“She is right,” Lady Radsbury said, but so gently that Judith turned to her. She saw much to her surprise that Kelthorne’s eldest sister was weeping. “You are very good, Miss Lovington. I did not expect to hear these words of sense from you and for that I beg you will forgive me. All the while you were in my brother’s drawing room I felt as though you belonged among us but we all know ‘tis impossible, utterly impossible.”
“But I love her,” Kelthorne said.
Judith heard the break in his voice, but pressed him by adding, “Your children deserve better. You know what people are, you know the gossip will never die, you know my reputation was ruined the day I took up with the troupe.”
“My reputation is a thousand times worse.”
“You will always be forgiven because you are a man and now I must go. Indeed, I must.”
“You cannot.” He tried to take her arm, but she slipped behind Lady Radsbury.
“Prevent him,” she whispered. “Speak to him, reason with him, remind him a hundredfold of these truths.” With that, she ran away.
For the next hour or so, Judith shed her tears. Eventually, however, she realized no amount of weeping would suffice to relieve the deep suffering of her heart. How odd to think that just a few short weeks before she arrived in Portislow she had been fairly content in her life, certainly resigned to her fate, because she was working toward purchasing a cottage in Devonshire. But in that space of time, she had tumbled violently in love with a man she could never possess. Even as sweet as the moments were that she had shared with Kelthorne, she would have wished her love for him undone for the pain that sliced through her now.
There was nothing left to be done, however, except to begin packing. On the morrow, the camp would pull up stakes and begin the slow process of moving south into Devonshire, accompanying the fair. A new audience would be found and there would be more shillings to earn as well as precious memories to forget.
From the bottom of her wardrobe, she drew a satchel and settled it on the bed, drawing it wide open. Slowly and carefully, as she had done a hundred times before, she began to pack her most treasured belongings.
“So, ye had thought to get yerself a lord.”
Judith tuned, startled by the sound of Charles’s voice. “I did not hear you scratch the canvas,” she stated, lifting her chin. He could mean no good by coming to her tent at so late an hour. Her knee twitched where the bottom of the sheath and dagger rested against her leg. She did not think she would have need of it, but there could be no two opinions on the subject that Charles Hemyock despised her.
“Quite full of yer importance these days, traipsing up to the castle every other minute. Thought to live there, did ye?”
“I never entertained such a hope,” she stated calmly, turning her back to him and removing a sampler from the wall of the tent.
He snorted his disbelief. “Did not ye just hope to do exactly that,” he said bitterly. “Always thinkin’ yerself above yer company, better than the rest with yer accent so prim, so genteel.”
She turned back to face him. “What do you want? Why are you here? If you mean to tell me again how greatly you detest me, there is no need for you have never kept that opinion to yourself.”
He lowered his lids, glaring at her through a squint. “I made a new friend tonight: The Marquess of Stolford. He knows talent and he sees it in me. He means to do great things for me.”
“Everyone sees the breadth of your abilities, Charles. You are the most gifted actor I have ever known.”
He shook his head and snorted again. “Do ye mean to flatter me now? To what purpose?”
“To no purpose. I merely offered my opinion. But as to your character, I only think it unfortunate that it does not match your abilities, for then you would be a truly great man, worthy of every success and attainment. As it is now, you will astonish me if you achieve even a mediocre career for all your profound persuasiveness of gesture and speech.”
He stood up very straight. “I knew it would come to this. Ye are jealous of me. Ye always have been and for that reason ye’ve stood in my way but fer the last time. The last time, I tell ye, so be warned, my pretty Judy. Be warned.”
With that he laughed harshly and quit her tent.
Judith sat down on her bed, carefully as always lest the corner give way yet again. She did not take his threats seriously. She had the loyalty and protection of the troupe. What could he do to her?
*** *** ***
Kelthorne stood outside the conservatory, the summer night air cool on his face. He could hear Miss Currivard’s laughter coming from the music room as well as Laurence’s voice. He smiled, if sadly. Laurence certainly had the ability to make Miss Currivard laugh. He was grateful she enjoyed his company for once Kelthorne married her, Laurence would often be at Portislow.
Still he delayed opening the door. He felt certain in doing so he was sealing his fate.
The hour was near midnight by his calculation. After he escorted his sisters back to the castle, he had left them at the front door and walked about the grounds for a very long time. He pondered all that Judith had said as well as the arguments his sisters had presented against any such union with a songstress.
In the end he had felt he had no choice but to agree with all of them. Judith was an actress. She was tainted. She would never be viewed as anything more by the society in which he moved.
She had been right about one thing, no matter how questionable his own conduct over the past ten years, his escapades would be entirely overlooked. Hers, real or imagined, would not. Even their children would suffer the insults about her past, about having lived and labored for so many years as part of an acting troupe.
Having come to an acceptance of his situation, that Judith could never be the Countess of Kelthorne and that Miss Currivard was in every respect an appropriate bride for him, he finally resolved to do his duty. Now he stood by the door to the conservatory. If he must leave Judith behind, if he must go forward with Miss Currivard, then he would begin tonight. He would ask her to become his wife even now.
