by Carey Corp
Uncomfortably seated in the Viscount’s box rather than her accustomed seat in the dress circle, Wendy tried to think about other things until the final curtain descended. When the actors, Peter’s friends and colleagues, took their final bows, their eyes seemed to hold silent accusations, as if they knew she was betraying him, and her heart, with James’s company.
Please forgive me, she mutely begged.
A ripple in the curtain stage right caught her attention. Offstage, a young man was doing his best to spy on the audience without being seen. Wendy’s heart slammed into her chest and her breath hitched in her throat. For an instant, she believed it to be Peter. Then her vision grew acclimated to the shadows and she realized the gentleman’s coloring was too dark, his form too stocky, to be her heart’s hope.
Before she could turn away in disappointment, the young man turned his penetrating chocolate eyes on her. Wendy froze under his scrutiny as he surveyed the boxes’ occupants with a disapproving frown. To her dismay, James chose that exact moment to perform his duties as her escort, helping her from her seat and placing her wrap about her shoulders.
Taking James’s arm, Wendy chanced a quick glace back toward the stage. The gentleman was still staring. His severe eyes fixed themselves on her, causing his countenance to darken even more. The hair on the back of her neck prickled unpleasantly, like when she had been caught in a lie as a child. Shivering, she ripped her eyes away and exited the theatre with her party.
In the lobby, she surreptitiously searched for the dark gentleman, both fearing and longing for an encounter. Somehow, albeit irrational, she felt certain that he was connected to Peter. After a moment, she saw him on the opposite side of the hall, making haste toward the exit and her heart sank as she realized he was nearly gone. But as luck would have it, fate intervened on her behalf.
A dowager and her two young companions stopped the gentleman in his tracks. Wendy watched him blanch, and then rearrange his features into a pleasant countenance. When not scowling in judgment, he was actually quite handsome to look at.
Wendy moved closer, so that she could respectably eavesdrop. However, the first word she overheard nearly caused her to give herself away. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle a startled gasp. Whilst looking the other way, she inched closer, straining to hear what the older woman was asking about Peter.
“Aye,” answered the young man, “Peter is still in America.”
“And how does he care for it?” asked the more petulant of the two companions.
“A great deal, I believe. When he last wrote me from Chicago, he was headed west.”
“Prospecting for gold?” asked the other girl in a high squeaky voice Wendy instantly disliked.
“Nay. Truth be told, I think he’s trying to find himself.”
“Why do you not urge him to come home, where he is known and loved by all?” It was the dowager who spoke.
“Nay, not all, Ma’am.”
The gentleman’s reply was so cryptic that Wendy dared a glance in his direction, only to find him looking pointedly at her. His eyes seemed to hold some sort of accusation that she could not fathom.
“Well, please tell your brother that the London stage is simply not the same without him.” The dark-haired man nodded in reply as the grand lady and her charges moved on.
Peter’s brother?
Wendy realized that she was gaping at him open-mouthed like a carp and snapped her jaw shut. As soon as he was at liberty to do so, he returned his critical gaze to Wendy. She watched as the gentleman’s brow furrowed again into a scowl. To her horror, he began to move toward her in measured purposeful steps. Her cheeks warmed as her blood rushed to her face.
Like a mouse caught in the pull of a mighty cobra, Wendy was mesmerized. As much as she wanted to flee, she was helpless to look away. In a half dozen steps, he would reach her. She had no idea what he wanted of her, but there was so much she wanted to ask of Peter’s brother.
Then she heard James at her shoulder, his hand gently guiding her elbow. For the second time that night she managed to rip herself away from those magnetic eyes and the spell was again broken. “A moment, James,” was all she said. Feeling more herself, she turned back to confront Peter Neverland’s brother, but to her astonishment he was gone—vanished into thin air.
Not long ago. But how long ago? It seemed to Wendy as if she had been flying for a long time. Surely she could not still be over the Atlantic. How long ago had she decided to fly to America to track Peter down? Sometimes it was dark and sometimes light. At times she was very warm, but now, terribly cold… and sleepy. That was the danger—if she fell asleep, she would fall. She couldn’t fly and sleep.
Again it seemed to her that she ought to have reached America by now. Then Wendy had the loveliest of thoughts. Maybe Peter would fly out and meet her. Distracted, she started to nod off. As her chin touched her chest and the sensation of plummeting ripped through her, she jerked herself awake again. But she was so sleepy and still no land was to be seen. Looking with horror at the cruel sea far below, Wendy asked herself futilely, “How long?”
Wendy awoke exhausted; her arms aching. She supposed she had been thrashing about in her sleep again. No, not thrashing, but flying…
She had been flying across the Atlantic to find Peter. The imagery was crystal clear as if it had been an actual memory rather than a dream. Most of all, she remembered the torrid ocean waiting to swallow her up. If only Peter had come to rescue her. He had been out there also, flying just out of sight—she was certain of it. So why had he not come to her, when she had needed him so?
Could it be that he was just as lost as she?
Peter folded the well-worn letter and placed it hastily into his coat. Opening it had been habit, for he knew the contents by heart. The letter, written in his recently deceased father’s hand, had caught up with him during his engagement in Chicago.
