by Mary Nichols
‘Why?’
‘I suppose he thought the devil you know…’
‘But I do know. I am the daughter of a common soldier and a lowly seamstress, and if the tattlers at my mother’s funeral are to be believed, not even born in wedlock. Without the French comte, I am nothing.’
‘You are one of the finest actresses to be seen on the stage for the last thirty years. Remember that.’
Why was she so confused? Until she had met the Marquis of Risley, she had been reasonably content. Her ambition to be a somebody rather than a nobody had smouldered in the background of her life, there, but not there. She hardly thought about it, but if she did, it was in relation to her success as an actress. Duncan Stanmore had fanned it back into life, made a fire of it, and conversely it was Duncan Stanmore who had made her see herself as she really was: envious, revengeful, a fantasiser, a liar.
But it was so difficult to let go of the lies that had sustained her for so long. They had breathed life into her when she almost died of starvation. They had made her into an actress, able to play many parts. In the end she had almost come to believe them herself and they had restored her pride in herself. Without them who was she? Was Sir Percy right? Ought she to delve into her past before that dreadful night when Henry Bulford had changed her life? Was she afraid of the truth?
But even if she did, where should she start? The orphanage seemed the obvious place. She hardly expected anyone who had known her still to be there, but they might have kept records. If the home was specifically for soldiers’ children, wouldn’t they have required evidence that she qualified?
She did not sleep that night, so it was not difficult to rise early the next morning and set off for Monmouth Street. It was over twelve years since she had left the orphanage and her memory of the place was flawed by strange memories, memories of misery so deep, so overwhelming, she had not been aware of her surroundings, nor even of who it was who had taken her there. A rough hand on her arm and a voice that was not unkind, but was certainly nothing like her mother’s, had told her she would be looked after and not to be afraid.
It was the interior she remembered, simply because she had spent three years there, long enough for the layout and the fabric of the place to imprint itself into her very soul. She could see it clearly: the long narrow dormitory made from two rooms knocked into one, where she had cried herself to sleep night after night; the dining room where they had gruel for breakfast, a wholesome but uninspired dinner in the middle of the day and bread and dripping for tea; the kitchen where she had done her share of the chores. They were not starved, nor even treated with deliberate cruelty, but the real love was lacking, the affection that could have made it into a home. Even so, compared with Number 7 Bedford Row, it had been a haven.
But where was it? She found Monmouth Street easily enough; it was a street lined with second-hand shops and pawn shops, but she could not see anything that reminded her of the orphanage. She stopped to ask an old hag, who sat on a doorstep smoking a clay pipe.
‘Oh, that be gone,’ the old woman said, squinting up at her over the bowl of the pipe.
‘Gone? You mean pulled down?’
‘That I do. Years ago. Six or seven, I reckon.’
Madeleine was stumped. ‘What happened to all the children?’
‘I heard tell they went to a new place…’
‘Where?’
‘Now, my memory ain’t what it was…’ She looked slyly up at her questioner from small black eyes.
Madeleine scrabbled in her reticule and took out a small handful of coins, which she dropped into the woman’s lap. ‘Perhaps this will refresh your memory.’
‘Oh, aye, I do remember now. They moved to Maiden Lane, lock, stock and barrel. It were just after that poor woman got murdered…’
But Madeleine was not listening, she was hurrying away to Maiden Lane, wondering if she was on a wild goose chase. It was unlikely, after seven years, that any of the women who had run the place would still be there and surely no records would have been kept that long? But having set out with the intention of making enquiries, she decided she might as well continue.
She was not prepared for the sight that met her when she finally arrived. It was not only a huge house, it was newly painted, with gleaming windows and a polished knocker on the door. Beside it was a brass plate which simply said Corringham Academy. But what stopped her in her tracks was the carriage standing at the door. She had ridden in that carriage only a few hours previously. It belonged to the Duchess of Loscoe.