He opened the door and with a steadiness if grimness of purpose, he walked to the music room where the door was half-closed. He was surprised that he could hear neither Laurence telling one of his amusing anecdotes nor Miss Currivard’s attending laughter. He pushed the door open and, much to his great astonishment, found Miss Currivard locked in Laurence’s arms.
“What the deuce? What is the meaning of this? Laurence, I cannot believe you would use me in this manner.”
They had drawn apart sharply and now stared at him. Laurence appeared conscious but Miss Currivard seemed rather amused. “I beg your pardon?” she responded, her lips twitching. “I cannot imagine what you mean.”
“Well, why are you kissing my friend? Are you not here to become betrothed to me?” The ill-usage he felt was powerful in the extreme.
For some reason, she began to laugh. “I only wish you could see the self-righteousness in your expression right now.”
“Abigail—Miss Currivard,” Laurence began softly. “Do but consider.”
She took his hand. “I have considered. I have considered for days, even weeks now, even from the beginning. He never loved me, not even in the slightest degree, and you did.”
“You love her?” Kelthorne asked, stunned.
“Aye.” He murmured, his expression haunted.
“But I do not understand? When did this happen? How?"
Miss Currivard looked at him as though he were a complete simpleton. “It happened every time your friend felt obliged to atone for your truly odious conduct or did you think me oblivious to your feelings for Miss Lovington or to your quite dogged pursuit of her?”
“I...that is…I never meant…it was a mistake…it should never have happened. I would not have hurt you for the world. I esteem you greatly. I admire you.”
Miss Currivard looked away from him, her expression growing momentarily somber. When she met his gaze anew, she said
, “Did I not comprehend your character so much as I do, that you are truly a fine man, despite your notorious reputation, I would not hesitate to say that I have never been so humiliated as I have these several weeks beneath your roof. But it will be an even greater insult to me to hear you deny that you have behaved wretchedly.”
Kelthorne threw himself into a chair by the pianoforte. “Good God, so I have,” he murmured. “I have been so lost in my own struggles, trying desperately not to love Judith, that is, Miss Lovington, that I did not even see you.” He looked up at her. “My dear Miss Currivard, how will you ever forgive me? I have been a perfect cretin.”
“That is much better,” she said, smiling once more. “But you are forgiven, you know. For had you offered for me at the outset, I should have accepted you. And had I done so, I should have doomed myself to the greatest unhappiness imaginable.”
He leaned forward protesting. “I would have tended to your happiness. I can promise you that. I would not have done you injury. I beg you will believe me.”
“I do, but do you not see how very sad that would have been for both of us, that you would have dutifully striven to make me happy? But you must understand, my lord, that is not to what I am referring at present.” She released Laurence’s hand and slipped her arm about his very tightly, drawing close to him. “Had I accepted of your offer”—here she turned to look at Laurence—”I should never have discovered until too late that a better man for me was right beneath my nose.”
Kelthorne glanced from one to the other and complete enlightenment dawned. “You love him and he loves you.” He jumped to his feet. “By Jove, this is the best news you could have given me. You are wealthy and now Laurence may write his poetry.”
“Precisely,” she stated.
“Nothing could make me happier.”
“Are you certain?” Laurence asked. “For I will admit to you that I made every use of the numerous opportunities you provided to win her affections.”
“Is this so?” Miss Currivard asked, obviously stunned, leaning slightly away from Laurence to see him better. She never released his arm, even for a moment.
Laurence sighed. “I suppose there is nothing for it but to confess the truth. Abigail, the moment I laid eyes on you I was lost. Even then, I might have been able to forget you save that you kept laughing at all my jokes.”
Miss Currivard smiled warmly. “You are the dearest man.”
“You loved her from the beginning, indeed?” Kelthorne queried.
“Hopelessly.” Laurence admitted.
Kelthorne shook his head. “I wish you had said something to me. I would have stepped aside, you must have known I would.”
“I was never assured of Abigail’s sentiments until now. I truly believed it possible that the pair of you might one day form an attachment.”
“What altered that opinion?”
Laurence and Miss Currivard exchanged a glance. Miss Currivard sighed and turned back to Kelthorne. “Because of the way you could not release Miss Lovington’s hand after the day of the fair. Do you remember? I realized ‘twas a hopeless case.”
“Of course. I see now what you were about.”
“I will admit to having had a tendre for you but after that day, most surprisingly, I did not feel particularly sad. Only then was it borne in on me how much I had come to depend upon Laurence’s society for my contentment, very deeply so.”
“I cannot tell you how happy I am,” Kelthorne said. “This has ended just as it should have.” He laughed suddenly. “Only tell me, have you heard a little of Laurence’s poetry?”
“While you were dallying with Miss Lovington,” Miss Currivard did not hesitate to explain, “Laurence was reading me all of his poems.”
“All?” he inquired.
“Well, there were a few he said he felt it necessary to burn.”
“I imagine there were.”
“But we intend never to speak of his former interests.”
