by Mary Nichols
‘You only say that because she refused to go out to supper with you last week.’
‘Not at all,’ Benedict said huffily, as they made their way towards the exit. ‘I’m not the only disappointed one; she’s turned everyone down, though I did hear she went for a carriage ride in the park with Sir Percival Ponsonby last week, so she can’t be that fastidious.’
‘Sir Percy is a benign old gentleman who wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘I didn’t say he would, but you must admit he’s an old fogey. He must be sixty if he’s a day and those ridiculous clothes!’
‘He’s well-breeched and he knows how to treat a girl. And he has always had a liking for actresses, you know that. They appreciate his gallantry and they feel safe with him. It won’t last. Percy is a confirmed bachelor.’
‘Good God! You aren’t thinking of betting on the marriage stakes yourself, are you?’
‘Don’t be a fool, Willoughby. It is not to be thought of. My revered father would have a fit. But I will take her out to supper.’
‘Yes, you have only to wave your title and your fortune under her nose and she will fall at your feet.’
‘I’ll do it without mentioning either.’
‘When?’
‘In the next se’ennight. I’ll put a pony on it.’
‘Done.’
They wandered out into the street. A flower girl stood beside her basket, offering posies to the young men as they escorted their ladies to their carriages. Duncan stopped beside her, fished in his purse for a couple of guineas and rattled them in his palm. ‘I’ll buy the lot,’ he said, throwing the coins in her basket. ‘Take them round the stage door for Miss Charron.’
She gave him a wide grin. ‘Any message, sir?’
‘No. Just the flowers. And do the same tomorrow night and the night after that and every night for the rest of the week.’ He found some more coins and tossed them in with the others, before turning to Benedict. ‘Come on, Willoughby, I’ll buy you supper at White’s and we can have a hand of cards afterwards.’
‘Aren’t you going round to the stage door?’
‘What, and stand in line with all the other hopefuls, begging to be noticed? No fear!’
Benedict, who was used to his friend’s strange ways, shrugged his shoulders and followed him to their club.
At the end of the week, a small package was delivered to the theatre, addressed to Miss Madeleine Charron. It contained a single diamond ear drop and a note that simply said, ‘You may have its twin if you come out to supper with me on Monday. My carriage will be waiting outside the stage door after the performance.’ It was unsigned.
It was meant to intrigue her and it certainly succeeded. Maddy was used to being sent flowers, but they usually arrived with their donors, anxious for the privilege of taking her out, or accompanied by billets doux or excruciating love poems and definitely not penned incognito. But a whole florist’s stock, every night for a week, followed by a single ear drop of such exquisite beauty it brought a lump to her throat, was something else again. This latest admirer was different.
‘And rich,’ Marianne said, when she saw the trinket. Marianne Doubleday was her friend, an actress of middle years, but a very good one, who had once, not many years before, fooled the entire beau monde for a whole season into believing she was a lady and a very wealthy one at that. ‘Are you sure you have no idea who it might be?’
‘None at all.’
‘And will you go?’
‘I don’t know. He is undoubtedly very sure of himself.’
‘So what is that to the point? No doubt it means he’s an aristocrat. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’
Years ago, when she had first joined the company as a wardrobe seamstress, Marianne had befriended her and later, when Maddy had been given small parts, had taught her how to act, how to project her voice so that a whisper could be heard in the gods, how to move gracefully, how to use her hands and her eyes to express herself and still conceal her innermost thoughts, how to listen and understand the undercurrents in a conversation, the innuendo behind the way a word was said, the ways of the worldly-wise, everything to bring her to the standing she now enjoyed.
In return Maddy had confided her secret ambition to be a lady. Marianne had not mocked it; after all, noblemen sometimes did marry actresses, but she had told her how difficult it would be, how they were usually ostracised by Polite Society and that being a lady was not all it was cracked up to be, that with wealth and status came responsibilities.
