A Passionate Performance

by Eileen Putman

  Sarah draped the wispy white shawl over Ophelia’s long, flowing gown and made her way toward the back of the stage. She was glad to have the role, though it was wearying to descend each night into the madness of a woman who had lost her prince to the blinding passion of revenge and whose love had saved neither Hamlet nor herself. Each time Sarah mustered the fortitude to plumb the depths of Ophelia’s despair, she had to bolster her resolve by telling herself that it was an actress’s dream to have such a part. It was what she had wanted. Other roles, other places, lay in her future. Life went on, after all. And one day, she might stop thinking of Justin Trent.

  Even now, waiting to go on stage, Sarah could almost imagine that the figure grappling with Mr. Stinson in the far wing bore more than a passing resemblance to Justin. Doubtless it was only the usual drunkard, trying to destroy the actors’ concentration and wreck the performance. Forcing her gaze to Rupert Crim, who played Ophelia’s brother Laertes, Sarah waited for her cue.

  “How now! What noise is that?” Just as Rupert uttered his line and Sarah prepared to step before the audience, a crash resounded in the wing and a chair skidded onto the stage, evidently tossed by participants in the struggle taking place offstage. Titters rippled across the audience. Sarah took a deep breath, and entered.

  Rupert frowned. “O heat, dry up my brains!” he proclaimed.

  “Best dry up yer tongue, ye looby!” came a jeer from the pits. Hoots of laughter followed this sally. Rupert scowled at the audience, then looked at her blankly.

  Sarah sighed. Distractions were disastrous for Rupert, who often struggled with his lines. Usually it was possible to ignore the heckling from the pits, but the commotion in the wings had created a diversion that fueled the hecklers and left Rupert off balance.

  “Tears seven times salt,” Sarah whispered to him.

  But he merely stared at her. The performance was headed straight for perdition. Fortunately, it was her last scene. From here on, the players would merely speak of her death in mournful tones. But first they had to arrive at that point, which would not occur if she waited for Rupert to remember his lines. Sarah decided to skip directly to hers.

  “They bore him barefaced on the bier,” she sang loudly, to drown out the arguing offstage. She recognized Mr. Stinson’s heated voice. It was a measure of her own madness that the other reminded her of Justin’s resonant baritone.

  Rupert simply stared at her. Very well, she would combine his lines with hers. It would not be the first time.

  “If I hadst my wits, and didst persuade revenge, it could not move thus,” she declared.

  No response. And so it went, until she prepared to launch into her final, poignant song. Suddenly, she became aware that the commotion in the wings had stopped.

  Against her will, Sarah risked a glance. A disheveled Mr. Stinson stood at the edge of the curtain, holding what appeared to be a large number of bank notes. At his side was Justin, arms crossed, glowering at the action on stage.

  As Sarah met his gaze, her heart leapt to her throat, for in those stormy depths lay something she did not recognize.

  “Thoughts and affliction, passion, hell itself, she turns to favor and to prettiness,” Rupert declared suddenly.

  Her cue. Sarah stared at Justin.

  “I said, ‘She turns to favor and to prettiness,’” Rupert repeated loudly.

  “Shut yer trap, clodpole!” came the cry from somewhere in the audience. “Can ye not see she is sick of yer jabbering?” With that remark, a tomato sailed from the pits and hit Rupert in the chest.

  Sarah’s line suddenly popped into her head. “And will he not come again?” she warbled unsteadily as another tomato barely missed her wig.

  A growled oath erupted from the wings. In the next instant Justin was at her side. Assorted fruit rained over them. The audience roared.

  With a muttered curse, he swept her up and carried her offstage. In the narrow hallway near her dressing table, he set her on her feet.

  Sarah reached for her chair to steady herself. She felt curiously lightheaded. “What are you doing?” she managed. “I must return to the stage.”

  He glanced at the stage, then turned back to her. “Since Laertes and the rest of the company appear to be engaged in rewriting the scene with certain members of the audience, I believe your presence is not needed. Besides, your Mr. Stinson is counting the large sum I was forced to give him to release you from your obligation to the company.”

