by Carey Corp
Wendy seated herself excitedly in the first row of the Royal Circle and began examining her programme. She loved the story of the Three Musketeers and greatly anticipated this new production. Over the past fortnight, she had worked herself into more than one agitation trying to visualize the cast enacting her most beloved scenes. Little did she realize how much the production would exceed her expectations.
The girl scanned the curtained stage. Something more than anticipation tugged at her hopes. A pull, nearly magnetic in nature, caused her eyes to fix on the far right corner—the actors’ stage left—as if the meaning of life, itself, were there and about to reveal all its mysteries to her.
“Wendy dear,” exclaimed Maimie pulling out a handsomely feathered fan. “The play has not yet begun and already you are flushed and trembling. You must try to calm yourself. You will never attract a husband in such a tizzy.”
At the word husband Wendy looked up sharply. “Do not even presume to joke about such matters, Maimie. James will not be put off much longer. Father and Mother seem to quarrel fortnightly about how to press him for an engagement. Aunt Mildred shamelessly flatters his great aunt and grandmamma. Even the dressmaker is dropping hints. Every time she comes, she brings sketches of the latest wedding gown designs from Paris. I am at my wit’s end! Truly you and this theatre are the only bits of peace afforded me.”
“Even this,” Maimie gestured around her, “may soon be coming to an end. Mother says that once I marry, it will not do for the Viscountess Withington of Perrin Hall to appear in society unchaperoned and without her husband. Guessing on Lord Withington’s tastes, I shall be doomed to a box at the Opera.”
“The Opera?” Wendy exclaimed in horror and grasped her friend’s hand. “Oh Maimie, what will I do when you become a bride? I shall die of loneliness.”
“You will marry, too, and everything will turn out right in the end. You will see.”
Shaking her head, Wendy closed her eyes and sighed. “Aunt Mildred is odious indeed, but for the sake of this” indicating the theatre with a sweep of her hand “I shall have to endure.”
“If only you married, you would gain independence from the old spinster’s iron fist.”
“And trade it for the control of a husband? I have always wanted a family of my own, to be a mother, but at what cost, dear friend?”
An expectant hush fell over the theatre. Wendy turned her attention again toward the stage to see Mr. Charles Frohman, the producer and an American, standing before them.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, the part of D’Artagnon will be played by Peter…uh…Peter…um…Neverland—Peter Neverland, who will be making his stage debut.”
Wendy’s eyebrows raised in surprise. Peter Neverland? She’d never heard of him. A quick glance at Maimie confirmed he was unknown to her as well.
The curtain rose while Wendy leaned perilously forward, scanning the stage in annoyance. D’Artagnon was one of her favorite literary characters. She had been looking forward to Granville’s portrayal. The role would require skill and subtlety—no novice to the stage could do it justice. And besides…that is…and…
Wendy’s train of thought abruptly derailed, for D’Artagnon had stepped from the very spot where her eyes had previously alighted. As he took center stage, everything else ceased to exist. For her, the world had become pitch black except for one shining spotlight causing the young man below to glow as if lit by the sun itself. He was not merely an actor but an angel—D’Artagnon incarnate!
To say the actor was handsome was an understatement. He had not the delicate features of some pretty men. No. For lack of a better description, he was breathtaking!
His thick chestnut hair had a slight curl with copper and golden highlights that shimmered under the stage lights. He had a straight, aristocratic nose and his square chin bore a delectable cleft. When he smiled, his generous mouth revealed white, straight teeth and deeply dimpled cheeks.
His dazzling eyes were by far his most striking attribute. Deep emerald green, colored with flecks of gold and mahogany, they were terrible and sublime all at once. They seemed to search Wendy out in the darkness. Caught in their gaze, she felt transparent as he stared up at her with eyes so bright that they seemed to bore two holes to the Heavens.
Although he was the height and size of a man, he had a discernable boyishness to him. It was the kind of combination, Wendy reflected, that made him appear older than his actual years but would, in later life, make him seem considerably younger. Coupled with his unrestrained zeal, his appearance made him glorious—god-like. Wendy could not take her eyes off him.
