“Anne,” he said again, but she was on her feet and across the room, placing the glass beside the decanter.
“It is very late, sir, and I for one, intend to seek my bed,” she said. Without looking at him, she started to leave.
He was beside her, hands turning her to face him, before she took a step. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
“I am so sorry.” A stupid comment and grossly inadequate, Westcott realized the second the words left his mouth. He pulled her close, laid her head against his shoulder, and brushed his hand over her unbound hair. The first time he’d seen it so, and felt it regrettable, for she had lovely hair, long and wavy, with highlights that glistened in the light. Not a smart thought, Westcott. She is in need of comfort, nothing else. Indeed, she was stiff in his arms, and he reluctantly released her and stepped away. “Good night, Anne.”
She glanced at him, her expression unreadable, and moved slowly toward the door. “Good night…Nicholas.”
What in hell did that mean, his name on her lips? The only other time she had used his given name was when he was shot. He’d remember otherwise. It meant nothing, “Nicholas.” Go to bed. Your brain is turning to mush and your shoulder hurts like the devil. She can call you anything she wants. It changes nothing. And singularly unconvinced of his own logic, he refreshed his glass and returned to his chair to brood beside the fire.
Chapter Twenty-five
“Madame, Monsieur. Welcome to the Rainbow Playhouse.” Guy bowed, flashed an engaging grin, and led them to the row of chairs arranged in a half-circle before the impressive stage.
“Did you know it was so elaborate?” Westcott asked in a low voice as he and Anne settled into their designated seats.
“I guessed it was big, from the timbers the men brought in, but had no idea of how complex. This room has been off limits for several weeks. They wanted to surprise us.”
“They have succeeded in doing so.” Westcott studied the colourful creation in front of them. It had to be at least eight feet in width, and almost as much in height. The lower section of the sturdy structure was painted a glossy black, the frame surrounding the stage was white and the rainbow arcing over the top sported a myriad of colours. A similarly hued curtain hung across the front.
“Do I recognize one of Mrs. Fenton’s weavings?”
“You do. The Fentons have played a large part in preparing for this production,” Anne said.
“Decent of them.”
“Never doubt they have enjoyed every minute of it,” Anne said with a laugh. “Oh, look, the St. Clairs are here.” She stood, along with Westcott, to greet their guests. “The children will be delighted that you came.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for all the world,” Juliette said as she gave Anne a quick hug and took the seat beside her. She studied the theater with some astonishment. “Gracious, it is huge, n’est-ce pas? Are we the only guests?”
“Enormous,” Anne agreed. “No, Miss Caxton and Mr. Atkinson are coming, and some of the staff.” She laughed. “They wanted the entire household. We had to agree to a second performance for them, if this goes well.”
“I’m sure it will,” Juliette said.
Anne’s soft laughter caught Westcott’s ear. With St. Clair’s interest now fixed on the theater, he took the opportunity to unobtrusively watch his wife. She was leaning forward a little, speaking to Juliette, hands fluttering expressively as she related a humourous incident that had occurred in the village. Her cheeks pinked with colour, and eyes sparkling, she looked—pretty? Attractive? Happy. She looks happy, Westcott, and why not? Because you choose otherwise? Rubbish. Disgruntled by the unwelcome feeling of loss that she never acted so around him, he pulled out his pocket watch and noted the time. The remainder of the audience was being seated in the row behind him.
His duties done, Guy disappeared. The curtain swayed, a few giggles were sharply hushed, and the chirpy notes of a recorder played some nautical tune. A puppet dressed in sailor’s garb popped through the opening in the curtain and bowed.
“Ladies and Gentlemen. The Rainbow Playhouse is pleased to present The Adventures of Robinson Crusoe. We hope you will enjoy it. And now—the Show!”
The puppet disappeared and a voice, sounding distant and deep, began to recite. Westcott was certain it was Sarah. A nice effect and he was curious as to how they did it.