  “No!” she cried. “You cannot. I must work.”

  “Perhaps not,” he said.

  Sarah studied him. Though a tomato had caught his sleeve, Justin looked no worse for the daring maneuver he had just carried out or the encounter with Mr. Stinson. His cravat was a bit askew, perhaps, and his black tailcoat had a large blot of red on his sleeve. He was regarding her with a mixture of amusement and something else that made Sarah catch her breath.

  “Why are you here?” she demanded.

  Instantly, his expression grew solemn. He caught her hand. “To make you a proper proposal.”

  “Proposal?” Sarah frowned, certain she had not heard him correctly.

  “Yes. A proper proposal of, er, marriage,” he said. “I made a muddle of it at Aunt Agatha’s.”

  Sarah shook her head. “You were imperious, as is your way, but —” He touched her chin, which had the instant effect of shocking her into silence.

  “’Tis late in the day for me to make the acquaintance of humility,” he said softly. “But perhaps — that is, I hope — not altogether so.”

  Now it was sinking in. “Marriage,” she repeated numbly. “You wish me to marry you.”

  He nodded. “You refused me once. Dare I hope that you will not again?”

  Sarah swallowed hard. “The manner of your proposal had nothing to do with why I cannot marry you.” Her heart filled with sorrow.

  Justin studied her face intently. “You will not persuade me that you are indifferent.”

  Sarah did not ask how he knew. She had told herself that she did not care for him, could never love a man who lived for revenge. Yet she had wondered, when the smoke of deceit cleared at Aunt Agatha’s, how he would rebuild his life, what changes the truth had wrought. Looking into his eyes now, she still had no answer.

  “I cannot marry a man bent on revenge,” she said sadly.

  “No,” he agreed.

  “Nor could I marry someone who does not love me,” she said.

  The tip of his finger brushed her lips. “Nor should you,” he said softly.

  As his gaze held hers, Sarah thought of that picnic they had shared so very long ago, and hesitated. “Once, perhaps, I thought you were capable of such feelings, but ...” Her voice trailed off.

  “But?” He frowned.

  “I assumed that was but an illusion.”

  Eyes as darkly compelling as any sorcerer’s held hers. “Illusion is a pale substitute for reality,” he agreed. “Or for love.”

  Why did her treacherous heart suddenly soar? Nothing had changed. And yet perhaps it had, for his eyes held an expression she had never seen there.

  Sarah felt a shiver and realized she was trembling. But she would not show him that. She would not let down her guard in the service of heartbreak. Instead, she gave him a steely gaze. “What are you saying, my lord? I will have the truth.”

  At her stern tone, he arched a brow.

  “The truth,” she commanded, “if you please.” But to her dismay, her voice broke on the last word. Quickly, Sarah turned away, afraid he would see how very much his answer mattered to her. She crossed her arms, gathering her strength.

  The silence stretched between them. Sarah held her breath, wishing she were anywhere else, even back on stage with tomatoes flying around her. She dared not look at him, for fear of betraying her feelings.

  His hand touched her shoulder. Slowly, he turned her around to face him.

  “The truth is that I have been blind,” he said roughly. “I was unable to see into
my own heart because of the anger there that I spent a lifetime nurturing. It is time to move forward.” He hesitated. “But there is a problem.”

  Her heart sank. “What is it?”

  “I have been a coward, Sarah, afraid to risk love.”

  Their gazes held. The moment hung between them, as if the world had momentarily stopped spinning on his axis. Sarah scarcely dared to breathe.

  “And now?” she asked softly. “Are you risking it now, Justin?”

  “Yes, by God,” he growled, as he drew her into his arms. His mouth descended to hers.

  Now she truly couldn’t breathe, but it didn’t matter. Sarah gave herself over to the wonder of his kiss.

  “I do not know how to love,” he whispered against her lips, “but I wish to spend the rest of my life learning. From you — with you.”