This was the Duchess’s orphanage, this was where her charitable money was spent. She had been told it was in Maiden Lane, but at the time had felt only relief that it was not Monmouth Street. Now, she was in a most dreadful coil. She could not go in, could not even be seen lurking in the vicinity, could not go on with her enquiries. And the orphanage had been her only hope. She turned and hurried away.
In the next two days, she changed her mind about going for the carriage ride with the Marquis a dozen times. She felt ashamed to face him. And yet nothing had changed. Her story had not been disproved and probably never could be, so why should she not go? Why should she not milk her connection with the Stanmore family, for all it was worth? Because it was dishonest, she told herself, because, sooner or later, someone or something would trip her up and she would damn herself. Most of all because she had fallen in love with Duncan Stanmore.
When his carriage arrived outside her lodgings promptly at one o’clock on Sunday, she was in her room, half dressed, still undecided. ‘Tell him I’m not coming,’ she said, when Marianne came to tell her he was waiting for her. ‘Tell him I am unwell.’
‘I will not. That’s the coward’s way out. You cannot put off telling him the truth by refusing to see him; he will know something is wrong and if I know him he will not give up until he has wormed it out of you. You might as well go with him and get it over with.’
Reluctantly Madeleine agreed and, while Marianne went downstairs to tell Duncan she was on her way, she finished dressing in a green taffeta carriage dress with cape-style sloping shoulders and full sleeves. She perched a high crowned hat on her curls, slipped her feet into kid shoes and, taking a huge breath to calm herself, went down to meet her fate.
He was standing in the hallway and looked up as she slowly descended the stairs. Every time he saw her, she seemed more lovely. Her clothes were not gaudy or spectacular, but she had a way of wearing them that made her stand out from the crowd, though her figure was slight. Regal was a word that came to his mind. But she was very pale and he wondered if she had slept. He smiled and, as she reached the bottom step, held out his hand. ‘Miss Charron.’
‘My lord.’ She took his hand and looked down into his face and was almost lost in the depth of his brown eyes. She could not look away and for what seemed an age, his eyes held hers, turning her insides to palpitating jelly. It was as if he could read her mind and knew the confusion that beset her, fear and pride jumbled up into a knot that was almost a physical pain in her chest. She forced herself to take the last step and the moment was broken.
‘I am sorry I kept you waiting,’ she said, forcing a smile.
‘It is of no consequence. I was so eager for our outing, I arrived early,’ he said gallantly. ‘Shall we go?’
He led her out to his curricle. There was no room in the small open carriage for more than two and she realised he was going to drive them himself. It was both intimate and very public. Is that what he intended? He handed her up and jumped up lightly beside her and picked up the reins.
It was a hot day, the sky an almost unbroken blue, and everywhere people were out, enjoying the sunshine, young bloods, families, children, beggars and other more unsavoury characters. Oxford Street was almost as crowded as on a weekday, and the park, when they entered it, was full of vehicles of every kind, as well as riders and pedestrians. He was concentrating on tooling the carriage and had little to say, for which Madeleine gave thanks, though she knew it
could not last.
This, she realised, was what she had been scheming for, this ride where she could be seen sitting beside the most eligible bachelor in the land, smiling and bowing this way and that to acquaintances. She was in no doubt that it was his presence beside her which made people bow acknowledgement from their own carriages, or wave in greeting. But instead of enjoying it, she was numb with misery.
‘You are silent,’ he said, expertly avoiding a phaeton coming in the opposite direction. ‘What are you thinking of?’
She smiled. ‘I was thinking how well you handle the ribbons. Several times I have thought there would be a coming together, but you managed to avoid it without the least trouble.’
‘Are you afraid?’
‘In your company, my lord, how could I be?’
He grinned. ‘Thank you, my lady.’
She was startled. ‘Why did you call me that? I am not a lady.’