It read:
My Dear Son,
If you are reading this then I have crossed over to be with my beloved wife.
I probably would have left this world long ago if it had not been for you and your brother. Know that you boys have given my life joy and meaning. Please do not mourn for me; I am ready to go.
I sometimes got the feeling you thought I was disappointed in you for not following in my footsteps. The truth is I could not have been prouder. I always understood that your path was to be different. From the moment I saw you, you reminded me of someone I knew when I was a boy. Someone, who found me when I was lost. Someone, I loved very much.
You and your brother have excelled as men. I hope you will be as happy and successful in your lives as I have been in mine. I wish you love, family, and the gift of risk. Bravely follow your heart!
To your brother I leave our business. To you, Peter, I leave our home.
Your Ever Loving Father.
Death was not an end. Peter felt it with every fiber in his being. They would meet again, and when they did, Peter would have the chance to vocalize all that was in his heart.
As to the living, Peter had written to Griffin insisting their home should belong to the elder brother as well. He had also taken the opportunity to convey the pride of kinship he felt toward his selfless brother.
In Griffin’s penned reply, he simply said it would be his great honor to care for the house until the time Peter returned to claim it. And that he hoped, Peter might return soon.
But rather than drawing closer to home, the young actor kept moving further away.
Checking his pocket watch, Peter hurried down Sunset Boulevard toward the set where they were to begin shooting on the ‘morrow. The prospect of moving pictures was thrilling—so many new things to learn, to occupy his overactive mind—yet it had been hard to leave behind the company of players that had become his family. Harder still to know that they had resumed their rightful place on London’s stage—front and center in Wendy’s world.
Others had been difficult to leave as well; Edith
Matthison, who had turned out to be a discreet and sympathetic ear, staying up the whole night in a purely sisterly way to talk when he had needed it the most; Charles and Dion who had treated him as equal despite their decades of theatrical experience; even David Belasco, the enigmatic Bishop of Broadway. The Bishop had come to see him one final time during their Chicago engagement, renewing his offer of patronage if Peter returned with him to New York.
When Peter graciously declined, the Bishop had asked, “Will you be going back to England then, son?”
“No, after I fulfill my Chicago contract, I am headed west. D.W. Griffith has offered me a role in his moving pictures venture.”
The confusion and hurt had been clear in his would-be benefactor’s eyes. “My dear boy, it is folly to leave the stage. Moving pictures will never amount to anything. Mark my words.”
Of course the Bishop hadn’t understood his refusal—Peter scarcely understood it himself. How could he admit that he was compelled to keep moving, always trying to stay one step ahead of his wasted heart? He tried his best never to think of Wendy, but even then she would not let go of him. Valiantly he threw himself into his work but when he stopped for any length of time, it was just as if she were inside him, knocking.
It would have been a wise stroke of self-preservation to ask Griffin to cease his news of Wendy—there seemed to be very little for his brother to report of late—however, the sparseness of information was the very reason he could not sever the tie. Each tidbit was precious, soothing the nagging questions in Peter’s brain. Was she well? Was she happy? Was she cared for? Was she loved?
How he both desired and feared those answers!
Hastily he slipped his brother’s latest correspondence from his pocket. It had arrived only this morning and yet he had already read it a half a dozen times. Scanning the line that inflicted the most acute agony, Peter shut his eyes and returned the odious letter to its sheath. So Wendy had returned to the theatre… and with her young banker.
For months Wendy had been absent from London society. His constant pestering had obliged Griffin to inquire after the lady directly through bribes to one of the Darling family servants. Peter had been relieved to learn she was at home and in good health. Information beyond that was a mystery. Dutifully, Griffin had confirmed Wendy’s status each week, her health and withdrawal not changing. It gnawed at Peter, not knowing what circumstances kept his vivacious angel from the theatre. More than once he had been tempted to return to England to try and discover the truth of it himself.
On those occasions, when tempted to give in, he had to remind himself that to Wendy Darling he mattered little, if at all. It would be folly to travel across the ocean for someone who did not care for him in the slightest. If only things had been different, nothing could have stopped him from hurrying to her side. But real life was not like a theatrical, only on the stage could a hero and heroine worlds apart come together as lovers and defy the odds for a happy ending.
“Peter!”
A demanding and distinctly feminine voice cut into his reverie. Quickly, Peter put Griffin’s letter away before it could attract notice. Then he carefully fixed his expression and slowly turned around to greet the bearer of the voice. She was one of the many acquaintances he had made since coming west to Hollywood, an actress of exceptional skill.
Lily Cahill was a tigress. The actress’s uncommon beauty coupled with her steely predatory nature, earned her the nickname on the lot of “Tiger Lily”, a fusion of both flower and beast. Her reputation was that of a man-eater and currently it was Peter she wanted to devour.
From their initial introduction on the set, Peter could not help but sense there was something the Tiger Lily wanted to be to him. Cold and amorous by turns, she was accustomed to getting whatever she set her sites on. Unfortunately for Peter, once she fixed her sites on him, his polite attempts at distance did little to hinder her purpose.
