Charlotte met Fosdyke’s patient stare as once more he repeated her cue, buying some time for her by elaborating on Sheridan’s words. She licked dry lips, opened her mouth and prayed that the words would come. But nothing more than a squeak emerged and Charlotte knew that she could not continue. She half turned as if to run from the sea of resentful faces, but then she caught a glimpse of a white shirt and a maroon waistcoat and above it a face grown dearly familiar. James’s eyes were watching her with their steady grey gaze from the wings. Did he expect her to fail? Was he saying, I told you this was no place for you, Charlotte Forbes? She saw him give an imperceptible nod, scarcely more than a jerk of his head, and the dark eyes grew compelling, willing her to continue, filling her with a rush of energy. Joy soared through Charlotte as she realised that James believed in her. And in that instant she learned two important facts. The most pressing was that she might well be able to cope with this night’s performance, after all. The second she would examine later, when she had the leisure to do so.
For now she knew only a kind of wonder as her nerves miraculously steadied, the shaking in her limbs stopped, the words upon the page became clear and Charlotte found herself able to pick them up easily, even carry a few in her head. She felt more alive than ever in her life before. As her voice rang out clear and true Charlotte sensed the collective sigh of relief which rippled through the rest of the cast, brought new colour to the wretched cheeks of the inn keeper and held the audience instantly spellbound. Oddly enough, as the play progressed it was the audience who helped her most by their very silence, for in some strange way Charlotte felt them draw to her side, willing her to do well.
And not for a moment did she forget that in the wings Sir James Caraddon was watching every move she made. If she failed in this he would sure as eggs take her straight home and she would have no argument left. But more than anything she found she needed his approbation.
Watching her as she turned to the audience, James suddenly caught his breath at the radiance upon her face. For a second he envied the people who sat on upturned beer barrels since it was they to whom she spoke and smiled, whom she teased with the witty words of Mr Sheridan’s play. She did not strut or paw at the air with awkward jabs as did many actors he’d seen in better theatres than this. She moved naturally about the stage, using every inch, turning instinctively in just the right way so as never to leave her back to the audience for more than was absolutely necessary. And her sense of timing was superb. Undoubtedly one of the best parts in the play, she played it for all she was worth, not missing a single twist of comic irony in the situation or wit. James did not stir from his place until the green curtains swung to after the seventh and final curtain call.
After supper, and to Charlotte’s great surprise, James came straight to her and, raising her hands to his lips, kissed them first on the backs and then in the soft palms.
‘May I congratulate you on a superb performance. I confess it made me quite proud.’
‘Proud?’ Charlotte flushed, astonished. This was carrying proprietorial concern a bit far, or was he mocking her again? She searched his face for insincerity but found none.
‘It took immense courage to face that hostile crowd, which could well have turned nasty.’
‘I - I never thought they would actually harm me,’ Charlotte responded. ‘But I did feel inadequate. Then I thought of everyone depending on me…’ she mentioned nothing of her desire to please him, as startling as it had been intense ‘…and knew that whatever mess I made of it, however foolish I might look, I had to try. Poor Fanny. I wonder if she has recovered yet. She must feel awful for letting Mr Fosdyke down, since he would have lost a good deal of money if the rest of the show had been cancelled.’
‘I wouldn’t waste too much sympathy on Fanny Watkins if I were you,’ said James, tucking Charlotte’s hand into the crook of his arm. ‘Come, I’ll walk you to the digs.’
* * * *
They strolled almost companionably together along the road and Charlotte, suddenly drooping with tiredness, could scarcely keep her head from slipping down against his shoulder where it so longed to be. The stars blinked and silently watched, interested com-patriots of all would-be lovers. ‘Fanny didn’t miss one word of your performance tonight. She watched through a peep-hole in the cellar door.’
‘Watched? But I thought…’
‘That she had passed out? So did we all. But she’d recovered sufficiently to hear the audience call out her name. It was her chuckles which alerted me to her presence. Frowning, James gave Charlotte’s hand a tiny squeeze. ‘I should take care with Mistress Watkins if I were you. She doesn’t take kindly to being upstaged.’
