Wicked and Wonderful

by King, Valerie

  “That will be an impossibility,” Miss Currivard said, smiling broadly, “for the Gypsy promised me that I was to accomplish great things and so I mean to begin now. What do you say, Laurence, to a benefit concert for Miss Lovington?”

  “An excellent notion only how shall we manage it?”

  As the trio walked back to the castle, the entire trip was spent deciding just how the task could be accomplished while including the troupe at the same time. Kelthorne was rather surprised at the vigor with which the pair entered into their scheme. God knows he was not indifferent, not by half, but given his tendency to single Miss Lovington out whether he wished to or not, he thought it wise to keep silent and let Miss Currivard make her plans.

  Later that afternoon, Judith sat beside Margaret as the whole troupe discussed quite heatedly the proposal laid before John and Margaret, in private, not a half hour earlier, by Miss Currivard and Mr. Doulting. It would seem their intention was to host a benefit concert for the troupe and for Judith jointly. The concert, if agreed to, would include the best seats by invitation and would require a minimum donation of ten pounds—an enormous amount by any standard—per person. Lesser seats would be at the usual prices, and those who wished could attend for free making use of the grass, blankets and the hillside.

  They had made it clear that the primary motivation was to help Miss Lovington secure her future and the secondary to be of use to Mr. Ash in his object of seeing the troupe engaged in London. The proceeds would be split in half just as the performance at the concert would be split, Miss Lovington performing for one hour, with Miss Currivard accompanying her, and the troupe, in whatever manner appealed to the actors, for a second hour, the arrangement of which would be entirely at Mr. Ash’s discretion.

  Judith could feel the resentment. She could not comprehend how Miss Currivard and Mr. Doulting could have been so baconbrained in making such an offer. “Of course this is nonsense,” Judith said. “I will not hear of such a thing. I shall be happy to perform for an hour but the proceeds must belong to the troupe and disbursed as is usual. A private musicale is one thing, but this ridiculous scheme of theirs is quite another.”

  “I see ye mean to show some sense,” Charles said hotly. He paced up and down between the fire ring and the tables.

  “This is not a matter of sense,” Judith said, “but of what is right.”

  “What is right,” he said, turning upon her sharply. “How dare you speak of what is right. Every time the troupe must discuss your ladyship, and whether some gentleman or other has gone beyond the pale and the whole troupe must therefore pull up stakes and leave the countryside just to protect ye—by God, were you a man, I should plant you a facer fer such audacity. You sing well enough, but ye have not a particle of the actress about you. Of what use are you to an acting troupe anyway?”

  John moved toward him swiftly and caught his arm. “That be enough, Charlie. Judy has brought the crowds when all our recitings of Richard, Henry and Hamlet have failed to excite the smallest interest. So, I’ll not have ye crowing in this manner. As fer the offer, I’ll not see it refused fer I’ll wager that it means a hefty addition to our purse and that must satisfy us all.”

  “She’s bewitched ye as she has the castle ladies. Do none of ye see that she is more trouble than she is worth?” His voice was powerful and he threw his arms about in his practiced manner so that several members of the troupe began to mutter.

  Judith had never liked Charles but in this moment, she had never quite understood the depths of his hatred for her. She knew he was justified in his complaints but she did not think that the level of his rage was reasonable. “I am willing to compromise and Miss Currivard need not know of my decision.”

  “Oh, but she will,” Charles said bitterly.

  “I vow I would never say anything.” she said defensively.

  “‘Tis not the problem, Judy,” Margaret said. “It would seem Miss Currivard suspected either that the troupe would demand as much from ye or that ye would offer as ye have. She said the proceeds would go directly into an account to be held fer ye until ye was ready to purchase yer cottage.”

  Charles slapped his hand hard against his thigh. “‘Tis not right.” he shouted. “‘Tis a mockery of the troupe.”

  “Aye, it is,” Betty said. The rest joined in soundly.