‘Besides, you’ll find all manner of obstacles put in your way by the young man’s parents,’ she had said. ‘If they have any standing in Society, they’ll fight you tooth and nail. They’ll have a bride all picked out for him, unless, of course you set your cap at someone old, but then he’s like to be a widower with a readymade family.’
Maddy had grimaced at the idea. ‘No, that won’t do. I want people to envy me, to look up to me, to take what I say seriously. I want to have a grand house, a carriage and servants. No one, no one at all, will dare look down on me or take me for granted ever again…’
‘A tall order, Maddy. My advice is to take what is offered and enjoy it without wishing for the moon.’
Although Marianne knew about her ambition, she did not know the reason for it. She did not know the inner fury that still beset Maddy every time she thought of Henry Bulford and his uncaring parents. It had not diminished over the years. All through her early struggles, she had nursed her desire for…what was it? Revenge? No, it could not be that, for Henry Bulford had inherited the title and was married and she did not envy his top-lofty wife one bit. They had attended the same theatrical party once and he had not even recognised her. But then why would he connect the skinny, pale-faced kitchen maid he had tried to rape with the beautiful actress who had taken London by storm?
A great deal of water had flowed under London Bridge since then, some of it so dreadful she wished she could forget it, but it would not go away and only strengthened her resolve. She had risen above every kick dealt her by an unkind fate, but sometimes it had been touch and go. She had nearly starved, had begged and even stolen—and she was not proud of that—until she had found a job as a seamstress. Hours and hours of close work, living in dingy lodgings, quite literally working her fingers to the bone and all for a pittance.
Her ambition was smothered by the sheer weight of having to earn a living, but it did not die altogether and one day in 1820—she remembered the year well because it was the year the King had tried to divorce his wife and become the butt of everyone’s ribaldry—she found herself delivering a theatrical costume to the Covent Garden theatre. Her employer sometimes helped out when they had a big production and this was wanted urgently. She had told Maddy to take it round there on her way home.
On this occasion, the whole company was carousing, having just pulled off a great performance at a large aristocratic mansion. The troupe was led by a colourful character called Lancelot Greatorex, who fascinated her with his strange clothes and extravagant gestures. Seeing her ill-concealed curiosity, he demanded to know if she were an actress.
‘Oh, no,’ she said.
‘How do you know you are not?’
‘Why, sir,’ she had said, laughing, ‘I have never been on a stage in my life.’
‘That’s of no account. You don’t need to tread the boards to play a part, we all do it from time to time. Do you tell me you have never had a fantasy, never pretended to be other than you are?’
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’
‘You speak up well. What do you do to earn a crust?’
He may have been speaking metaphorically, but to her a crust was all she did earn, and sometimes a little butter to put on it. ‘I am a seamstress,’ she said.
‘Are you good at it?’
‘Yes, sir. I did most of the stitching on the costume I have just delivered.’
‘Quick, are you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
&nb
sp; ‘How much do you earn?’
‘Six pounds a year, sir.’
He laughed. ‘I can double that.’
‘Oh, I do not think I can act, sir.’
‘I am not asking you to. Actresses are ten a penny, but good seamstresses are like gold dust. Would you like to join my troupe as a seamstress? Having work done outside is not always convenient.’
Maddy had not hesitated. The flamboyant life among stage folk appealed to her and, somewhere in the back of her mind, her sleeping ambition revived. If she wanted to better herself, to act a part for which she had not been born, then where better to learn it?
She had become a seamstress, sewing, mending and pressing costumes and from that had progressed to becoming a dresser for Marianne Doubleday, chatting to her in her dressing room, learning, learning all the time. She was quick and eager and when they discovered she could read, they gave her the job of prompter, so that when one of the cast fell ill, who better to take her place but Maddy, who already knew the lines? And so Madeleine Charron, actress, had been born.
But was it enough? Did it fulfil her dream? Was she still burning with that desire to be a lady? A real one, not a fantasy. Could she pull it off? Was she, as Marianne suggested, wishing for the moon? She smiled at her friend. ‘So you don’t think I should go?’