Charlotte was thoughtful. She realised that she had already experienced signs of Fanny’s jealousy which she’d tried to ignore. ‘You’re right. I’ll keep an eye on it. But in the last resort, Mr Fosdyke is in charge and if he says I am to play a certain part how can I refuse? I owe him so much.’
‘You owe him nothing.’
Charlotte jerked to a halt to gaze up at James with entreaty in her jade eyes. ‘I understand all you say and I’m grateful, really I am, for your trying to protect me. But I have come on this quest with very little money in my purse and have no wish to borrow, neither from Uncle Nathan, my inheritance from an uncaring father, nor from you, James.’
It was the first time she had used his name, except to herself, and it made her heart jump. James found himself not unmoved by it either. He rather enjoyed the sound of it upon her tongue; somehow softer, less shrill than when Susanna uttered it. ‘All the more reason why you should receive proper reward for the work you do. Otherwise Fosdyke will simply exploit you for all his worth, and, whatever I may think of you, Charlotte, you are no fool.’
She was still standing looking up at him, her head tilted slightly back for he was a good foot taller than she. The moonlight slanted across his face, throwing his dark eyes into shadow. ‘What is it that you think of me?’ The words seemed to come of their own volition, without any bidding from her, and she held her breath as she awaited his response.
‘I think,’ he said slowly, his eyes moving over the lines of her lovely face, `that you are a sweet, innocent…’
‘Child?’ she interrupted.
James smiled and tucked back a curl that fluttered across her flushed cheek. ‘I did not say that.’
‘But you were about to. I am not a child, James Caraddon. I am eighteen years old.’ She pulled herself up with dignity as tall as she was able, which was not impressive, and he smiled.
‘And a woman grown.’
‘Yes.’
Taking her firmly by the shoulders he held her at arm’s length while he let his gaze travel slowly down over her firm young figure. And as his eyes lingeringly acknowledged the undeniable beauty of the rounded breasts and the slender waist, a hot flush rose in Charlotte’s cheeks. ‘If that is so, then I shall offer my approbation in a manner more interesting to both of us, certainly to myself.’ And before Charlotte had any idea of his intentions his hands had slipped down her back to pull her into his arms and his mouth had closed upon hers.
His skin felt cold from the night wind but it smelt fresh and masculine and set her heart pounding. Nor did she resist. Her own hands crept up to smooth his cheeks, to curl about his neck, and as desire leapt between them she felt his hold upon her tighten. It was not the first kiss he had given her but somehow this one was different, more possessive, yet touchingly tender. As the kiss deepened Charlotte came to the second revelation of the night, a sensation in the pit of her stomach that could only be caused by love. Her heart was racing, but she was no fool. When James finally put her from him with a half laugh, she knew instinctively that the kiss meant much less to him. It certainly did not mean that her feelings were reciprocated.
* * * *
James repeated his request that Charlotte be put on the proper payroll as soon as Fosdyke arrived back at the digs that night, believing that there would not be a
better time to touch him for money than when his pockets were full from a good performance.
Fosdyke nevertheless frowned his displeasure. ‘I dare say you’ll not let me be till I agree, but I’ll tell you things ain’t good, they ain’t good at all. We’ve had a shocking season all round. In some places we counted ourselves lucky if there were a half dozen in the audience. Sometimes after days on the road the town’s mayor or magistrates would refuse us permission to perform and we must needs continue on our way, unpaid and unfed. It is not an easy life by a long chalk. Whatever little we make we share, after the pony has been fed, the damage to properties repaired, and board and lodging paid for. Sometimes it is no more than a miserable pittance, I can tell you.’