  “I quite agree,” Judith returned rising from her seat and addressing them all. “This is not as I would wish it to be. I beg you will believe me. I think there must be only one solution—there should not be such a concert.”

  “Aye, aye.” the troupe responded strongly.

  But John, ever with an eye to the troupe’s economies, said, “Ye must think, all of ye, carefully on this. There is not just the money to be thought of. Miss Currivard is a great heiress. Cook at the castle says her dowry alone is eighty thousand pounds.”

  Several low whistles went round the group. “And she has a love of the theater, which she told me herself. I do not like the idea of offending a lady who might take it into her head one day to help us, to be a patroness.”

  These words brought a stunning silence to the troupe.

  He pressed on. “Sometimes ‘tis best to give up a little to get a lot. Fer whatever reason, Miss Currivard has taken a fancy to our Judy and I believe we ought to let her have her way in this. Nay, Judy, do not argue. I am begging the troupe to make a wise, if quite frustrating, decision, with an eye to the future. Think on it.”

  “This is humbug, the lot of it,” Charles said. He threw up his arms and stomped away. The rest of the troupe began to disperse as well.

  Judith tried to speak again with John, but he would have none of it. “The troupe must decide now. Let it be. There is nought ye can do now.”

  “But I have never seen Charles so angry.”

  “Charles,” John murmured scathingly. He drew her aside and said, “Do ye think fer one minute, m’dear, that were the same arrangement offered to the likes of him, that he would be so gracious as to refuse fifty per cent?” He laughed harshly. “He would cut off his nose first and feed it to the goat, that he would.”

  Judith could not help but laugh yet she knew John spoke the truth. Charles had but one interest, his own future.

  “I just wish that Miss Currivard had been more generous to the troupe.” She then shuddered. “I wish we had not come to Portislow. I have never had so much trouble as during my time here.”

  “Well, ye may be easy, Judith, I shall tell ye something that I have not told the others. The manager of the fair says they are to travel into Devonshire in a few days and we are to go with them.”

  Judith stared at him, feeling a horrible panic seize her heart. “How many days?” she inquired, strange tears welling up in her eyes.

  “Four or five. If the attendance dwindles by the third day, we will leave the next.”

  “I see. Does Miss Currivard know that she has but a handful of days?”

  “Aye. The concert will be in three—if the troupe agrees.”

  “Very well. I beg you will excuse me, John. I... I have some sewing I must attend to immediately.” Before he could comment, she turned and walked briskly in the direction of her tent.

  Once within, she began to weep in the most ridiculous manner. Four days. She had but four days left in this beautiful vale amongst those who had been so kind to her, who had included her in drawing room life and who, for a brief moment, had made her feel as though her existence was not so wretched as it was.

  The truth, however, poured through her that when she had run away from Stolford so many years ago and at such a tender age, she had resigned every possibility, every hope that her place in society could ever be returned to her.

  Chapter Twelve

  In the end, the troupe agreed to Miss Currivard’s schemes. The concert was held beneath the stars, with a makeshift stage and with row upon row of chairs contributed by the castle and by the local theater. Beyond the chairs were twice as many rows of hard wooden benches. Past the
benches, a multitude had gathered perched on the hillside on blankets. Children ran to and fro, and the declining sun cradled the narrow valley in a glow.

  Judith stood in the wings but Miss Currivard, to a great deal of applause, had already taken her seat at the pianoforte. The hills formed a crescent in front of the stage and would return the actors’ voices as well as her own so that all could be heard. A wild juggling act performed by Henry and Freddy had already enlivened the audience. So it was, that when she took the stage, nodded to Miss Currivard, and the first notes of the ballad, “The Poor Hindoo Girl,” struck the night air, Judith gave herself completely to every note and nuance of the song.

  Upon the fading of the last note, the crowd shouted their approval and applauded at the same time. So began the concert which Judith knew was likely to change her life.