Marianne shrugged. ‘It is up to you. You do not have to commit yourself, do you? The invitation is to supper, nothing more.’
‘And nothing more will be offered, I assure you.’
She had been out to supper with countless young men before and enjoyed their company, each time wondering before she went if this was the one who would fulfil her dream, but before the night was over, she had known he was not.
There were so many reasons: these sycophants did not have the title she craved; they were too young or too old; they were ugly and would give her ugly children; their conversation was a little too exuberant, or not exuberant enough. Some were fools, some gave every appearance of doing her a favour in spending money on a supper for her, some were married and expecting more than she was prepared to give. She did not intend to be anyone’s light o’ love.
‘But do have a care, Maddy, that you are not branded a tease.’
‘Have no fear, dear Marianne, you have taught me well.’
Maddy lingered over her toilette the following Monday night, spending more time than usual sitting before her mirror, removing the greasepaint from her face and brushing out her dark hair before coiling it up into a Grecian knot, before choosing a gown to wear. She prided herself on her good taste, and being a seamstress and a very good one meant that her clothes, though not numerous, were superbly made of the finest materials she could afford. It made her feel good to know that she could stand comparison with those who considered themselves her social superiors.
She slipped into a blue silk, whose fitted bodice and cross-cut skirt flowed smoothly over her curves. It had short puffed sleeves and a low neckline outlined with a cape collar which showed off her creamy shoulders and neck. She hesitated over wearing a necklace but, as most of her jewellery was paste, decided against it and fastened the odd ear drop in her ear before throwing a dark blue velvet burnoose over her shoulders and venturing out into the street.
Everyone but the night watchman had left and she half expected to find the road empty. It was her own fault if it was, she had kept him waiting and she could hardly complain if he had given up and gone home. But there was a carriage waiting. It was a glossy affair, though its colour she could not determine in the weak light from the street lamp. There was no sign of an occupant. Perhaps her admirer had simply sent the carriage to fetch her to wherever he was. She was not sure she liked that idea; it put her at a disadvantage. She stood, pulling her cloak closer round her, waiting for someone else to make the first move.
A hand came out of the door of the carriage, dangling an ear drop, the twin of the one she was wearing, and she heard a low chuckle. ‘If you come over here, my dear, I will fasten the other one for you. Beautiful as you are, you look slightly lopsided.’
‘Are you afraid to show your face, sir?’ she demanded.
‘Not at all.’ The door opened wide and a man jumped down and strode over to her. Young, but not juvenile, he was about five and twenty, she judged, and fashionably dressed for evening in a black tail-coat, a purple velvet waistcoat and a white shirt, whose lace cuffs fell from beneath his coat sleeves. A diamond pin glittered in the folds of his cravat. As he doffed his tall hat and bowed to her, she saw dark curls, and then, when he straightened again, humorous brown eyes beneath a pair of winged brows. His nose was long and straight and his mouth firm. He smiled, revealing even white teeth. ‘Here I am, your slave, ready to do your bidding.’
‘And does my slave have a name?’
‘Stanmore, Miss Charron. Duncan Stanmore, at your service.’
The name was familiar, and though she teased her brain, the when and where of it eluded her. She inclined her head in acknowledgement. ‘Mr Stanmore.’
‘I thought Reid’s for supper,’ he said. ‘Does that suit?’
‘And if I agree to that, I suppose I am to be rewarded with an ear drop.’
‘Oh, that is yours whether you come or no,’ he said lightly. ‘It would not be fair to dangle that in front of you like a carrot. That is not my way.’ He bowed. ‘But I would deem it an honour if you would have supper with me.’
‘Then supper it shall be.’
He gave a delighted laugh, which revealed the boy in him without in the least diminishing his stature, and led the way to the carriage, which she noticed, as she drew closer, had a crest upon its door. So Marianne had been right; he was not a commoner.
He handed her up into the carriage and made sure she was comfortable on the velvet seats before jumping up beside her. ‘Reid’s, Dobson,’ he told the driver.