For the next three hours, there was only Peter. The play, the actors, the words meant nothing to her. Every time he exited the stage, Wendy bit her lower lip in anguish. Without realizing she was doing so, she held her breath as long as she dared. Staring at the wing, she willed him to return so she could breathe again.
The final act contained a thrilling swordfight. Peter was magnificent! He was so sure and brave that Wendy felt certain he was a swashbuckler in a previous life.
As the curtain closed, the audience rose to its feet, as one, but Wendy could not move. Overcome with emotion, her whole body trembled with an unexpected force. She ached with the need to know Peter; longed to bare her soul to him—confide her every thought and fear—without restraint. She needed to consume every scrap of information Peter could give her and this need felt very close to madness.
If she had been capable of rational thought, she would’ve had an epiphany as to why so many of Shakespeare’s plays ended in tragedy. For the line that separates true love from insanity thins to the point of transparency. But Wendy had no such insight.
The unfortunate girl was undone.
Eyes closed and shivering, she sat for the longest time in torment. Finally, with Maimie’s pleading and the insistence of the head of ushers, Wendy left the darkened theatre feeling more confused and alone than she had in her whole life. It seemed her entire existence began and ended in that single afternoon alongside the story of D’Artagnon…and the actor, Peter Neverland.
It would seem improbable, impossible even, that two people who’d never spoken could form such an immediate and earth-shattering attachment at first sight. Very few have the aptitude to see it and even fewer the propensity to experience it. But you should understand, there are unseen forces at work.
If one were to look toward the Neverlands, a certain island would appear to be waking up. Through the mist, we can just glimpse the first stirrings of spring after an interminable, frozen winter. Furthermore, Wendy and Peter are not unknown to one another, even if both have forgotten and remain quite ignorant of their previous acquaintance. Despite thinking themselves strangers, each felt as if they had danced a hundred dances and shared a summer’s worth of conversation with the other.
And now that we understand the way of it, let us draw closer to discover what each makes of this most fortuitous encounter.
At Peter’s urging, Griffin took up a permanent station in the stage left wing. From that position he could observe Wendy and report to Peter between scenes.
It was from that vantage Peter had been waiting with his brother just prior to curtain, when Mr. Frohman made his announcement. “Ladies and Gentlemen, the part of D’Artagnon will be played by Peter…uh…Peter…um…” Having forgotten Peter’s surname he glanced helplessly toward the brothers.
But before Griffin could say Smythe, Peter blurted out, “Neverland.”
Flustered, Frohman continued, “Neverland—Peter Neverland, who will be making his stage debut.”
Griffin raised his dark eyebrows whispering, “Neverland?”
“A stage name, Brother. In case of disaster, I would hate for this to reflect on Father.” At the moment of decision it had popped into his mind, unbidden. And although he could not articulate his reasons, he rather liked the name. It felt exotic and comfortable at the same time, like a well-loved treasure from abroad.
As the curtain rose, Peter looked to Wendy
in the audience. Putting his hand on his heart, he sighed heavily. “Look how she leans forward in anticipation.”
Actors began taking the stage while Peter listened anxiously for his cue. His hand slipped automatically into his right pocket searching for his good luck charm. Superstitiously, he lifted it to his mouth and kissed it. “Oh love, do not fail me nor forsake me.” His cue. Tucking the talisman safely away, he took up his destiny center stage.
Three hours later, he returned to the same spot to consult Griffin. He’d been so greatly heartened by his brother’s reports between scenes that during the curtain call he had openly held Wendy’s celestial gaze. His bows had been for her alone.
Although responsive throughout the play, his Wendy now seemed distraught. She did not stand with the house, in fact she hardly moved. Instead, she examined him with such intensity that Peter felt she was trying to see into his very soul.
Even after the curtain closed, Peter continued to watch Wendy from the shadows trying to guess the meaning of her reserved, unexpected reaction. “Why does she not move? She did seem to enjoy the play, did she not, Griffin?”
