Shades of Neverland

by Carey Corp

  Wendy was still young and inexperienced enough in the ways of the world to feel sure that her marriage would be different. Not a marriage of convenience, but one of partnership and a shared bed, no matter how many offspring were produced. To wish for a marriage based in passionate love might be overreaching—she was no longer that foolishly young—but mutual fondness and genuine caring seemed a goodly lot to achieve in such a callous world.

  The Whitby’s lived on Park Lane, in a modern edifice of stone and glass just round the corner from Apsley House. They were one of those grand families that everyone generally admired but no one thought particularly much of. They were pleasant, if bland, and accepting, within certain circles. Already they had embraced Wendy as a most-beloved daughter, although the type of daughter they thought her to be remained most unclear.

  As the car pulled into the pristine half-moon drive and James stood gravely by, waiting, Wendy was grateful that she had the foresight to send her family on ahead. During their last outing James had intimated he wanted to speak to her alone, although what he could possibly need to say that could not be discussed in front of their friends, Wendy could scarcely imagine.

  Agreeing to a turn in the garden, they walked in silence for some moments before James got to the point of his request. “Miss Darling—”

  “James, we are to be married soon. At some point you must learn to use my Christian name.” Her eyes twinkled in amusement at her betrothed’s obvious discomfort. “Wendy.”

  “Right,” James drew in a deep breath before starting again with chagrin. “Miss—her—I mean, Wendy. I may not be a shrewd man, but I am not so dense as to fail to notice that I care a great deal more for you than you do for me.”

  The statement, although apt, offended Wendy deeply. It was the kind of truth that, if overheard, would make others think poorly of the both of them. “Nonsense James—”

  Cutting off her protestations with an upturned hand, James continued. “I am not a fool, Wendy. I realize you do not love me. And I know that you are feeling pressured as much as I to enter into a favorable match. The difference between our situations is that I genuinely feel for you and I had hoped with time you would care the same way about me.”

  Hearing her private thoughts spoken so sensibly from James caused Wendy’s cheeks to burn with humiliation. Unable to form words of protest, she stared at him open mouthed. Even if she had known what to say to negate him, would she dare indulge in such bold-face lies?

  Pacing away from Wendy, James directed his wistfulness at a small tree erupting with tiny pink buds. “You see, I want a proper home… and children, and laughter… I can live without love, if you can give me those things. If you can respect me and learn to care for me, I will be content. But if I am asking too much, or if you have committed your heart elsewhere, then I release you.”

  Wendy started to attest that she had accepted his engagement and was therefore committed to him, when he annoyingly cut her off again. “Do not speak now and please know that I will not think ill of you, no matter what you choose. If you are ready to embrace a life with me then come to the house to celebrate. If you are not able to do as I ask… then go from this place with my blessing and my most fervent wish for a long and happy life.”

  Watching James’s retreating form, Wendy took a strange pride in his resolute carriage which conveyed both sides of his firm yet gentle nature. He would make a great husband—for some lucky woman—but… was that woman to be her?

  James, as usual, was the voice of all things logical. For a family and the blessings of motherhood, one could forsake passion. It was a wise, practical and very grown-up decision. Isn’t that what her own mother and Maimie—indeed most women—did?

  Taking a deep breath, she knew she had mere minutes to decide the matter before her mother, or worse Aunt Mildred, came in search of her. How James had guessed at her otherwise engaged affections she could not tell, but he had released her to follow her heart. Had she not already tried that with disastrous results, she might be sorely tempted now. However the debacle of trying to catch Peter’s ship had put her in bed for weeks with heartbreak. And while Maimie would still urge her to follow a certain actor to America, she was not hearty enough to leave everything behind on a whim and the vague hope of requited love.

  No, when in came to impetuousness, Wendy was weak. But she was loyal and true and when she loved, she loved with her whole heart. It occurred to her then that her fault was not a lack of bravery to act, but that she loved so in the first place. It was such a delightfully mature thought that when something deep inside of her rebelled obstinately at the folly of her logic, Wendy refused to pay any heed.