To travel the world
he went to sea
brave Robinson Crusoe
But fame and fortune
were not to be
poor Robinson Crusoe
The waves were high
the ship did groan
frightened Robinson Crusoe
Then a mighty crash, the rocks like swords
the wood was torn asunder
tossed into the deeps, the seamen all,
The water pulled them under
Washed to the shore
alone and sore
battered Robinson Crusoe
The years pass by
God doth provide
grateful Robinson Crusoe
Then came the day
rescue at last
happy Robinson Crusoe
The curtain opened to a scene at the docks—a wooden ship tied against a pier, blue sky, a bright sun, and some rather odd terns flying high. A puppet with the face and manner of a young man, dressed in homespun and leather, wandered along the quay, poking into this corner and that, until he plopped down on a sea chest and gazed longingly at the ship.
Longingly? It’s a puppet, Westcott. But the actions of the doll told a story easily imagined. A pause, and then another puppet, dressed in Captain’s garb, appeared in the bow of the ship and beckoned to the lad. A pantomime ensued, of disbelief on Crusoe’s part, invitation from the Captain, until the lad bounced up and down with excitement. Heaving the sea chest onto a shoulder, he hurried onto the ship as the curtain closed.
The applause was loud and everyone began to talk at once. “The children did this?” Westcott said to Anne in a low voice under the hum of conversation. He leaned close to hear her answer, close enough to smell the enticing scent of her, and fan the tendrils of hair loose at her temples with his breath.
“Maggie and Bill helped dress the puppets and prepare the setting, but the play itself was their idea. Isn’t it marvelous? I can’t wait to see what comes next.” Anne smiled up at him, her glowing face inches from his.
“Marvelous.” Shaken by the appeal of her tempting mouth, Westcott straightened, his tone and movement abrupt, and watched the smile fade. She turned her head, but not before he caught the hurt in her eyes and cursed himself for a bloody fool. No wonder the woman is uncomfortable around you, when you treat her like a confidante one moment and something other the next.
A flute wailed, and relieved by the distraction, he returned his attention to the stage. A loud bang and the curtain opened to reveal a wooden ship rocking wildly behind a low board painted with waves. The backdrop now was a stormy ocean, complete with lightning streaking the black sky. A whoosh of wind accompanied the ship as it staggered across the stage, crashed into a very realistic pile of rocks, and keeled over. A shower of tiny figures tumbled over the sides, drawing a chorus of oohs and aahs from the ladies, and Westcott grinned. What he suspected were cloth-wrapped thimbles did look quite real from here. Crusoe’s head emerged from the water, his arms waving frantically, and after bobbing up and down several times, he was swept away.
This time, the curtain closed for just a few minutes, and hardly a sound from the spectators, so caught up were they. A thread of melody from the flute, and there was Robinson Crusoe sprawled on the sandy shore; the stormy backdrop replaced by one of sunny skies and palm trees. Crusoe crawled to the base of a tree, leaned wearily against it, and surveyed his surroundings with growing dismay. Forehead in his hands, he trudged around the beach, stopping to stare at the ship afast on the rocks, and with a resolution one could feel—and how the devil do they manage that?—the puppet squared his
shoulders and waded into the water. Clambering aboard, Crusoe picked up an axe and began chopping up the ship to make a raft. He was soon done, and over the side it went, along with a number of tiny boxes and chests.
Loading the goods on the raft—and wasn’t it fortunate the water was shallow, Westcott thought, swallowing his laughter—the intrepid Crusoe pushed his makeshift boat to the beach. Indeed, the shipwrecked sailor performed prodigiously, dashing between ship and shore, until the pile of containers was head-high. Exhausted, Crusoe flopped down and promptly fell asleep on the top of the pile and the curtain snapped closed.
