A Lady in Love

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A Lady in Love Page 13

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt


  “Frightfully good, don't you think?” asked Alaric's former subaltern, Mr. Chasen.

  Mr. Ward agreed. “He certainly beats Kemble all hollow. You weren't in London for the O.P. riots, were you, Reyne?”

  “No, I was otherwise engaged.” Alaric tipped his chair back, his arms crossed over his chest. He'd decided rather late to accept the invitation of three friends to this new play tonight, having read in the morning editions that it was a rare experience. Indeed it was, a rare chance to experience pure, exquisite boredom. This was boredom lifted beyond mere torture, into an entirely new realm of agony. He couldn't make out what the story was, let alone what point the orator tried to make.

  “You may think Jaspers is good, but wait until you see Mrs. Tovey. I was here last night, you know. She's perfection in the part. And all her parts are perfection.” Mr. Hibbert sighed and rested his elbow on the rail, blocking Alaric's view of the stage. Alaric felt rather relieved about it. But in a moment, Hibbert apologized and sat up straight.

  “Going to make her the object of your affections?” Mr. Ward asked, leaning over Hibbert's chair. Nimbly, he slipped loose the other man's monocular telescope and applied it to his eye, focusing on the curtained wings of the stage.

  “It'll take a warmer man than me to woo her from the Marquis d'Augemont.”

  “Who the devil's he?”

  “A Frenchie who saved his money.” The three officers, two still in uniform, laughed, and were shushed by other audience members in the boxes that lined the walls of the theater.

  Out came the actress to frenzied applause and coarse comments from the pit. Her declaimed conversation with the actor already present might have been a confession of love, a plot to murder her husband, or both. Alaric couldn't be certain she wasn't asking the time of day and commenting on the weather. The papers had claimed this actress to be of surpassing beauty, lovelier than Venus. She seemed drab and colorless to him. He felt like writing a letter to The Times about it.

  She came to the end of her speech, and the applause erupted once more. “You're quite right, old man. She's marvelous. What eyes! What expression!” Mr. Chasen said, beating his gloved hands together in ecstasy.

  “She's made a quite sensation. Devil of a crush in the Green Room, I daresay. Perhaps we'll shove along and join it, just for s'amusant. What do you say, Reyne?” Hibbert asked.

  “Whatever you chaps want.” What he'd seen of the actress did not tempt him to approach her more nearly. Come to think of it, most females in London these days failed to possess even the rudiments of attractiveness. Casting his gaze about the theater, Alaric considered that all women seemed to come in distressing shades of yellow or fish-white. He'd not seen a one worth the following since leaving Hollytrees. Loyally, he excepted Lillian. She always looked well. But the others—dear lord!

  Perhaps, he thought, tipping his chair further back, teetering on the danger point, chicken-pox affects the eyesight adversely. Or perhaps it had rendered his vision so sharp that he could see past artifice to the real beauty beneath.

  Lillian was supposed to be here, somewhere. He'd not spotted her yet. He brought his chair forward with a thud that brought hisses from the crowd, for the actor and actress had begun ranting again, complete with over-emphatic facial contortions. Alaric ignored both the crowd and the performance. He scanned the house. A glint of something like gold attracted his attention in the box across the way, on the same tier as his own but back two. He dismissed it as the candlelight calling forth reflection from the gilding on a cherub's behind.

  But the flickering glow of gold continued to twinkle in the corner of his eye every time he looked in that direction. Finally, he extended his own glass to examine the object more closely. A muffled exclamation escaped him.

  The two friends in the rear of the box exchanged looks. Chasen leaned forward. “Are you all right, Reyne?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Sorry to disturb you.”

  Sarah East leaned her elbow on the rail and gazed at the actors. It was her hair sparkling under the candlelight. Alaric did not know he smiled as he studied the play of expression on the girl's face. Obviously, she'd never seen anything so wonderful as those two clowns, declaiming their hearts out. No doubt some of the flowers littering the stage were from her hand.

  “That was uncommonly well put. ‘Wearily wandering this orb twinged of torment... . ‘ I like that,” Ward said. “Comes off the tongue so well.”

