my muse, my love, my wife?”
She stared at him for a long moment. Hope mixed with apprehension in his eyes, but surely he already knew the answer. She smiled up at him. “I would be a fool not to seize an opportunity so finely presented.”
Applause erupted and he laughed with a sheer delight that wrapped around her soul and she knew, in spite of his mistakes and perhaps one or two of her own, this was right and true and forever. She loved this man more than she ever would have imagined possible. And if not for the regrets of a good woman long gone and her own desire not to be who she was expected to be, they would have never found each other.
“And if there are regrets to be had in the future, let them not be of the heart.” She gazed into his eyes and saw the love they shared reflected there. “For love, my good Romeo, is never a regret.”
Postscript
In the years to come, Lord Cameron Effington continued to write as Cameron Fairchild with his muse by his side. A muse who delighted in reading everything he wrote and, on occasion when she thought it necessary, offered suggestions for improvement. He never became as successful or well known as Mark Twain but made an excellent living nonetheless and scarcely ever had to rely on the trust provided him by his family or his wife’s fortune.
Lord and Lady Cameron Effington made their home in England but frequently voyaged to America and tried, whenever possible, to travel the rest of the world, finding it far easier to frolic in a fountain in a foreign country where Lady Cameron, at least, had no idea what outraged bystanders were yelling. They found, as well, it was much more enjoyable to swim naked in the moonlight in a country where the climate was far more temperate than England.
Lucy Merryweather Effington did on occasion wonder if she was doing a disservice to her granddaughters and great-granddaughters by not having a list of regrets to leave them that they could then pursue and have daring exploits of their own. She spent a great deal of the money left her by her great-aunt on an educational foundation, with representatives in both England and the United States, to enable young women to pursue their goals and follow their hearts in hopes they would not reach the end of their days with regrets.
While through the years the foundation did indeed help any number of young women achieve their dreams, the Lucinda Merryweather Van Burton Foundation for the Advancement of Young Women atoned as well for the last regret on Lucy’s great-aunt’s list, an adventure Lucy refused to keep for herself.
And goodness, could anyone ask for more than that?
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2015 by Cheryl Griffin
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ISBN: 978-1-4201-3228-1
First Electronic Edition: May 2015
eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-3229-8
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The Daring Exploits of a Runaway Heiress Page 34