  Suddenly he pulled back to look at her. A shadow of uncertainty darkened his gaze. “If you will have me, that is. Will you?”

  Jubilant shouts from the direction of the audience signaled that the battle onstage had been resolved in favor of one of the parties. They echoed the exultant cheer within Sarah’s heart. The world had suddenly become a very different place, she realized.

  Did she trust it? Did she trust him, a master illusionist? There was really only one answer.

  “Yes,” she said. “I will have you, my lord.”

  “Justin,” he corrected with a growl.

  Whatever else she might have said was silenced by his rough kiss.

  It was not until sometime later, in fact, that Sarah was able to form a coherent thought. By then, her wig was askew and her cheeks streaked with the elderberry that joyful tears had driven from her lashes. “Justin,” she began hesitantly.

  His gaze narrowed. “Do not say you have changed your mind.”

  “No, only —” she broke off.

  “What?” he demanded.

  “I do not quite understand what brought this about.”

  He considered the matter. “It was a card trick.”

  “I do not understand.”

  He shot her a bemused smile. “Anh and I have a nightly ritual of cards. I employ various devious methods to hide the diamond queen. Despite my best efforts, he always finds it. Last night, for the first time, he could not.”

  Knowing Justin’s skill at cards, Sarah could not imagine to what elaborate lengths he had gone to hide the card from his discerning butler. “Where did you put it?”

  But he did not immediately answer. Instead, he carefully removed Sarah’s wig and ran his fingers through her hair before wrapping her in his arms once more. “That is a secret I will carry to my grave,” he murmured against her ear.

  “Not fair,” she protested teasingly.

  He sighed. “Very well. I simply placed the diamond queen face down on the top of the deck, in the most obvious position of all. He never guessed. Oddly, he was unaccountably pleased at being bested.”

  “I wonder why?”

  “Because I confounded his expectations,” Justin said. “A student who confounds his teacher has moved beyond his own limitations. He has become his own teacher.” He tilted her chin upward. “I realized that the truth had been in front of me all along but I hadn’t been able to see it — just as Anh missed the card that was before him.”

  “And what was that, that truth that you suddenly saw?” she asked.

  “That I must persuade you to undertake one final, lasting performance — as my wife.” His fingertip touched her chin and, gently, he tilted her face up so he could look into her eyes. “Will you, Sarah? Say it again.”

  Sarah gave a breathless sigh that seemed to come from her very soul.

  “Yes,” she whispered as his mouth lowered to hers. “Yes.”

  EPILOGUE

  “I hope I do not fall out of bed,” Sarah said nervously as she eyed the peach comforter. “I do so wish to pass the test.”

  Justin, in the act of gently slipping his wife’s nightrail off her shoulders, halted. “What test?”

  “Mr. Magnus’s chastity test.” Sarah hesitated, then pulled something from under her pillow. “In his book, Mr. Magnus states that if a lodestone is placed under a chaste woman’s pillow, she will immediately embrace her husband. If she is not chaste, she will fall out of bed.”

  Aghast, Justin stared at the blue stone. “We have been married but a few hours. What makes you think you have to prove your faithfulness?”

  “’Tis not my faithfulness at issue, my husband, but my past,” she said, blushing. “I am well aware that men think actresses are a wayward breed.”

  His brows arched. “Wayward, is it?”

  “I did pose as your mistress, but in truth I have never been any man’s mistress.” Her eyes willed him to believe her.

  “I know.”

  Sarah eyed him in surprise. “Because of the chastity test?”

  “Because of what we are about to share.” He kissed her fingertips. “And because I know you much better than when I first saw you posing as Harry’s wife. If you are a wayward woman, Lady Linton, I am King George.”

  Her eyes searched his. “Once, you scoffed at my claim of innocence.”

  Justin sighed. “Once, I was an idiot.”

  “Then Anh was right,” she said in a musing tone. “He said you would not need Mr. Magnus to show you the truth.”