  Noise, the rustling of skirts coming down the garden walk caused her to steel herself. But instead of Aunt Mildred’s severe glare, it was her dearest friend’s compassionate face that came presently into view.

  “There you are dearest.” Maimie said, her delight at encountering her friend lighting up her pretty features. “Your Aunt Mildred is in quite rare form. From the way she’s carrying on to the Whitbys you’d think she was to marry James instead of you.”

  Wendy had never been as happy in her whole life to see her sympathetic, true friend. When Maimie had rounded the bend, the relief that coursed through Wendy’s body had been instantaneous and all-encompassing. Not only would she have a few more minutes to make the most important decision of her life, but she now had near her the one person whose very presence was a comfort to her soul. Although Maimie had made her thoughts and feelings on Peter Neverland quite clear, she’d said very little of late about Wendy’s intended.

  “Maimie,” Wendy began uncertainly, “You do like James, do you not?”

  “Of course.” Maimie’s smile was genuine, without malice or mockery.

  “And have you always liked him or… have you learned to like him, since we… I mean, since I…”

  …settled for him?”

  Bristling at having the truth spoken so bluntly for the second time in the same hour, she protested, “I have not settled!”

  “You have—and it’s fine, Dearest. I liked James before all that. Just so happens that I liked someone else for you better.”

  “Why?” Wendy looked down at the gray, pebble-strewn path, afraid if she met Maimie’s astute gaze the girl would read her too clearly. “I mean, why Peter?”

  “Because you’re in love with him. You have been, from the moment you laid eyes on him, and I am convinced you always shall be.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve never been in love myself, but I’ve seen it. On stage and in real life. When you have a marriage such as mine, it is impossible not to recognize the genuine thing when it crosses your path. The kind of love that makes one do the most foolish and nonsensical things—like chasing ships and crossing oceans. The kind of love that makes one’s heart take wing to defy the laws of nature and man.” Maimie paused and Wendy made the mistake of looking up into her friend’s impassioned face. “The kind of love you hold for Peter.”

  “But,” Wendy argued, “if that love, no matter how strong, is completely one sided, is it not in fact, something else altogether? Something unhealthy?”

  Maimie dismissed her reasoning with a small huff. “Until you hear Peter’s feeling from his own mouth, I would not deign to make such presumptions. There’s still time to follow him to—”

  “No.” Shaking her head back and forth, Wendy tried to dispel the odious memory of her frantic behavior on the jetty as Peter’s ship had sailed away. Never before or hence had she felt so helpless or alone. With James she had certainly never experienced the relentless myriad of unsettling emotions that every encounter or thought of Peter seemed to produce. In fact, with James she felt quite the opposite, secure and stable—no amazing highs but more importantly no devastating lows.

  Suddenly, Wendy realized her choice was already made. “No,” she repeated, “My family and my life are here. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t be reasonably content with
James. And above all, I have you. Will you help me?”

  Despite the tears shining like jewels in her eyes, Maimie nodded. “Anything, Dearest.”

  “Help me to pretend that Peter never existed and that James is my first choice.”

  “If that’s truly what you want—”

  “It is.”

  “Then yes.” The girl linked her arm through Wendy’s in a display of sisterly camaraderie. “We shall both delude ourselves to be madly in love, together.”

  As they walked toward the Whitby house arm in arm, Wendy couldn’t help feeling she had navigated a fork in the road and, after committing to a direction, had once again chosen the safe, sensible path.

  No, she was not strong like Maimie but Wendy could be strong in her own way. She would embrace that which life had offered to her, companionship and mutual caring. And above all friendship. And despite today signifying the end of her girlhood dreams, Wendy was strong enough to accept her life-to-be as Mrs. James Christopher Whitby III with a measure of gladness.

  Shoulders back, head high, Wendy resolutely followed the winding path that would lead her out of the garden of temptations into her chosen life. As she walked she smiled in earnest, feeling for the first time like a woman in control of her own destiny.