The hotel was noted for its cuisine and was a favourite place of stage people and theatregoers alike, so it was busy, but as soon as the waiter saw her escort, he came forward with a broad smile. ‘Good evening, my lord. Your table is ready.’
Duncan smiled. ‘Thank you, Bundy. I knew I could rely on you.’
Her previous experience told her to expect a private room, or, at the very least, a table tucked away in some ill-lit corner where they would not be noticed and where her swain could bombard her with compliments and ply her with wine in the hope of his reward, but Duncan Stanmore obviously did not know the rules of the game. They were conducted to a small table to one side of the room, which, though discreet, gave a good view of all the other patrons and meant they could also be seen.
‘He addressed you as “my lord”,’ she said, when they were seated and the waiter had gone to fetch the champagne Duncan ordered.
He smiled. ‘Slip of the tongue, I expect. He knows better than that.’
‘You prefer to be incognito?’
He laughed. ‘That, my dear Miss Charron, would be impossible—in London, anyway. It is of no consequence. I do not expect you to address me formally. It would quite spoil the evening.’
He paused as the waiter returned with the wine, which he proceeded to pour for them. ‘The chef says he has a roast of beef as succulent as you’re likely to taste anywhere,’ the man said. ‘And there’s turbot in a shrimp sauce and suckling pig and ham what’ll melt in your mouth, not to mention sweetmeats and puddings—’
‘Goodness, I am not that hungry,’ Maddy said. She was laughing, but underneath the laughter were memories of a time when she had been starving and a tiny portion of the food the waiter was offering would have been a feast. Why could she never forget that? ‘A little of the fish removed with the beef will be quite sufficient, thank you.’
‘Then I will have the same,’ Duncan said.
‘Oh, please do not stint yourself because of me, my lord,’ Maddy said. ‘I will be quite content to watch you eat.’
‘I would rather talk than eat. And you forget, I am Duncan Stanmore, not Lord anything.’ He h
eld up his wine to her. ‘To a beautiful companion.’ He took a mouthful, looking at her over the rim of his glass. She was beautiful, and not in the artful way of most actresses, achieved with paint and powder, a certain knowing expression and an exaggerated way of carrying themselves that commanded attention. Her loveliness was entirely natural. Her skin was flawless and her eyes, the deep blue of a woodland violet, were bright with intelligence and full of humour, though he detected just a hint of an underlying sadness about her lovely mouth. Was that why she was such a great actress?
‘Thank you.’
‘Tell me about yourself,’ he commanded, as the food was brought and served. ‘Is Charron a French name?’
‘It was originally. My grandfather fled from France with his wife and son, during the Reign of Terror and never went back. My father looked upon himself as English and fought on England’s side in the war against Napoleon. He was killed on some secret mission, very early on. Even my mother did not know what it was.’ The lies she had told so many times tripped easily from her tongue as if she had come to believe them herself.
‘I am sorry if talking of it is painful,’ he said. ‘I should not have asked, but I thought there was something about you that was not usual for an actress…’
‘And you, I collect, must have met many.’
He laughed. ‘A few, but none like you.’
‘Fustian!’
‘It is true. There is something about you that proclaims you a woman of breeding. Your grandfather would have been an aristocrat if he had to flee the Terror, and that accounts for it.’
She smiled. Her mother had taught her well and Marianne Doubleday had completed her education. She could play the lady to perfection. But playing the lady was not what she wanted. What did she want? Seven years before she could have given the answer to that promptly enough, but now she was not so sure. Her life was good as it was. She was adored from across the footlights, should she not be satisfied with that?
She could command a good wage, could afford to dress well, was the recipient of countless fripperies she could sell or wear, whichever she chose, and she had many friends among her fellow thespians who, contrary to popular belief, were not always at each other’s throats. She could flirt with the young men who besieged the stage door after each performance, go to supper with them and gently send them on their way without hurting their pride. So what had she been waiting for? This moment? This man?