  A choking sound erupted from her husband. “You involved Anh in something as private as this?”

  “Only after he cast the bamboo sticks for me. Did you know that we are destined to take a long trip?”

  “Our wedding trip to the Far East is no secret,” Justin said, “especially from Anh.”

  “No, but there is more. Do you wish to hear it?”

  Wistfully, Justin eyed the featherbed. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Did you know that Anh is betrothed?” Sarah asked, ignoring the question. “His intended bride is deceased, but he says they will be together in the afterlife. He means to accompany us as far as Malaya, where she is buried, so that the marriage of their spirits can be performed. I do not understand precisely, but it sounds rather romantic.”

  Justin reached for a stray tendril of her hair, then wrapped it loosely around his finger. It was silky and smooth, with the scent of lavender, and he inhaled deeply. “I cannot envision Anh as a romantic,” he murmured.

  “But he is. He told me that I ought not worry that you would think me a loose woman.” She frowned. “Although perhaps he was simply trying to give me confidence so that I could get through the ordeal.”

  “Ordeal?” Justin stilled. “Is that what you think of our wedding night?”

  Sarah flushed. “No. Of course not. Although Anh said it might be a bit uncomfortable at first.”

  “Is there anything you did not ask Anh?” Justin demanded.

  “The Venus root was my idea entirely,” Sarah said. “Or rather, Mr. Magnus’s. I found the spell while I was looking through his book.”

  “Remind me to toss Mr. Magnus in the river at the earliest opportunity,” he growled. “What, pray, is the Venus root?”

  “A herb buried on one’s wedding night to ensure that one will have many children. I buried it amid the rosebushes at the side of the house. I hope you do not mind.”

  A slow smile spread across his face. “Let me guess. You envision enough little Trents to make an acting troupe.”

  “Only if they are so inclined,” Sarah assured him.

  He regarded her gravely. “You do realize that I cannot allow you to return to the stage?”

  “And you do realize that I shall not allow you to make such a decision for me?” Sarah returned evenly.

  Justin arched a brow. Sarah glared at him. Their gazes locked. For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Justin’s mouth curved into a lazy smile.

  “Will you miss it?” he asked softly.

  Sarah’s lips parted in an answering smile. “No.”

  He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. This time he caught a faint citrus
scent along with the lavender. It sharpened his appetite, but not for food. “Why not?”

  “Because I have found the perfect role, my lord.” She pulled her hand away, and when he started to object, touched his lips with a single, silencing finger.

  He inhaled sharply. “And what role is that, my lady?” His arms snaked around her, pulling her tight against the length of his body.

  Sarah’s lips parted on a breathless sigh. “The one that is by your side.”

  Her emerald gaze locked with his.

  And there it was, Justin realized, the look he had been waiting for all his life, had he but known it. The tantalizing promise that had hovered around the edges of his awareness from the first moment he laid eyes on Sarah Armistead. The mesmerizing spark that leapt between them and left him helpless as a lamb, yet unleashed a power as fierce as any lion.

  Her eyes held mysteries he would never grow tired of discovering. She’d once said that the merest touch from a woman he loved would be sufficient to kindle desire. He no longer doubted that. But he’d not been prepared for this sudden new truth: Just one look from the woman he loved could rob him of breath.

  “Then, my dear,” he said in a rough voice, “we had best bring the curtain down on this performance.”

  But he took a step away from her, reached under the pillow for the lodestone and tossed it on the floor.

  She watched him curiously. “Why is that?”

  Justin took her hand and gently pulled her down with him to the bed.

  “Because,” he whispered into her ear, “’tis filled with entirely too much dialogue — and not nearly enough action.”

  END

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Eileen Putman’s love of England’s Regency period has inspired her many research trips to Britain, Ireland France, Spain, Italy and other European countries, all captivating and rich in history and legend. There’s no substitute for stepping on the soil that Beau Brummell and his Hessians once trod. (And though he never went to Italy or Spain, he certainly inspired those countries’ later Belle Époque dandies.)