‘Of course you are.’ He did not go on because they had come abreast of Lord Bulford with his wife and both his sisters in an open carriage and he was obliged to draw up.
‘Good afternoon, Stanmore,’ Bulford said. Then to Madeleine, ‘Miss Charron.’
She smiled thinly but did not speak, as if afraid her voice would give her away.
‘Miss Charron, how nice to see you again,’ Annabel said, then to her sister, ‘Hortense, may I present Miss Madeleine Charron?’
‘Miss Charron,’ Hortense murmured, looking Madeleine up and down, making her squirm inwardly. Hortense was older than Annabel by four years. She had not often come to the kitchen when Madeleine worked at her home, but she remembered one occasion when Hortense had summoned her to her bedchamber to complain that her washing water was cold. Maddy had had the temerity to say that it had been hot when it had been brought up and if it had been left standing, it was bound to cool down. Hortense had yelled at her, threatening to sack her, but as she had no power to do so, Madeleine had survived until the encounter with Henry.
Now, afraid she might be recognised, she was inclined to shrink back in her seat, but her pride came to the fore and she sat up and looked straight at the woman, almost defying her. ‘Miss Bulford, how do you do?’ she said amiably.
‘I feel we have met before,’ Hortense said.
‘That’s just what I said,’ Annabel said. ‘But I think it can only be that I have seen her on the stage.’
‘On the stage?’ The expression on the woman’s face was comical. It was a mixture of surprise, scorn and disgust. ‘You are a play actor?’
Madeleine heard Duncan chuckle beside her and his low voice, which held a note of warning, said, ‘Miss Charron is an actress and a very fine one, but that does not mean she is not a lady.’
‘Henry, tell the coachman to drive on at once,’ the lady said. ‘We are blocking the carriageway.’
They were gone in a moment and Madeleine turned to see Duncan laughing. ‘It is not funny, my lord.’
‘Oh, but it is. Miss Bulford was so stiff-rumped, it was good to see her taken down.’
‘I think perhaps you should not be seen out with me.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘I am making you a laughing stock.’
‘Oh, no, my dear, I am to be envied. There isn’t a young buck in town that would not willingly change places with me now.’
‘Is that why you asked me to come, so that you might boast of it to your friends?’
He had almost forgotten that wager with Benedict and her question had come so close to what might, two weeks before, have been the truth, that he did not immediately answer. Guilt and shame flooded over him. Benedict had not believed his half-hearted attempt to cancel the wager and he should have sought him out to admit his failure and pay him. But that would mean Benedict himself would make the attempt. He could not let that happen.
‘No,’ he said. ‘What I mean is that it was not my intention. Madeleine, shall we walk in the shade of the trees? It is easier to talk when I do not have to concentrate on driving.’ He did not wait for her to answer, but drove on a little farther where there was space to pull up without blocking the carriageway. He jumped down, threw the reins over the rails and turned to help her down.
They had been walking for several yards before he spoke. ‘Madeleine, this cannot go on.’
‘What cannot go on, my lord? The ride? The Marquis of Risley taking an actress in his carriage?’
‘You do not have to be an actress.’
‘No, but that is what I am. It is how I earn my living.’
‘I could change that.’
‘Why do you want to change it?’ She turned to look up at him, trying to read his motives in his eyes, but he was staring into the distance as if trying to see into the future. ‘If you are ashamed to be seen with me, why did you ask me out?’
‘Because I want to be with you every hour of every day and—’
‘I will not become your paramour, Lord Risley. I do not know why it is that everyone thinks that all actresses are harlots.’
‘Madeleine, how can you accuse me of that?’
‘That’s what you have in mind, is it not? That is what the flowers and the presents have been all about, to get into my bed. Deny it if you can.’
‘I do deny it.’ She was so near the truth and yet he had to convince her that his intentions had changed. ‘My feelings for you go deeper than that, far deeper.’
