“Neither of you will be disappointed tonight,” Kelthorne said. “The troupe excels at every form of entertainment.”
“The sword fighting is superb,” Laurence said.
“Are there any singers among the troupe?” Miss Currivard asked. “I am especially fond of music:”
Kelthorne nearly stumbled as thoughts of Judith rushed over him like an unexpected wave in otherwise calm surf. “Yes,” he said evenly, or as evenly as he could manage.
“How can you be so mild?” Laurence said. “You must tell them of Miss Lovington. You must. Otherwise they will all swoon when they hear her sing.”
“Now we are utterly intrigued,” Miss Banwell called out. “Lord Kelthorne, tell us of Miss Lovington at once.”
His lips seemed frozen. His lungs would not draw breath. How could he then speak and how could he speak of her when he had so recently been in pursuit of her?
He sought for the right words. He strove to open his throat. Finally, he managed. “I believe I must say that she sings with the voice of the angels, yet not like the angels at all. I vow there is something within her that is not of this world, yet she is more of this world than you or I. Otherwise, who could explain such music as comes from her perfect throat?”
He drew in a deep ragged breath and blinked several times in an attempt to clear the vision of her from his mind. He was not aware for at least another twenty steps that everyone had fallen silent, strangely silent, badly silent.
He glanced down at Miss Currivard. Her gaze was fixed steadfastly ahead of her. He could not see her expression. “Have I misspoken?” he queried.
“I... that is, I have never heard such praise before. I find I am quite astonished.”
“Am I overstating the case, Laurence?” he queried.
Laurence sighed. “Not by half, but I believe our dear company may have taken offence.”
Good God, Laurence was right. All three ladies had sung for them only the night before and each had perfect expression, lovely voices, and interesting interpretations. None, of course, had compared to Judith, but what did that matter?
He saw at once where he had erred. Ordinarily he would not be such a sapskull as to have essentially lessened their efforts by praising to the skies the songs of another. But so he had and that quite unwittingly because from the first Judith had charmed him. Yet, what a ham-handed gudgeon he was, behaving more like a stripling still green behind the ears than a man of the world.
Only in stages did Kelthorne, with Laurence’s aid, restore the conviviality of the party.
Arriving at the theater, however, Mr. Emborough brought a disappointment. Even in his prudence he had only been able to secure seats for the ladies. The attendance that evening had proved enormous. Word had spread throughout the county that a troupe of exceptional performers had come to Somerset and so it was that a great number of men were required by necessity to stand about the perimeter of the small theater, a real compliment to the performers.
Kelthorne stood to the left of the stage, up the aisle, and several rows of seats away. He glanced frequently at Miss Currivard who sat not far from him between Miss Banwell and Miss Upton. More than once she turned to smile at him.
When Horace lit the limelight, the chattering audience grew hushed. Anticipation filled the air. The curtains parted and Mr. Ash, in a medieval costume, took center stage. He announced the opening performers but before he had finished speaking the names of the cast members, he was set upon in a violent manner by two of the troupe players with swords. The audience gasped, since he gave every evidence of fighting for his life—a trick, of course, but quite effective.
Kelthorne smiled. What an excellent opening. The stage thumped as the actors rolled, leaped, shouted, and fell with great ability. He found himself impressed that in but a handful of days the troupe had made excellent additions to the scene. A round of applause erupted as the actor, Henry Thurloxton, took his popular tumbling fall off the stage and Mr. Ash proclaimed his victory.
New costumes had appeared betwixt times as well, beautifully designed and worked. New scenery had been painted and there was even a new juggling act including a third actor by the name of Bobby, he believed. Kelthorne was as enchanted with the troupe’s production as he had been the first night. There was a realism that could not help but please and often, especially during the sword fights when false blood appeared as if by magic, the ladies would squeal their fright. Indeed, he thought the troupe deserved to be on stage in London.
So it was that when Judith appeared on the stage, the audience, already charmed by the troupe, released a great sigh then fell utterly silent, just as it had on the other nights that he had attended the theater. Instantly, Kelthorne’s gaze became riveted to her face. How serene she appeared for one so young, for one in command of three hundred people or so. She smiled and another sigh rippled through the audience.
She was gowned quite magnificently in flowing gold silk, more voluminous than would be seen on a ballroom floor but quite appropriate for the stage. An amber necklace encircled her swan’s throat. Her chestnut hair on this evening was caught up high on her head but cascaded with curls down the center of her back. She was all that was elegant and lovely.
The notes from the pianoforte swelled into the air. She opened her mouth and such music came forth as always constricted his chest. He was caught fully and deeply by the melody wrapping its way about the chamber. Her gestures in hand, arm and the tilt of her head brought an ache to his heart. She had captured him as in a dream.
He listened enrapt, lost completely in her performance, in her mannerisms, in her voice. His mind was drawn back to the orchard nearly a sennight past now. This enchanting beauty with the song of angels on her tongue had been wrapped in his arms. He had teased her cheek and her ear. He had kissed her deeply. She had nearly lost her senses and without his support surely she would have fallen.
She had spoken of chains.