  A fortnight after leaving Hollywood behind, Peter stood on the deck of the mighty sea vessel the Lusitania, contemplating the darkness. Since the debacle in the dining room the first night aboard ship of trying to make polite conversation amidst his total distraction, Peter had shunned the other passengers, preferring instead to take his meals in his rooms.

  How different was this crossing than the previous one with Mr. Frohman and Mr. Boucicault. Then, he had the whole world in front of him to experience and the vague inclination he could outdistance his memories. Ironically, in all those months in America those memories had remained his most faithful companions.

  He was anxious to be home and yet scared of what would happen once he arrived. His own skin felt alien, as if he had been cast into a fictional story. Every moment he feared was about to be his last as his imagination conjured up every manner of disaster from rogue waves, to crocodiles and pirates. Interruptions he both dreaded and longed for.

  Often he’d reflected on the poor, unfortunate girl from the jetty, the one who’d caught Mr. Boucicault’s fancy enough to remark upon. Although Peter had not witnessed her for himself, he oft imagined she was a ghost. Since the start of this voyage, to Peter’s mind she’d become an apparition of Wendy’s spirit beseeching him not to leave her.

  Peter attributed his illogical fancies and the growing unease they produced to guilt. He felt terrible about letting D.W. and the rest of the Biograph Company down. They would have to recast and reshoot all Peter’s scenes, a fact the Tiger Lily was none too pleased with. Peter remained tormented by their final—and very confusing—confrontation.

  Despite the certainty Peter felt that Lily would recast him off-screen, the actress seemed loath to let her leading man go. She had followed him from D.W.’s party to his rooms, barging in on him as he haphazardly packed his belongings, his head spinning slightly from Scotch and revelation.

  “Peter darling,” she had purred as if all was right between them, “Whatever are you doing?”

  “Returning to England.”

  “You cannot be serious. Because of our tiff?” She pouted her lower lip and batted her eyelashes at him then. “Would it amend things if I said I was sorry? Because I am, Love.”

  Peter stiffened giving her the merest of fleeting glances. “Don’t call me that.” Turning back to his chore, he focused on the task, deciding to ignore Lily until he could walk out the door and away from her for good.

  “Call you what? Love? Don’t you deserve love Peter?” She let the question lie between them for some time before continuing in a husky voice. “Don’t you want love?” In the pause, Lily had shimmied out of her gown and was now approaching him clad only in her slip.

  Shocked by her brazenness, Peter stared as the Tiger Lily moved in for the kill. She put his hands on her hips as she leaned close, whispering, “Don’t you want me? I can show you love.”

  “No.”

  “Your mouth says, ‘No’ but your body is saying, ‘Yes!’”

  Pressing her lips against his neck she repeated, “Yes!” Then they were kissing, the kind of kisses that are full of liquor and violence and can never amount to anything satisfying.

  Lily backed him across the room until the backs of his knees bumped the bed and they fell into a tangled heap. “Say you will stay,” she commanded, pulling at his hair.

  “No,” Despite his answer, he did not pull away.

  “Then take me with you,” she hissed.

  In the end, it was Lily’s own words evoking thoughts of home and of Wendy that saved him. Pain returned—an excruciating mass in his chest—at the thought of his beloved in another’s arms.

  Feeling the weight of betrayal, he roughly pulled back from Lily’s claws and gathering up what he could, walked away without so much as a goodbye. Enraged, Lily shouted at his back, “Whoever your little harlot is, she’ll never love you!”

  Her parting words hit their mark, filling Peter with uncertainty for the future but leaving no doubts about his decision to go. No. What he had left behind in the West would not be missed.

  Unconsciously he slipped his talisman, the little thimble half, from his pocket and soothed himself by tracing its contours. Returning home was an errand of folly and although he had moments of purpose and certainly, he was assailed by doubts. He had no assurances to believe upon his return that he would be embraced rather than smacked. But he couldn’t not go. Couldn’t not try…

  He should not, indeed had no right to, feel the way he did about Wendy’s engagement. She did not belong to him—quite the opposite. And yet, it was as if she were some vital organ, without which he would certainly perish.