She was so startled, she almost stumbled and he put out a hand to steady her. Pulling herself together, she forced a cracked laugh. ‘The intention is the same.’
‘No.’
‘You are content with friendship? If so, you have overpaid me.’ She was taunting him, she knew it, and soon she would make him very angry, and yet she could not help herself. She needed something to hold on to, something to keep her sane, and if tormenting herself and him was the only way, then she would endure it, welcome it even.
They had stopped walking and he pulled her roughly round to face him. ‘It is not friendship I need and you know it. I am not the kind of man for wanton dalliance. When I say I am in love then I mean it.’
She could hardly breathe. ‘How can you say that? You know nothing about me. My past is open to conjecture, my present is unacceptable to Polite Society.’
He recognised the truth of that; Hortense Bulford had demonstrated it plainly enough. ‘What about the French comte?’
‘You think he is important?’
‘To me, no, but to a Society based on rank and position, he is.’ He paused, watching her face. She was pale and her violet eyes had darkened with anger. And yet there was a great sadness mirrored there too. He was at a loss to know how to make her understand. ‘Madeleine, if we could only give him some substance, bring him to life, as it were, it would make all the difference. You could take your rightful place in Society.’
‘My rightful place is exactly where it is,’ she said furiously. ‘In the theatre, as an actress. If you cannot accept that, then I am sorry.’
‘Why are you so stubborn? Are you afraid of what you might uncover?’
‘There is nothing to uncover. Do you think I have not tried?’
‘I could try. I know people—’
‘Don’t you dare! I will not be investigated like a thief and a liar.’
‘That isn’t what I meant, and you know it. I only want to help.’
‘I do not need your help, my lord. I am grateful for your interest but there is nothing to be gained by it.’ She took a huge breath and forced herself to continue, to close the door for ever on what could never be, to shut him out of her life. ‘I thought I would enjoy being accepted by Society, it is the only reason I went to Stanmore House, the only reason I agreed to come out with you today, to be seen riding in your carriage, to be noticed. It was fun while it lasted, but it is over now. I know it can never be more than pretence.’
‘You have been using me?’ he demanded. A dark flush stained his cheek and his eyes blazed.
She knew she had gone too far,
but she could not retract. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It brings more people into the theatre and I have an arrangement with the management—’
‘You scheming little hussy! And here was I prepared to sacrifice everything for you, my inheritance, my family, even my good name. What a fool I have been!’
‘Yes, my lord,’ she said quietly. ‘We have both been fools.’
Taken aback by the sadness in her voice, he seized her face between his hands and forced her to look at him. She stared at him, opening her eyes wide to prevent them filling with tears. Neither spoke. Suddenly he lowered his head to kiss her. It was an angry bruising kiss meant to hurt. She struggled ineffectually and then gave up. She deserved his wrath and if being kissed by him was her punishment, then she accepted it gladly.
He was the one to break away. She had not resisted, had not tried to push him away. She was not even angry. She was nothing more than a barque of frailty, after all, paying in kisses for an hour or two of a gentleman’s company. He was disgusted with himself for playing her game and yet her lips had tasted sweet and fresh, stirring a desire in his loins he could not control. He was suddenly reminded of the wager that had started it all, a wager still unpaid. ‘So, you are not averse to a little dalliance, after all,’ he said bitterly. ‘I should have known an actress as accomplished as you are would have subtler ways of trapping a man than a common whore.’
His answer was a sudden and violent slap to his face that rocked his head back. Then she marched back to the curricle and, without waiting for him to help her up, clambered into her seat and sat waiting for him to take her home.
He followed more slowly, jumped up beside her and turned the carriage round. He would not go back along the crowded carriageway, where everyone would see her stony looks and the red mark on his face and would draw their own conclusions. He left the park by the Serpentine and out of the Lancaster Gate on to the Bayswater Road. Neither spoke.
They were nearly at her lodgings when he said, ‘That was unforgivable of me. I am deeply sorry.’