  Alaric raised his small telescope to his eye. Like a diamond slipping loose from its setting, a single tear traced Sarah's flushed cheek. He almost reached out, as though he could wipe it away. For fear someone might have noticed his reaction, he flicked his attention once more to the stage.

  The actor and actress embraced. He could see the woman's expression. She looked as if she'd like to hold her nose. Almost without willing it, Alaric once more raised the glass to aid his gaze. Sarah, safely protected by the charm distance lends, pressed her gloved hand to her eyes as though to halt tears that would flow at the tender scene.

  Hibbert sniffed and flourished his handkerchief. “Damn that's moving. Pardon me, you fellows.”

  Coughing, Chasen said, “Quite, quite.”

  Remembering Lillian had said she'd invited Mrs. Whitsun and her two guests to the play, Alaric dutifully searched the depths of the box. There was a dim shadow in the rear that might have been she, only recognizable because a chilly glitter seemed to encircle the figure's throat. None of the others would have been wearing gems of the quality that throws back candlelight.

  Then Sarah sat upright, blocking his view of Lillian. She turned as though to speak to someone behind her, and all Alaric could see was the graceful line of her back. The sweep of her hair exposed the nape of her neck, and in his glass, it seemed near enough to kiss. Then she turned again, her face aglow with pleasure in the play. She licked her open lips with enthusiasm and leaned forward once more.

  Alaric dropped his telescope and had to feel about on the floor for it. He was surprised and ashamed to find that his hands trembled as he searched. Sitting up, he focused with great concentration on the actors as he fought the desire to turn the glass again toward Sarah. Sternly, he took himself to task.

  Yes, she was beautiful. Yes, from the first, he'd been charmed by her. She was youthful and completely natural in her reactions and interests. To a man newly returned from war, a young lady was the best antidote to horror and exhaustion. However, she was a hoyden, completely uncontrolled. Climbing trees, losing slippers, yes, playing cricket in a ballroom—all unacceptable behavior. She was still a child, beautiful or not.

  Let him keep that firmly in mind, and let him also remember that Lillian was exactly the sort of woman he'd always known he would marry someday. She was beautiful, if not spectacularly so. She was the happy possessor of a calm, well-ordered mind, ideal for a lifetime friend. He could not expect her embrace to stir the wild embers of passion, for they weren't married yet. She wasn't some idle mistress who could be expected to raise his expectations and then fulfill them. No doubt, when the time came, he'd be stirred enough.

  The entr'acte came, in Alaric's opinion, not a moment too soon. With a click, he closed the tube of his telescope and put the resultant circle in his pocket as he stood up. “I'll see you gentlemen at the next act.”

  “Ah, off to meet Miss Tovey, then?”

  “No, Ward. My fiancee is in the audience and I must offer my respects.”

  “Quite,” Mr. Chasen said. “Very proper. Shall I ... er ... come along? Help with conversation?”

  “No, thank you. I think I can manage.”

  “Damn me,” said Mr. Ward after the box's door had closed behind Alaric. "My fiancee's in the audience and you don't see me slipping out to her between acts. I'll have to see her enough once we're married. I'll wager he's gone to offer La Tovey a slip on the shoulder. I'd do it, if I were as right in the pocket as Reyne.”

  “Right as Reyne?” Hibbert echoed. “I say, that's clever.”
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  Unaware that he'd just become a bon mot, Alaric set off down the corridor. Lillian's party sat on the far side of the theater, and if the house had been thinly attended, he could have walked to it in three or four minutes. As it was, however, it seemed he was forced to stop every yard. Many of his closest friends were still in the field, but there were plenty who knew him to speak to. He concealed his true opinion of the play, not wishing to spend the entire interval arguing, and pushed on.

  Outside the door of the correct box, he paused, his fist raised to knock. Though not a man given to examining his motives, he wondered exactly why he'd come. Politeness might dictate that he visit Lillian, yet he could not but be aware of an excitement that had nothing to do with his bride-to-be. But that was ridiculous. His self-respect demanded that he prove to himself that he was not attracted to Sarah East.

  Acting the fool over a chit of a girl was an old man's game, and he'd not fall victim to her charms. He'd be polite, show due attentiveness toward Lillian and return, when the half hour was up, to his friends on the other side of the theater. He made a mental note to send flowers to Lillian in the morning.