Westcott exchanged a grin with St. Clair, stretched out his legs and waited for the final act. Judging from the sounds of hurried activity coming from the players, they were in for another change of scenery, and indeed, the curtain opened to show a roughly built hut partially surrounded by a stockade fence. Crusoe wandered along the water’s edge. Suddenly he stopped dead in his tracks, crouched down, examined something in the sand, and began jumping up and down with excitement. He ran to his hut, grabbed a spyglass and musket, and rushed up the hill to peer around. The sight below shocked him into dropping his possessions and sent him into a tizzy. One could almost hear his cries of “woe is me” as he staggered around, head in hands, and again Westcott marveled at how the puppet could convey so much.
Drums started, loud whoops rang out, and the audience gasped as a dark-skinned, curly-headed puppet burst over the top of the hill. Crusoe reeled back in shock, but at the appearance of more dark-skinned puppets, snatched up the musket and fired it. Pandemonium then, the puppets that had been chasing the fugitive milled around with much arm waving, then turned and ran away.
Crusoe cradled the weapon in his arms and stared after them for a minute. Then raising the gun over his head, he strutted around, his chest puffed out with pride. After which, he ran over to the curly-haired puppet he had rescued and led him to the hut. Crusoe handed the fellow a shirt and a bowl of food, and side by side they slouched against the fence.
Days passed—marked with a notch in a post—and the two friends wandered about the beach. Then, loud enough to make the spectators jump, the boom of a cannon, and there, coming over the horizon, a ship! Crusoe raced to the top of the hill, lit an untidy pyre of brush, fell on his knees in thanks, and then dashed back to his hut. A minute for Crusoe and his companion to gather a few items, heave bags onto sturdy shoulders, and with jaunty steps, they went to meet the ship.
A spontaneous cheer broke from the spectators as the curtain dropped, and the flushed players appeared, grinning with pride, to take their bows.
Sarah held out her arms to Westcott. “Papa, did you like it? Guy had trouble getting the cannon to boom and we forgot to put Mr. Crusoe’s funny hat on him, but I don’t think anyone noticed. Isn’t Danielle splendid on the flute? It was her idea to add the music, since it was a pantomime.”
Westcott crouched down beside her. “I liked it very much.” He gave her a hug and smiled at Danielle. “The music was delightful. You are quite talented. Did you choose the songs?”
She nodded shyly. “Mother Anne helped me find the music once I told her what I wanted.”
“Guy, that was you with the drums and whoops, I suppose.” Westcott rose, smiled at the boy and ruffled his hair. “Very realistic. They gave me the shivers.”
“Yes, sir!” Face scarlet with excitement, Guy beamed at him.
“They gave us all goose bumps!” Anne declared, coming over to them. “It was a grand performance.” She embraced each of the children in turn and then stepped back to allow the others to congratulate the trio.
“A marvelous performance, actually. No wonder it has taken weeks to prepare for,” Anne said as Westcott guided her aside. “They are frighteningly resourceful.”
He chuckled, brows rising as the implication sank in. “So they are. It is well for us none of them seem inclined to mischief.”
“Give them time,” St. Clair put in as he joined them. “Although I must say we never thought of half these devices. How did they do it all, do you know?”
“Something I’d like to learn as well.” Juliette said. “Not just the mechanics of it, but how could they make those puppets so expressive? I felt every bit of Mr. Crusoe’s experience.”
Westcott fell silent as his three companions exclaimed over the show, gazing around the room and reflecting on the many changes in his life the past few months had brought. The servants were drifting away, still full of the entertainment, and he knew the entire household would soon be regaled with the whole of it. The atmosphere of Westhorp had changed.
Anne’s doing, of course. She had stirred everything into a new stew. Is that so ill a thing? Music, laughter, that urchin running along the halls; everything different—except you. Westcott dismissed the thought impatiently. He had no desire to change. Get involved and open to more heartache? He already had enough for a lifetime.
A light touch on his arm brought him back to the conversation around him.
“We have been invited backstage before refreshments arrive, if you are interested,” Anne told him, a questioning look on her face.