“Aye, Peter, she did.”
“And did she not laugh, smile, cry, and cheer in earnest?”
“In truth, as I have told you, she did all those things.”
“Then why does she yet sit there so pale? Oh Griffin, perhaps she is ill.”
“Peter!” Mr. Boucicault’s booming voice resounded from backstage. “Peter! Where are you? Everyone is waiting to congratulate you!”
Peter bit his cheek in agitation. “Griffin, will you please go tell everyone that I will be there presently?”
“Aye, Peter.”
In the stillness, Peter watched, astounded, as a subdued Wendy was led away by her companion and the head of ushers. Her departure left him feeling unsettled and vaguely bereft, as if his life had been placed on pause.
Completely alone, he slipped his good luck charm out of his right pocket and lifted it to his lips. When he awoke on the doorstep of Smythe and Sons, it was the sole possession on his person and he was never without it. Like him, it was a mystery. To Peter, the talisman was what he wished on—where he stored his hopes and dreams—but to others it was just a little broken half of a porcelain thimble.
As had happened many times before, Peter’s dream guide came to him in his sleep. She was a tiny, beautiful winged creature illuminated from within and the size of his fist. Though she spoke to Peter in musical tones that had no speech, Peter understood her all the same. “Take me to Wendy,” he commanded and the bright spirit took off in flight with Peter following close behind. They sailed over London and into the night sky. To Peter, it seemed like years that they flew, over oceans and strange lands, following stars. Finally, they approached a lone island rising from the sea. That wild, primitive land seemed a strange place to encounter Wendy.
As the guide led him across a sparkling lagoon and into the dense jungle, her pace quickened. Dodging branches and giant leaves, Peter struggled to keep up. The spirit was getting too far ahead and he could barely make out her glow in the distance.
“Please slow down!” he shouted in vain.
As she vanished from view, it occurred to him that the guide had purposely taken him to this place to lose him, and that his dear Wendy was still back in London asleep in her bed. The spiteful creature had led Peter to the opposite end of the earth and meant for him to never return…
That night was the first time Wendy dreamt of the little pixie. Wendy stood alone on the darkened stage when an illuminating glow appeared before her. She was exceedingly happy to be rescued from darkness and by such an exotic and lovely creature. Although she did not understand what the beautiful creature was saying, she did understand that the pixie was offering to take her to Peter.
Without hesitation, she followed as her glowing guide led her down into the bowels of the theatre. They seemed to go for hours through an unending labyrinth of damp corridors and dusty staircases. The further down they went, the faster the pixie seemed to go. Running, Wendy barely made it to each corner in time to seem where the glowing guide turned next.
“Please wait!” she begged.
Stumbling, she was again in darkness. It then occurred to her that the delicate creature had intended for this all along. Peter was probably on the stage this very moment looking for her. Lost and alone, Wendy knew beyond certainty she was never meant to make it back…
CHAPTER 6
A Knock at the Door
Nothing horrid was visible in the air, yet Peter’s progress had become slow and labored, exactly as if her were pushing his way through hostile forces. Sometimes he hung in the air until he had to beat on it with his fist.
They don’t want me to land, Peter thought. But he could not say who “they” were. With great effort, he touched down in a glade. At his feet, lay Wendy, a mass of blonde curls in a nightdress and as still as the grave.
“She is dead,” he said uncomfortably. “Perhaps she is frightened at being dead.”
He started to turn away but Wendy’s arm stayed him (for indeed she was not dead, but merely very ill and in peril of dying). “If she lies here,” Peter bemoaned, “she will die.”
Then Peter had a wonderful idea. He would build a little house round her that would protect her until she recovered. Kneeling, Peter declared to Wendy, “I am your servant. If only you could tell me which type of house you like best?”
Wendy stirred in her sleep. Her lovely mouth opened into a perfect ‘O’ and without opening her eyes, she began to sing:
“I wish I had a pretty house,
Gay windows all about.