  Returning the talisman to his pocket, his fingers brushed against the many pages of parchment resting within. The half-written letters were all poor attempts to announce his imminent arrival to Griffin and all abandoned for lack of a sane explanation. What could he say? He was returning to England to incur one last foolish encounter with the love of his life before she pledged herself to another? Or perhaps that he was coming to foil Wendy’s marriage by professing his love? No matter the reason, when written down it sounded flimsy and full of vain conceit.

  There was that part of Peter, the sensible part, who wanted to turn around and do his best to get on with his new life in America. But there was also the hopeless romantic part, who believed his grand gesture would sweep Wendy Moira Angela Darling off her feet. Beyond that was the greater part of Peter, who could not in good conscious give up without a fight. No matter how immature and boyish, he had not done right by that part of himself.

  Back to London he would go then, to fight for Wendy’s hand. Hopefully he would not damage his propriety or irrevocably injure his romantic side in the process. But the closer he got to home, and Wendy, the more oppressive his doubt became.

  This doubt produced the most terrifying dreams. The one that had woken him not an hour earlier had been the worst yet. Bracing himself with a lungful of salty, sea air, he forced himself to reexamine the details.

  Wendy adrift…

  The waves were tossing her, taking her out to sea. Peter’s lungs ached and his arms cramped with exertion. With a final lunge, he grasped her hand and began swimming toward the closest rock. With herculean effort, he hoisted Wendy into a small crevasse and pulled himself up to rest beside her. She was cold and trembling but alive. Wrapping a protective arm about her waist, Peter passed out.

  Time stopped until he was aware of something slipping from his grasp. Blinking his eyes, he wildly looked around trying to put the scene into context. A ways off he saw a brief shimmer of gold deep below the water’s surface, then the image was obscured by the flip of pearlescent green scales. A mermaid’s tail.

  Sudden
ly Peter realized that he was alone on the rock. Sick with dread he looked for the shimmer of gold, beneath the water’s surface but it was gone. With horror, Peter realized that he had let Wendy go – he had let her drown.

  He had woken himself up, crying out I’m sorry, Wendy! I’m sorry!

  Now standing stoically sentinel at the bow, facing eastward as the ship sliced through the Atlantic Ocean, he did his best to let the nightmare go. Propelled forward by steel and sheer determination, he could almost believe himself to be the valiant underdog backed by fate; as if the ship and everyone on it were conspiring to his purpose.

  It was such flashes of optimism he now lived for. If only he could hold on to those lovely wonderful thoughts, harness their power to make the ship go faster, or better yet lift the ship up into the air. What time it would save if the ship could take flight.

  Crumpling up the half written letter into a paper ball, he hurled it into the ocean. Then he lifted his ever-present talisman reverently to his lips. Shutting his eyes, he made a wish on the second star to his right. Please, he beseeched the heavens, please work your will. In that moment the strangest of sensations settled over him and Peter felt the urge to crow.

  CHAPTER 14

  The Boy in the Theatre

  At some point on the journey from Wales to London the gentle rocking of the train shifted into a choppy turbulence as Peter flew through the darkened skies with a singular purpose. But what purpose?

  Look! Ahead in the mist—a flash of the Jolly Roger; the tip of a wooden plank. And above, the chaotic billowing of a night dress. Wendy!

  She was bound, and on the pirate ship; she who loved everything to be just so! As the plank receded Peter focused all his speed into interrupting her fall. “I’ll save her!” he cried.

  The instant Peter arrived in London he set off on an errand of the greatest urgency. Being Saturday afternoon, he headed straightaway for his former haven, The Duke of York’s Theatre. If he hurried, he would just make the final curtain. Although he had missed the place, it was not the theatre that drew him; it was the hope of encountering the faithful patroness who attended every matinee from the dress circle.