She had spoken of her bed.
He was lost now—in her song, in her beauty, in visions of having seen her swinging young Shelly about in circles until both were dizzy. He remembered his pursuit of her. He could not recall why he had ceased chasing her. His past was veiled in a thick fog. Only Judith existed. A single thought, a solitary purpose seized his mind—he must see her again—alone.
Chapter Five
“There is nothing for it,” Kelthorne lied. “I completely forgot that I made a promise a sennight past to call upon Mr. Ash at the camp after the performance tonight. I shan’t be long, perhaps an hour including the distance I must walk.”
Laurence stared at him, his mouth agape. Silence returned to him and from the ladies as well.
Mr. Emborough cleared his throat and said that one’s promises must always be honored. “I say,” he continued, “but I should like some of that brandy we enjoyed last night.”
“Aubrey, you cannot be serious,” Laurence said then clamped his lips shut. His disapproval would have been obvious to a simpleton. Another strained silence fell over the entire party.
Kelthorne knew he was behaving badly, but he had no choice. Once Judith had taken the stage, his course had been set.
It was Miss Currivard who squared her shoulders and took charge of the situation. “Of course you must keep your promise,” she said with a smile. “As for myself,” and here she turned to Mr. Emborough, “I should also like a little brandy as well. Will you escort me?”
“With pleasure,” he said, offering his arm. The rest of the party followed suit and fell in behind him.
Laurence came up last and stared at him with utter astonishment, his hands held wide.
Kelthorne shrugged.
Laurence rolled his eyes and turned to quickly catch up with the rest.
Kelthorne watched them go. He knew he should have been overborne by a sense of remorse, instead there resided within him so great a determination to see Judith that nothing else seemed to matter. He struck off in the opposite direction without a backward glanc
e.
He walked briskly for a quarter of a mile until he began to hear laughter and the lumbering of the troupe’s wagon. He followed at a distance since several of the players were attending the vehicle and he did not wish his presence generally known. This particular visit he intended to keep secret.
When in view of the camp, he stopped and watched the wagon as it reached the site. The unloading began with the usual high spirits found among actors and actresses upon the completion of a performance.
Once in a while, someone would burst into song or a lute could be heard being plucked, or even a drum sounded. The campfire was set to burning and as the work diminished, the revelry around the fire increased; now a concertina, a lute, the drum once more, the singing of familiar songs and ballads.
The moment his eyes found Judith among the troupe, he saw no one else. And every now and then, to his great pleasure, he could hear the clear strain of her voice above the din.
In the shadows he waited, a hunter after prey.
Only when she finally retired, the third after Margaret and Shelly to leave the fireside, did he begin his approach. He was not certain just how he meant to invade her tent but so he would. The closer he drew, his blood burned in his veins. He was almost upon her when a whisper called to him.
“M’lord, a word,” Mrs. Ash said.
Caught before he could begin.
The devil take it.
*** *** ***
Judith hummed the tune, ‘The Joys of the Country.’ This was perhaps her favorite time of day, or rather night. The hour was near midnight, she had performed at her best, the earnings for the troupe were the highest they had ever been, and she was preparing for bed. Most of the troupe was still by the fire, finishing what was left of the keg of beer Kelthorne had provided several days past.
She brushed her hair in long strokes but paused for a moment as she recalled taking her place on stage and seeing that Lord Kelthorne had been in attendance. An odd inexplicable warmth flowed through her. He had been dressed formally, in a black coat, an exquisitely tied neckcloth, black breeches and stockings of the same color. She had nearly forgotten the opening notes of her first song. She smiled thinking how she had been forced to shift her gaze anywhere but upon him in order to regain her composure.
She sighed and brushed her hair anew. He had come to the theater tonight. Of course he had not come purposely to see her. Of course not. It would be absurd to think any such thing. But he had smiled at her when she had met his gaze while taking her bows. He had smiled and applauded quite vigorously.
She sighed.
He had smiled.
Kelthorne had a wonderful smile. He should always be smiling. He should always be looking at her and smiling. She laughed at herself for she was being beyond ridiculous. She must think of other things.
She glanced about her tent to see if everything was in order. In so confined a space, she was always more peaceful when her tent was neat and tidy. She had what each of the players had, a bed, a wardrobe, a table, a trunk and a stool. The niceties she had gained over a period of time added to the comfort and beauty of her tent, her standing workbox of course, a chair before her dressing table, and an excellent and very safe lantern which burned oil. Covering nearly the entire tent floor was a rug she had created by cross-stitching canvas, which was very popular at the time. She had even decorated the walls with several framed watercolors, painted by her own hand and hung from loops she had stitched to the joints of the tents, She kept her bonnets on a pegboard and because each was fetching in its way, all of them in a row had become as much a decoration as anything else. The single most expensive purchase she had allowed herself was a beautiful ceramic pitcher and basin, covered in lavender flowers, which sat on her table along with a perfume of the same name. Lastly, a tall looking glass, used by all the ladies quite frequently for the purpose of viewing the effects of a costume, stood beside her wardrobe.