‘I understand all that,’ agreed James with some sympathy, though if he guessed correctly Fosdyke would be the one to suffer least. Nevertheless he could see that Charlotte’s burning need to have her fling in the theatre was almost as strong as this hare-brained scheme to find her mother. Perhaps if she succeeded she would be satisfied and return home, an obedient niece to her long suffering uncle. Yet James wanted to be sure that she remained as sweetly innocent as on the day she had left that home. Only if she had money, earned independently as she so wished, could she have the freedom to leave the Fosdyke Players if it should prove necessary to do so. What other precautions could he take for her except to follow her about indefinitely, and he could hardly do that, could he?
‘I see no reason why Charlotte should not have her share, less the agreed sum for your trouble of allowing her to accompany you.’ And even then Fosdyke was making a profit out of her, thought James, for the other actors did not pay their fares. But he had no wish to risk losing the argument entirely so let that point remain unspoken.
Fosdyke sighed in an exaggerated fashion. ‘If you insist then I must agree, but I would have thought that a man as well placed as yourself could have seen his way to assisting young Lottie and not left her security to the vagaries of the strolling life.’
‘It’s not my choice, damn you,’ said James through gritted teeth. The man was a boor and any moment now James would lose his patience with him entirely.
‘There is no necessity for foulness, sir. The English language is equipped with words for every occasion,’ Fosdyke stated portentously, and James held his rage in check with difficulty. Fosdyke moved to the door of his bedroom and then, almost as an afterthought, continued casually, ‘Does little Lottie have no means of her own, then?’
A prickle of alarm crawled down James’s spine. There was something in the manner in which the question was asked which put him instantly on guard. As a politician James was used to hearing people say the very opposite to what they meant. And he could not help feeling that it was as if Fosdyke already knew Charlotte’s situation and was feigning ignorance. But how could he know? Perhaps he was being over suspicious and seeing problems where they did not exist. All the same, it would be as well to take care.
‘Not that I am aware of,’ James said with commendable self composure. ‘I am glad we have settled this matter. Goodnight to you, Mr Fosdyke.’ James turned to go, but Fosdyke now seemed as ready to linger over the conversation as a moment ago he had been to conclude it.
‘I dare swear you’ll be eager to return to your lady love in London.’
‘My lady love?’ James almost gaped in astonishment.
‘Lady Susanna Brimley, ain’t it?’ Fosdyke asked, a satisfied smirk puffing out his round cheeks still further. ‘Of Courtly Place.’
‘How did you…?’
‘Know her name? I hear the gossip. Rampant for you, they do say, and warm in the pocket herself.’
If James had been angry before, he could scarcely contain his fury. He might not yet have properly made up his mind over Lady Susanna, but she did not deserve to have her name bandied about by any street ruffian. James took a step towards Fosdyke and, gathering a fistful of his coat in one hand, backed him against the door frame. The difference in the two men’s heights was now very much apparent, and if, pound for pound, Fosdyke were greater, his fat did not carry the power of James’s undoubted muscle.
‘Say Lady Susanna’s name once more in such a derogatory manner, or Charlotte’s for that matter, and you’ll find yourself unable to speak the lines in your next production. Do you understand what I am saying?’
There was no question but that Fosdyke understood. Only too well. And he was bully enough to be a proper coward. The very thought of pain made him feel ill. He attempted a conciliatory smile which flickered nervously over his thick lips, and only risked a long held sigh of relief when, swinging on his heel, James stalked to the door of his own room and after one last menacing glance in Fosdyke’s direction went inside and flung it shut behind him with a resounding thud.
As Fosdyke turned to enter his own bedchamber, his fingers on the knob trembling just a little, a figure emerged from the shadows of a doorway opposite and startled him.
‘Oh, my God, Fanny! You half scared the life out of me,’ he muttered, angry that she should see him under threat.
‘What was all that about?’ she asked, jerking her head to where James had departed.
‘Naught to do with you,’ Fosdyke sourly remarked, before considering her more closely. She was dressed in a flimsy wrap that had seen better days and left little to the imagination. She didn’t have a bad body though, for all she was now fast approaching thirty. Not to be compared with the delicacy of Lottie’s enticing little figure, admittedly, but as yet that was not available to him.