With roses peeping in, you know,
And babies peeping out.”
A tiny house with red walls and a mossy green roof appeared around her. The house was quite beautiful, and no doubt Wendy was very cosy within, though, of course, Peter could no longer see her. He desired more than anything to go inside and watch over Wendy, but as he approached the door, he realized there was no knocker. “However am I to enter,” Peter lamented, “if I cannot knock?”
He scoured the glade until he found the discarded heel of a shoe, which had the makings of an excellent knocker. Triumphant, he turned back to the little house only to find it gone—and Wendy with it. Both had been carried of by the elusive “they.” Blinking at the empty glade before him, Peter wondered if he would ever see his Wendy again.
For nearly a week, Peter could not shake the image of an ailing Wendy being led from the theatre. Worry that she was unwell gripped his heart, casting a pall over the joy that should have been his successful theatre debut. He needed to know she was in good health before his grip on sanity became lost to all-consuming fear.
The Thursday before the following Saturday matinee, Mr. Frohman announced his intention to throw a grand ball for theatre patrons. The event, to be held in a month’s time, would serve dual purposes: an endeavor to increase private donations and an opportunity to celebrate the successful run of The Three Musketeers with the triumphant debut of their very own stage mouse, Peter. For Peter the news meant an even greater purpose, the very excuse needed to ascertain Wendy Darling’s state of being.
Pacing back and forth in the front office of Smythe and Sons Accounting Firm the next morning, Peter anxiously awaited the arrival of his elder brother. When Griffin entered, he had scarcely had a moment to remove his muffler and greatcoat before being set upon.
“Peter,” Griffin reprimanded. For he knew the source of his younger brother’s worry as well as he knew himself. “You must calm yourself. On the ‘morrow you can assure yourself that Miss Darling is well.”
Peter smiled, a fierce gleam sparked in his jewel-like eyes. “I shan’t have to endure the agony of another day. If you are willing to help me—” Anxiety replaced his grin as he pleaded, “You will help me, won’t you, Griffin?”
“Aye.” Griffin was well enough acquainted with Peter’s schemes to trust it would be equal parts benign i
ntent and ill-conceived impulsiveness. However, where his brother’s mental peace was concerned, Griffin would endeavor to aid in his peace of mind.
“Thank you,” Peter replied and produced a sealed invitation address to Wendy in elegant script. “This is an invitation to Mr. Frohman’s grand ball. Will you deliver it to Miss Darling?”
“Aye, Peter.”
As Griffin began to shrug back into his coat, Peter added, “And wait for a reply by her own and most dear hand?”
“Aye.” Griffin began to rewind his muffler round his neck until Peter snatched the end and halted his progress.
“And—confirm she is in good health?”
Although this seemed like a lot to ask of a mere messenger, Griffin merely nodded and extended his hand for the invitation.
As Peter handed over the parchment, he acknowledged with a small measure of chagrin, “For the life of me, I cannot fathom why you indulge me so.”
Although meant as rhetorical, Griffin took the question to heart. With a far-away look in his ebony eyes, he answered, “In truth, it’s because I feel as though you took me in, rather than the other way around. I cannot explain it, but sometimes in the twilight of waking I dream that I’m scared and lost and you rescue me.” He shook his head to dispel the vision. “Just a fancy, I suppose. Be assured I will execute your errand to the exact detail.”
Watching his brother’s retreating form, Peter marveled at his fortune. Providence had quite easily brought him a family and love-at-first-sight. Although unable to recall life before Highbury Street, he felt sure that he must’ve done something noble to earn such a goodly lot. Griffin’s frank words, while improbable, only lent credence to this idea.
Now we know how Peter rescued forgotten babes and guided those lost boys until they were on the verge of manhood. Each and every boy deposited back into Kensington Gardens had the highest moral character. They entered adolescence fearlessly and grew up to become brave men who made their mark on our world. Some of the most influential men in our history were produced in just such a way. But those are stories for another time.