Already leading lady onscreen to Peter’s leading man, for reasons he could not begin to fathom she was equally determined to assume the role in real life. Since they were working together, and he could not hope to avoid her, Peter decided to make the best of the situation and befriend the wayward beauty.
Patiently he waited while Lily tottered after him. “Peter, darling,” she growled, catching up and securing herself to him by entangling her arm through his. “D.W. has invited us to dinner this Saturday. Lionel and Doris will be there, as will Harry, Elmer, Mary, and of course, Dorothy and Lillian.” She nearly purred with excitement. “You’ve never seen D.W.’s house on Prospect Avenue, have you?”
Peter shook his head, knowing that was all that was required to keep up his end of the conversation. She continued, her violet eyes blazing with triumph, “It’s a grand house. Someday we’ll have a house as fine—finer—the finest house on Prospect Avenue and it will be a great honor to dine with us.”
Peter crooked an eyebrow but Lily was too far into her schemes to notice. She’d been doing that more and more—using “us” and “we” as if their relationship was inevitable and mutual. If she persisted, he was going to have to think seriously about returning to the New York stage. Idly, he wondered if the Bishop would renew his offer of patronage.
Accustomed to tuning Lily out and pursuing his own train of thought, Peter registered her current topic with some delay, as if from a great distance…
She had been babbling on about an engagement party and her surprise at their being D.W.’s guests of honor. Suddenly, he wasn’t following. It was as if he was missing a critical piece of information. Then he had a sinking feeling in his stomach of the most acute variety.
“Wait,” he sputtered. “This dinner at D.W.’s is to be an engagement party?”
“Yes,” Lily purred, her French-manicured fingertips smoothing an errant, dark curl from her eyes. “Isn’t that fabulous of him? I haven’t the slightest idea what I’m going to wear.”
The world slowed to a dead stop, and Peter with it. “I haven’t heard of any recent engagement.” The final word caught in his throat and he tried to clear the thick dread that had settled there with it.
“Haven’t you?” Lily asked nonchalantly, unable to meet his glare. “It was on the front page of today’s society column.” She laughed nervously, “That must be how D.W. found out.”
Peter felt numb. “Found out about whom?”
Hedging, Lily ran her fingers lightly up and down his forearm, chiding, “You really ought to read the society column, you know.”
“Who?” The question was flat but not emotionless.
Lily raised her hand to her throat as if offended. “Why us, silly.”
The world, already stopped, tinted red and Peter understood for the first time what it was to be in a murderous rage. His hands fisted reflexively as ice-cold anger flowed through his veins. He took a deep breath, dragging air through his clenched teeth in an attempt to calm himself. He couldn’t look at her. “Why would they think that?”
Her eyes widened in shock as Peter disentangled himself. “You don’t believe I had anything to do with this, do you? I thought that you were behind it.” She looked confused, then vulnerable. Her violet eyes sparkled with unshed tears as she admitted haltingly, “I thought you wanted to surprise me—that you had—finally—that you—felt—the same way—I do.”
Peter knew she was just talented enough not to be believed. Still remote, he said in a low voice. “I want it retracted.”
Changing tactics, the tigress grabbed at his arm. “Just think about this for a moment. It’s great publicity for the picture. ‘Lily Cahill and Peter Neverland—sweethearts on and off the silver screen’. We will be America’s sweethearts.”
Clinging to his control, to keep the growing impulse to do violence at bay, he managed one word. “No!”
She stepped in front of him, turning to face him with her hands flat against his chest. “Don’t be hasty, Peter. In addition to the publicity, there are other benefits to being engaged. Benefits that even you c
annot object to.” She drew her palms slowly down the length of his chest, toying playfully with the waistband of his trousers and Peter’s traitorous body responded in spite of his resolve. Triumphant, she set her jaw, daring him to negate her.
His anger melted away as he considered her proposal with revulsion. Maybe his broken heart did not mean he could not partake in convenient companionship… but he had to be honest with Lily. Although young, he would never be the sort of man to confuse lust with love. “I will never love you,” he stated matter-of-factly.
Lily raised her eyebrows and let out a harsh laugh that sounded more like a bray. “Silly boy, since when do engagements have anything to do with love?”
The woman in front of him suddenly seemed worldly, experienced and tarnished from use. Peter felt as if a veil had been lifted and he was seeing her for the first time. What he saw scared him. He had sorely underestimated the Tiger Lily and for that mistake, she had devoured him whole.
Avast belay, yo ho…
Of late Peter’s dreams had been heavier—not the chaotic whirling scenes he was accustomed to—but something nefariously darker and cumbersome. Blackness, thick and still, then the faintest taste of malice in the air, a whisper of violence in the wind… Something was blowing his way, wicked and unstoppable. In the distance he could hear Indians on the warpath, and tight on their heels, a steady ticking. But what was troubling him was closer. There on the breeze, the faintest hint of a diabolical song-
Avast belay, yo ho, A-pirating we go…
It was the sound of evil, carousing and hungry. The sound of pirates on the prowl.
CHAPTER 12
The Return Home
“Engaged?” Wendy felt the color drain from her face, her teacup suspended in mid-air, forgotten.