‘Get inside,’ he ordered, and, smirking with satisfaction, Fanny readily did so. Fosdyke closed the door and locked it. Until he had everything neatly worked out he’d just have to make do with what Fanny had to offer.
Chapter Nine
Christmas was celebrated with a joint of pork and a bottle or two of good wine at their digs in between the matinee and evening performances which marked the end of the Exeter run. It was a poor Christmas, not at all what Charlotte had planned for this, her nineteenth year. And she felt some guilt that Sir James had his own festive season likewise spoiled by her impulsive flight. Charlotte did not quite understand why James had not returned home to Truro to his grandmother, who must surely be expecting him, and had once questioned him upon the subject.
‘She can manage well enough without me for once,’ he had said. ‘At least, she is always telling me she can.’
‘You need not remain with the players on my account. I can manage perfectly well on my own,’ declared Charlotte.
‘I dare say you can,’ said James, but he stayed nonetheless and secretly Charlotte was glad. Despite her declaration of independence she felt safer with him close at hand.
As for James, he’d found it quite impossible to turn his back upon Charlotte, mount his horse and ride away. He made several excuses to himself: the roads were unfit, which was not strictly true, or that Christmas was too close. After that, as they moved on to Bristol and Bath, he was always going to leave following this or that performance. But he never did. In the end Fosdyke had come to him for an explanation and a protestation that he could not afford to keep Sir James indefinitely.
‘I’ll make an agreement with you,’ said James, pouring Fosdyke more brandy one freezing cold night in a village hall. The fellow was always more amenable after a glass or two. ‘I have no intention of leaving just yet for reasons of my own.’ Reasons he could not explain, even to himself. ‘But I’ll pay for my keep and more in return for a share in the profits.’
‘A share?’ Fosdyke paled.
‘I’ll invest in the Fosdyke Players. It will give you some ready cash to purchase new properties or costume, even rent your own theatre somewhere if that is what you wish. We can agree a sum, but I want a fair return on my investment. Shall we say a twenty-five per cent holding initially, with an option to increase it later?’
Fosdyke was tempted by the prospect of cash in hand. He was getting older and the months on the road grew harder each
year. A theatre of his own was an enticing prospect and with both Lottie’s talent and Fanny’s natural attributes pulling in the crowds he couldn’t go wrong. All the same he had no wish to hand over hard earned profits. ‘I’ll not deny my interest in your proposal, but how would this dividend be paid? I’d need time to get established.’
James smiled. Time was what he needed; time to help Charlotte do whatever she felt she must. He was willing enough to pay for it, particularly if it kept Fosdyke toeing the line. James guessed he’d be less likely to risk offending Charlotte if an investment of cash were involved. ‘That’s fair enough. Shall we say the first payment of the dividend in twelve months time?’
Fosdyke’s blue eyes gleamed. Who knew what could happen in twelve months? He’d find some way to postpone payment still further when the time came. ‘That would be most acceptable,’ he said, and in no time at all a figure had been mentioned and agreed, with a plan to visit a lawyer at the very next town and have it all tied up neatly and legally.
‘Let us drink to our new partnership,’ said James, lifting his glass. And as he downed the brandy in one swallow he wondered what exactly he had let himself in for, and if perhaps his brain was quite unhinged. This must be the worst investment he had ever made in his life.
Fosdyke’s self importance knew no bounds. So far as he could tell he was well set for a prosperous future; even more prosperous than the naively generous Sir James Caraddon might imagine. As soon as his current list of engagements were completed and they reached London, he meant to look about for a place to establish himself a permanent theatre. And, if he could but win Fanny round to it, with Lottie as top billing. He’d discovered, quite by chance, that Charlotte also had the sweetest of singing voices, albeit untrained. He meant to change all that the moment they reached the capital. His fortune lay in that young girl’s voice, and if he was not mistaken there was still more delights to be discovered through her bedchamber. But he must tread softly there. Never panic a young filly or she would bolt. He could surely handle a woman as well any horse.
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