  “Alaric!” Lillian held out her hand with her welcoming smile. He bowed over it. “I thought you weren't going to come.”

  “I couldn't stay away. Good evening, Mrs. Whitsun. Miss Phelps.” He paused, worried for a moment that his tone might change when he spoke, but then he rushed to continue, thinking his pause might be noticed. “And Miss East. Good evening.”

  “Good evening. Lord Reyne.” She'd turned at his entrance, the candlelight from the theater behind her glinting in her hair, piled and tousled with ringlets hanging. He couldn't help but remember it falling down her back, still wet from the ducking she'd taken in the lake.

  Lillian was saying something to him, and he brought himself out of his daydream with a jerk. “I beg your pardon?” he asked, seating himself.

  “I asked if you found the play to your liking.”

  “Oh, yes, it seems most interesting. However, I wonder if one of you ladies could perhaps tell me what it is about?”

  Mrs. Whitsun gave her whinnying laugh. “Really, Lord Reyne, how droll.”

  Miss Harmonia, hanging over the edge of the box, said, “Sarah, Sarah, look! Isn't that Sir Percy Alvandale? I wonder where Lord Morebinder is?”

  Sarah, Alaric noticed, did not ape her friend's bad behavior, but sat quietly in her seat, looking at her hands linked in her lap. “I don't know,” she said softly.

  “I much admired your bowling style last evening, Sar— Miss East. Where did you learn it?”

  “Oh, don't ask the child to talk about that. Lord Reyne,” Mrs. Whitsun said. “Such a scolding I gave her, encouraging those naughty rakes that way.”

  “I was at school with Morebinder's older brother, Charles. Young Morebinder simply needs steadying. It is not easy to be thrust into a new position by the death of a near relative.”

  Lillian put her hand on his arm. “I'm sure Mrs. Whitsun did not mean Lord Morebinder is an evil person, Alaric.”

  He smiled at her. “No, of course not. Perhaps, Miss East, you learned to play cricket from your brothers. Let me think. You said they were in the ... ah ...”

  “They are both in the navy. Lord Reyne.”

  “Yes, but she didn't learn to bowl from them,” Miss Harmonia said. “Don't you remember, Sarah? Harcourt taught you and the dog retrieved the balls.”

  “Yes, that's right.” Sarah looked up when a knock sounded at the door. Meeting her eyes, Alaric smiled. But instead of her expression transforming by a joyous smile, she only dropped her eyes once again to her lap.

  Three footmen entered, carrying filled baskets. “Why, what's this?” Lillian asked. “Alaric, how thoughtful you are.”

  “I hope you don't mind. I changed your order for biscuits and wine for this light supper.” Though he spoke to Lillian, he found his head turning toward Sarah. Would his effort please her? Sternly, he reminded himself that her reactions were no concern of his. But why didn't she seemed pleased?

  Apparently, Harmonia's notice of Sir Percy had been reciprocated. In a few moments, the party was increased by Alvandale and Morebinder, this time unaccompanied by their entourage. Lillian was as welcoming as always. They could have been South Sea Islanders, naked save for paint, and she still would have been charming.

  The box began to grow crowded. Alaric stepped out of the way, toward the front of the box. Harmonia was absorbed by the new arrivals. He stood alone beside Sarah. The pearls in her hair were dull in comparison with its shine, and the purity of her skin eclipsed their moon-like luster. Alaric clasped his hands to keep from touching her cheek. He wanted her to look up so that he might savor once more the sensations her gaze aroused.

  “And is Sarah enjoying the play?” he asked, striving desperately for a tone that would make it clear she was nothing to him. He managed only to sound, he thought, like an elderly uncle left alone with the baby.

  “Very much so, sir. I've never been to the theater before.”

  Well, that was good. She was using more than one sentence at a time. “It's been a long time for me, too. That is, I've not visited the theater since ... Covent Garden burned.” He thought he saw a brief smile though as long as she kept her head bowed he could not be certain. A loud laugh from behind him made him jump and he looked around half-angrily. “You know, if Harmonia were my sister, I think I should object to Morebinder ogling her in that way through his glass.”