  In the middle of her second song, “The Lucky Escape,” Judith became aware of Stolford. He was seated off to her left, positioned between Kelthorne’s sisters. His smile was as lascivious as she had known it so many years ago. How she detested him.

  She chose, however, to ignore him entirely. She was no longer an unprotected child of fourteen to be intimidated by him. She had endured a great deal in eight years, and as she made her way through the verses of the song, she became more and more determined to make certain he understood she was not a halfling still green behind the ears. Kelthorne may have disrupted his assault but only just before she would have made use of her dagger, something about which she was profoundly certain Stolford was entirely unaware. She realized as she finished the song that she wished he would misbehave that she might prove her mettle.

  With that, she met his gaze, cast him a wholly challenging stare, then, on a flourish of the shawl wrapped about her elbows, swept from the stage.

  Charles followed soon after mesmerizing the audience with his selections from Hamlet, after which Margaret, John, Betty and Lydia acted an uproarious farce.

  During her next song, Judith brought Shelly on stage and as they had practiced for three days, the little girl sat on a stool beside her smiling and moving her shoulders back and forth to the beat of the music. The ladies of the audience were heard to coo and sigh for there was nothing sweeter than Shelly with a wreath of buttercups in her hair, a smile on her lips, and swaying to the rhythms as Miss Currivard played the pianoforte. The brilliant applause that followed, increasing as Shelly took her bow, prompted the little girl to move downstage and take three more bows until her mother finally carried her screaming off the stage.

  “Heaven help us now,” Margaret said, smiling broadly, “fer I do believe we have just seen an actress born.”

  Since the audience was still applauding, yet laughing at the same time, Margaret allowed Shelly to run back on stage and take one more bow. She tempted her back with the promise of one of Mrs. Marnhull’s sweetmeats if she would be a good girl. The prize worked and Judith once more took the stage.

  This time, she sang “Captivity,” a very moving ballad, which Marie Antoinette was supposed to have sung during her imprisonment. Her heart always warmed to the words and melody. Perhaps for that reason, when her gaze found Kelthorne, her song swelled and a sigh passed around the audience. A breeze swept down the hill and since the ballad was a favorite, she motioned for the audience to join her. How sweet was the sound of so many voices returning to her, blending with her voice, balancing the pianoforte and so enriching the moment that scarcely an eye was left without a tear.

  When she left the stage, Betty, Kitty and Angelique performed a carefully choreographed dance to a Mozart sonata, which Margaret played for them. The playful dance proved to be precisely what was needed to follow the melancholy aspect of her song. This was John’s gift, a talent for arrangement that kept the flow of the night’s performance moving strongly forward.

  The climax was a final number in which the entire cast sang the tune, “How Sweet in the Woodlands.” So powerful and moving was the result that the audience was on its feet before the last note had faded against the hills.

  The concert was crowned by three encores, one performed by Judith and the others by the ensemble.

  Only then did the evening draw to a close.

  The cast remained near the stage to greet those who would praise their efforts.

  Stolford approached Judith but she met him with her shoulders squared. Perhaps because of her countenance or because he had Lady Radsbury on one arm and Mrs. Newnott on the other, he did nothing more than praise her quite fulsomely. Kelthorne’s sisters did as well, but their appreciation was expressed in a cool manner. Judith believed she understood why.

  As she left the concert, she realized the only person she had not seen afterwards was Kelthorne. A very deep disappointment settled over her heart. Did he not know, not understand that in little more than a day, she would be leaving Portislow?

  *** *** ***

  Kelthorne knew he was being ridiculous skulking in the shadows as he was, but he had to see Judith one last time, alone.

  As the crowds streamed away from the stage, he stole into the wooded growth at the edge of the hill and watched and waited. He had seen her address his sisters and Stolford. How proud he was that she had met the marquess so confidently. He had smiled thinking of her dagger and to a degree wished that Stolford would provoke her that he might feel the sting of her blade.