“A wise decision.” He thought for a moment then addressed Miss Currivard. “There is one thing I should like to know—if you knew that I had feelings for Miss Lovington, why were you constantly forcing us to be together—Cheddar Gorge, the soiree? I always felt you had some design in mind, but what could it possibly have been?”
She smiled. “I needed to know to a certainty precisely how you did feel about her and whether, given the opportunity, you would fall so passionately in love with her that nothing else mattered. From the first I had my suspicions and they were proved wholly true. I never meant to torment you but since I was risking my own happiness, I felt obligated to understand the truth as best I could. Do you blame me?”
He shook his head. “Again, I believe you made another wise decision.”
The next few minutes were spent congratulating Laurence and wishing them both every happiness. As for his own situation, he intended to let the issue of marriage rest for awhile.
After Laurence gave him a few subtle hints by lifting his brows up and down a dozen times and shifting his eyes toward the door, Kelthorne finally bid them goodnight. He left the conservatory and headed for bed. Trudged, more like. He was happy for Laurence, but the fact that Miss Currivard was no longer available, brought Judith to the fore of his mind more sharply than ever.
What was he supposed to do now?
On the following morning, however, he discovered that his sister had a plan of her own. He stared at her shaking his head. “What do you mean you intend to introduce me to Bath society?”
“I believe I have spoken plainly enough only perhaps you wish to understand my motives better. I am sorry for you, for this tragedy that has occurred during these weeks here in Somerset. I thought Bath might provide a helpful diversion. There are always people to be met in the Pump Room and parties at least once a week. You will not be dull and I did have several young ladies who I wished to make known to you quite apart from Miss Currivard, each of whom would be quite acceptable to the beau monde in general.”
“I, too, think you will be content in Bath,” Amy said, reaching a hand across the breakfast table to give his arm a gentle squeeze. “At least I would wish it so for I vow, Aubrey, neither of us have seen you so blue-deviled.”
He rose abruptly but spoke in a softened voice to his sisters. “I know you mean only kindness, but you have to understand that I have given up my soul in relinquishing Judith and I do not believe I shall recover it in Bath. I mean to go to London.”
“No.”Amy rose to her feet and that so suddenly her chair almost fell backwards. “Aubrey, you cannot. You have been doing so well in Portislow.”
“Pray, Aubrey,” Mary said, her eyes filling with tears. “Do not do this, I beg of you.”
“I wish I could feel remorse for what I mean to do, but I cannot.” With that, he quit the breakfast room.
He returned to his bedchamber and gave orders to his valet to back his bags, and to return to the London townhouse. He then dressed in riding gear and would follow on horseback. A hard push to London was what was needed and he would do so at once. He could not bear remaining behind knowing that Judith would very soon leave Somerset. Besides, the tenderness he witnessed constantly between Miss Currivard—now a very dear Abigail—and Laurence, served painfully to remind him of what he had lost.
No, he must leave Portislow and soothe his unhappiness in the varied, if debauched, delights of London.
Chapter Thirteen
“Then we are not leaving today?” Judith asked. She had been washing dishes and now stood wiping her hands. She was relieved by the interruption since the water was far too hot.
“John says we must wait,” Margaret said. “Charles must see a doctor.”
“But does anyone know what is the matter with him? Even the smallest guess?” She felt uneasy. Charles was never sick.
“Nay. Even Mrs. Marnhull has seen ought like it. He thrashes about, complains of a pain in his stomach and will let no one touch him.”
“Has he a fever?”
“Nay.” She paused and frowned.
“What is it, Margaret? What are you not telling me?”
“He says he were poisoned at the castle when he returned the bread baskets this morning. Cook gave him a sweetmeat but why would anyone want to hurt him, that’s what I’d like to know. Sounds havey-cavey to me.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I am inclined to believe he is play-acting.”
“But to what purpose? Of everyone present, he has been the most anxious to leave.”
“Aye,” she agreed, but she frowned anew. “La, but there is Shelly teasing poor Horace.” She hurried away calling her daughter’s name.
Judith was left to plunge her hands once more into the scalding water and continued washing the dishes. She tried to feel even a small portion of compassion toward Charles but found she could not. He was little better than a weasel and even then, she thought the epithet unkind to the countryside creature.
She spent her day, therefore, relaxing in her tent or taking walks about the countryside. At two o’clock the doctor arrived and pronounced that Charles was suffering from an unknown ailment and gave him a dose of laudanum that should keep him quiet and restful through the afternoon and into the evening. The doctor would call on his patient in the morning and only then would John determine if the troupe was to finally leave Portislow.
Judith was grateful for the delay if for no other reason than that during her walks, she chose to memorize the entire vicinity, especially the areas around the castle and the orchard, which held such dear memories for her. If a constant and quite painful longing traipsed behind her, she took great care to remind herself of the various truths that had already served to separate her forever from Kelthorne. She knew only too well just how even proper gentlemen treated ladies of the stage. There would be no end to the innuendos and gossip were she to step from her present world and enter Kelthorne’s. Had she been risking only her own peace of mind, she rather believed she might have agreed to wed him but as soon as there were children, she understood just how cruel their playmates could be.
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