  “I believe his eyesight is very poor,” Sarah ventured.

  “What is he doing at the theater if he can't see the stage?”

  “The same as you, who do not care for this play.” Sarah looked up, then. She went on, in a tone too low to carry to the others in the box, who were becoming noisier by the minute. “The play is about Lady Anne Devries who discovers too late that the man she truly loves is her husband's brother. There is also another story about her maid, who is in love with a highwayman.”

  Alaric bowed. “Thank you, Miss East. You've saved me from the consequences of my ignorance. At least thirty people wanted to ask me what I thought of it, and I was having a deuced hard time as I cannot tell one player from another.”

  “Some are women, Lord Reyne.”

  This was said with so sweet a smile and in so soft a voice that, for a moment, he could not be sure she was jesting. Then he laughed, and she looked as if she'd like to join him. “I shall keep it in mind, but God save me if the maid puts on breeches. I'll need to come to you so you may explain it to me again.”

  “I'm always happy to help you.” But the laughter in her voice faded and she fell to examining her hands once again. Just before she dropped her gaze, Alaric thought those large grey eyes moistened as though with tears. She'd been weeping before, from the sentiments of the play, but this was different. He began to shake again, suddenly afraid as war, battle, and the imminence of death had not frightened him.

  “Are you thirsty? Would you care from some champagne?” Corks popped, reminding him of his duties as provider of the feast. Alaric moved off and somehow couldn't find his way back to her before the resumption of the play.

  While standing beside Lillian, Alaric became aware that every person who approached them had a question in his or her eyes. He'd noticed this before, but put it down to the novelty of his return. Now, though, he seemed to understand what they were silently asking. Behind every statement, behind every laugh, he heard, “Why are you not married yet?” He wondered if Lillian was also mindful that they were the object of such curiosity. This, however, did not seem to be the moment to turn casually to her and ask.

  When soft music began again to fill the theater, Alaric took his leave. “Must you go?” Mrs. Whitsun asked, cutting off Lillian, who had been on the point of inviting him to stay.

  “I'm afraid so. I have friends waiting for me. We are engaged to go on to White's after the play. Otherwise, I would certainly take advantage of the chance to remain by four such lovely l
adies.” This gratified Mrs. Whitsun, as was intended.

  As he bowed over Lillian's hand, she said softly, “I'll be home from two until four tomorrow if you'd care to call.”

  “Thank you. I shall. Good evening, Miss Phelps. Miss East.” Sarah's white dress glowed as though light itself was molded to her figure. Alaric left rather abruptly, promising himself that he'd send Lillian some small gift in addition to flowers. A pierced ivory fan, a scent-bottle, or perhaps a new glass for the theater.

  Returning to his own box, Alaric was greeted by Hibbert, Chasen, and Ward. He'd returned not a moment too soon; the curtain was already parting, and the noisiness of his friends’ greeting caused a storm of furious hushes to arise from the surrounding audience.

  Alaric tried hard to concentrate on the action going forth on the stage. Shifting in his seat, he cast a suspicious glance at his companions. One of them had certainly changed chairs with him, for it had not been this uncomfortable before the intermission. Move though he would, something jabbed him in the back, or bunched up beneath him or made his legs fall asleep. The only comfortable position he could find was more or less turned away from the stage (all to the good) but facing the direction of Lillian's party.

  The circle of his telescope seemed to burn in his pocket. His fingers itched for it. The sliding noise as he opened it was gratifying. Sternly, however, Alaric snapped it closed. He turned his head, and his attention, toward the stage.

  The actress clutched at her throat. “Ah, cursed house, and cursed hour! The fickle tide of love hast blinded my soul!” She fell to stormy weeping. A sigh of sympathy seemed to sweep the audience, broken into by a groan as, no doubt, some masculine heart was wrung by agony.

  Alaric opened his telescope once more. Anything would be preferable to the torture of watching the stage. For a few minutes, he idly gazed about the house, pausing on a sleeping man, a weeping woman, or a fellow sufferer. Yet, as he amused himself, Alaric knew that sooner or later he would reach the upper tier of boxes and search out Sarah East.

 

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