  He watched her leave the concert area at last and as she began making her way westward back to the camp, he kept track with her progress holding to the shrubby growth of the hillside. She kept glancing all about her as though looking for someone.

  He heard Miss Currivard’s voice and saw that she and Laurence were calling to Judith. How animated Miss Currivard was gesticulating with her hands in a manner that reminded him of an excited bird. How much she enjoyed performing with Judith. How guilty he felt about her presence in his home when his desire was all for Judith. Still, he waited.

  At last, Laurence and Miss Currivard moved on. Laurence politely offered his arm and Miss Currivard took it. How good Laurence was to have tended to her when he had not. He would have to thank Laurence later.

  Now, however, he must speak with Judith, he must say good-bye in the only manner that would ease his heart. He must hold her in his arms, only how to reach her with so many people around, though fewer by the minute. She dawdled. She spoke with those who passed her. What was she waiting for? Why did she not turn toward camp? Worse, still, how was he to keep her from doing so? Once Laurence and Miss Currivard were well out of sight, he stepped from the woods and waved to her. The hour was late and the light very dim. She saw him and did not hesitate but picked up her skirts and began to run.

  When she reached him, he drew her deep into the shadows.

  “I am leaving very soon,” she said a little out-of-breath.

  “I know. I had to see you one last time.”

  “I wished to say good-bye as well so I kept looking for you. When I could not find you, I was desolate. But here you are.”

  He could barely see her face. “I am here. Judith, my darling, whatever am I to do when you are gone?”

  She touched his face gently. “I was never happier than when I was with you,” she said quietly, her thumb stroking his cheek.

  “Oh, God,” he breathed, taking her strongly in his arms. He kissed her forcefully and to his great delight she wrapped her arms about his neck. A powerful desperation existed between them in that moment. Was she really leaving? Would he not see her again? How could he bear such separation? How would Judith fare without him?

  *** *** ***

  Judith felt her tears begin to seep from her eyes and roll down her face and along her neck. She could not seem to stop them. She realized now that she loved him. That all which had transpired between them was more than just a transient tendre. She loved him. Her heart belonged to him and always would.

  She drew back and swiped at her tears. “I fear I have become a watering pot, but dear Lord Kelthorne, I am going to miss you, quite dreadf
ully.”

  “I... I love you,” he proclaimed suddenly, taking her once more into his arms. He kissed her forehead, her cheek, her chin. “I love you, Judith. With all my heart, with all my being. You have become as necessary to me as the sun to the moon, the tides to the sea, the day to night. Would there be any beauty in my life without you, any perfection, any completion? Judith, I wish you to—”

  “Aubrey,” a female voice called out sharply.

  Judith released him and turned to stare into the field beyond. She saw that both Kelthorne’s sisters were not fifteen feet away.

  Kelthorne took her hand and led her from the woods. “You begin to frighten me,” he called to them. “I was sure we could not be seen.”

  Lady Radsbury shook her head. “We saw Miss Lovington running toward the woods and became concerned for her.”

  “And how fortunate,” Mrs. Newnott said, scowling, “that ‘twas we who saw her. Good God, Aubrey, what were you thinking?”

  Judith was deeply embarrassed on so many score.

  Kelthorne drew her close to his side. “I am in love with her,” he stated. “I mean to marry her.”

  His sisters’ mouths fell agape in unison. Judith might otherwise have been amused but the situation was rife with every possible pain. She turned toward him and withdrew her arm. “You cannot be serious,” she said, so much so that he turned to her with a shocked expression.

  “I was never more so. Do you not wish to be my wife?”

  “What I wish I forsook eight years ago. I have never been ignorant of that nor should you. The things you said to me in the orchard the other night, these are precisely what will always be thought and believed of me. How could I ever assume the role of your wife without feeling the disapproval of everyone who is important to you for so long as I lived?”

  “I do not give a fig for that.”

  “For the comfort of your family, of your sisters, of your children? Good God, Kelthorne, you have not thought the situation through in the least.”