On her feet were embroidered slippers of olive green and purple. Her nightdress she had embroidered about the bodice with a summery string of flowers as though garlanded from a fine cutting garden. Presently, she had a shawl about her shoulders, one that she had crocheted a year past and which was still in excellent condition.
How happy she was. In many places in her tent, she had secreted the money she had saved over the course of eight years. Of course, she had an account in Bath, but could only make deposits when the troupe passed through that fine city. She had pound notes and coins sewn into her mattress, the skirt about her bed, her cape, the padded inside lid of her sewing box and in every other place imaginable, the removal of which would require a very long time, indeed. In the bank she had four hundred pounds. She hoped to make another deposit very soon of no less than seventy-five pounds.
Such was her life. And tonight, when she had been able to add a full five pounds to her savings, she was exultant. She hummed a little more as she took the perfume bottle and dabbed a little of the lavender scent on her neck and her wrists. She liked sleeping with the delicate fragrance wafting to her nostrils now and again.
She was just turning back her bedcovers when she heard the flap of her tent move. There was only one person she expected to see at this hour of the night and that was Margaret. She turned around hoping to have a comfortable cose with her, then nearly swooned.
There in the doorway was Kelthorne.
“I did not mean to startle you,” he murmured, keeping his voice low.
His eyes appeared oddly wild. She wondered if he had been drinking and if so was she in danger from his advances?
She pulled the shawl close about her neck. “You must go,” she whispered. “I can see that you are in your altitudes, but this will not do. Were I to scream, you would have to answer to John and Henry and the others. Indeed, my lord, I beg you will leave. ”
He smiled. “Your friend, Mrs. Ash, knows that I am here so you are safe if that is what concerns you. And I am not in the least foxed. She permitted me to come to you although she said I must be gone in five minutes. So, you see I am both here by permission and have promised to leave promptly.”
“Margaret allowed you?” she queried, continuing to whisper. Well, she would certainly be quarreling with at least one person on the morrow.
She stared at him incomprehensibly. “But why are you here?” she asked, wondering what he could possibly mean by coming to her in this odd fashion and so late at night with or without Margaret’s permission.
“I do not know,” he responded. His expression was so strange. His gaze never left her eyes.
She hardly knew what to do. She gestured to her poor stool, which would hardly be comfortable for him since he was such a tall, muscular man. “Will you sit down then?”
He did not even glance at the stool but rather shook his head. “I thank you, no.”
“Kelthorne, I do not pretend to know you very well, but you seem overset. Perhaps you should leave now and call on me tomorrow when your mind is more settled.”
He shook his head. “That will never do. I do not understand this hold you have over me. When I watch you perform, it is as though you reach inside me, take hold of my heart, and refuse to let go. I have been trying to mend my ways. I have intended to make a fresh start of things. But this, this power you exert is in no manner fair to me. I wish you would desist.”
Judith hardly knew what to make of this speech except that she thought it the most ridiculous thing in the world that he would blame her for his present feelings, which to her seemed odd in the extreme. In fact, so strange was his conduct that she sat down on her bed, carefully of course lest the corner give way again, and she slowly slipped her hand beneath her pillow. Her dagger waited there. She had used it more than once to chase away the unwanted attentions of a man. John had taught her well how to wield a blade, never to lift her arm high and always to keep the sharp edge at an upward slant.
He dropped to his knees before her and placed his hands on her legs. “Let me go, Judith, I beg of you.”
“You should leave now, my lord. Again, you are hardly making the smallest sense.” Her hand trembled on the dagger. She knew the moment was ripe, that she ought to make her sentiments more clearly known by exposing her weapon, still she restrained herself, especially since for some reason she found it quite difficult to breathe. His hands were uncommonly warm through the thin muslin.
He searched each of her features in turn then let his gaze drift over her long, dangling locks.
He slid his hands into her hair and took hold of thick portions of it. “I knew your hair would feel like this.” Leaning close, he added, “And it smells so fresh, like the earth after a day of rain.”
“I washed it only this morning,” she whispered, her fingers loosening from about the dagger’s handle.
“You smell of flowers,” he said, breathing against her neck so that chills raced up and down her side.
She gasped faintly.
She was reminded of the night in the orchard and she barely restrained a groan from escaping her lips. She should push him away. She should tell him to stop. She should use the dagger at once.
Instead, she closed her eyes, released the weapon, and sighed with great pleasure for he was now kissing her neck, not precisely as he had on that first night, but with gentle and very moist touches of his lips in a long descending string.
“Lavender,” he whispered.
“Yes,” was her nearly incoherent response as she settled her arms over his back.
He leaned back and bade her look at him, but her arms remained to encircle his neck. “Tell me what this power is that you have?” he asked
She smiled, if sadly. “Only if you tell me what yours is over my ridiculously weak sensibilities. I had intended upon harming you.” Only then did she withdraw an arm from him in order to lift her pillow and expose the small weapon.
His brows lifted but he smiled. “And you know how to use it properly?”
“I have been taught by the men of the troupe, many of which come from the worst parts of London. Yes, my lord, I know how to use a dagger.”
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