“Certainly. I am curious as to how some of those effects worked—and I expect those responsible are eager to tell us.” Against his better judgment, Westcott tucked her arm under his, ignoring her tiny start. A fine thing, when your wife is surprised if you touch her. Irritated by the idea, his mouth tightened. “Shall we go?” Cool, his voice, and her smile faded at the tone. Well done, Westcott, you’ve managed to hurt her again. Stop acting like an oaf or leave her alone. Something that was becoming more difficult every day, and he despised the weakness in him that craved what he should not want—and did not deserve.
The festive atmosphere did nothing but deepen his dark mood. Westcott stood apart from the adults gathered around the enthusiastic children. Sarah was in the thick of it, not missing him in the least, and Anne appeared to have shaken off any thoughts of his latest slight.
“The Durants have been good for her,” St. Clair said in a low voice, “and Anne, of course.”
“Of course, Anne,” Westcott said evenly.
St. Clair slanted a frowning glance at him, reading more into the flat agreement than Westcott wanted. The last thing he needed was advice from a man as supremely satisfied with his marriage as Devlin.
“Shoulder hurting you, Nick?”
Concern, not censure, in St. Clair’s voice, and Westcott felt a stab of remorse for assuming his friend meant to take him to task. “Yes, a bit, but it’s nothing.” Westcott jerked his chin toward the window and casually moved away from the others. “I need a word with you, Dev. I’ve learned something that may have a bearing on this senseless attack. But first, has there been any progress at all in determining the culprit?”
St. Clair leaned against the window sash, the picture of indolence, and Westcott grinned. “You do that so well. I think you must practice in front of a mirror.”
“A natural talent, I assure you,” St. Clair said with such an air of false modestly Westcott had to laugh.
“What a nod-cock you are. How Juliette puts up with you I don’t know.”
“She finds me vastly entertaining, I believe,” St. Clair said, looking highly amused at some private thought.
Suspecting St. Clair’s idea of entertaining was other than the normal meaning, Westcott looked askance at him and chuckled. “You are fortunate, my friend.” There was no rancor in the comment; he meant it. He was not so churlish as to begrudge another’s happiness. “We’ve just a few minutes, Dev. Is there any news?”
St. Clair’s expression reflected his frustration. “Nothing. Not a sighting or even a rumour of any strangers in the area, and I’ll be damned if I believe it was anyone local.”
Westcott leaned closer and lowered his voice. “This may not be relevant. In fact, it is entirely speculation but I’ve just learned there is something in Anne’s past you should be aware of.” His mouth tightened at the thought of her treat
ment at the hands of this bounder—and the lingering fear in her eyes. “When Anne was in Gibraltar, there was an officer….” Westcott related what Anne had told him about Major Reynard.
“Bastard,” St. Clair swore softly. “And you think he may have followed her here?”
Westcott let out a hiss, his jaw clenched with unvoiced anger. “Improbable, but it needs looking into.”
“The man would stand out like fleas on a mongrel, Nick,” St. Clair said. “I don’t know how it could be possible, but just in case, I will write to Strathmere and ask him to check in with the War Office to see if they know where the man is at present.” He inclined his head and gave Westcott a cautionary look. “He is probably still in Gibraltar, so don’t pin too much on this theory. In the meantime, stay close, until we hear back from London.”
“Umm.” Westcott was non-committal. He’d take reasonable precautions. He did not, however, intend to be a prisoner in his own house. From the look in St. Clair’s eyes, he knew exactly the direction of Westcott’s thoughts, but other than a resigned smile, made no protest.
“Papa! Uncle Devlin!” Sarah’s call put an end to further discussion. Juliette was coming their way, and Anne was staring at them with a curious look on her face. Westcott smoothed his expression to hide the disquiet he felt. Enlisting Strathmere’s aid was wise, but he planned to make his own inquiries in the meantime—and talk to Bill Fenton, who certainly knew better than anyone just how real this possible threat to Anne was. To you as well, if this Major was behind the shooting, but keeping Anne safe is more important. He’d failed to keep Camille from harm. He would not fail Anne.
Chapter Twenty-six
An Inconvenient Wife Page 22