Stages of Desire

by Julia Tagan

  “Yes, of course.” She reached into her reticule. “You can’t imagine how silly Mama’s being about all of the plans, as if she were the one getting married. We’re not sure whether Lady Claire should like to be placed next to Lord Bancroft.”

  The next several minutes were spent discussing the finer points of the seating chart for the wedding breakfast. Once they finished, she grasped his hand tightly. Too tightly.

  “William, we must discuss what happened after the fire. Please, I know you’re reluctant but this is important.”

  He squirmed. “There’s nothing to discuss. I went to the theater and helped those that I could escape the blaze. Many others died. It’s not something I wish to dwell upon.”

  “And I’m not asking you to dwell upon it. I know it was a terrible experience. But you did save Harriet.”

  The mention of her name made him ill at ease. “Yes. I carried her out.”

  “And you brought her to your house and cared for her.”

  “Only for one night. I gave her tartar emetic in order to get rid of the poison, and, luckily for her, it worked. I haven’t seen nor heard from her since and I don’t expect to.”

  “Poison?”

  He had misspoken. Marianne knew nothing of the travails of the Farley Players.

  “I meant the smoke. Tartar emetic helped clear the smoke from her lungs.”

  She breathed a deep sigh. “Of course, I would expect you to save her, as she was once practically part of the family. That was compassionate of you.”

  A vivid memory washed over him, one he had tried to forget: Harriet’s moans of pain combined with the acrid smell of smoke, his frantic effort to get them both to safety. During the fight with Freddie, he’d wanted to kill the man for his outrageous acts, to pummel him to death. The rage that had consumed him surprised him with its intensity.

  “It’s over and done with.” William hoped this would end their discussion, but Marianne’s look told him he needed to provide further reassurance. “She’s more than scandalized both our houses.”

  Tears welled up in Marianne’s eyes. “I’m so sorry. Mother never would have brought her to live with us if we’d know how she’d turn out.”

  “I hope you’re not listening to the gossip. It will die down soon enough.”

  “Wherever I go, whether it’s to the shops or to pay a call, I feel everyone is watching me and whispering about me. You’re lucky you could retreat to the country.”

  A pang of guilt swept over him. He’d left London quickly, eager to get away, desperate to put distance between himself and Harriet.

  He took Marianne’s hands in his. “After the wedding we’ll travel to Weymouth for a fortnight, then spend some time at Poundridge. By the time we’ve returned to London, I promise you the gossipmongers will have moved on to a different subject.”

  “I do hope you’re right, William.”

  They settled the rest of the affairs relating to the ceremony, and once she had gone, he called for tea. The journey, and his discourse with Marianne, had worn him out. He sat in the armchair and picked up the paper, telling himself it was simple curiosity, no more, that made him read the article. He should know what the girl was up to and whether his name was linked with hers.

  Even though he’d been far from London, the news that Harriet had become a darling of the press had traveled north quickly. The good reviews of her performance in Birmingham, combined with her recent calamities, had resulted in her taking on the title of the first woman actor-manager in London theater. The article stated her production of Macbeth, which she was also starring in, was set to open at the Drury Lane Theatre in a week.

  There was no mention of the ghastly Mr. Hopplehill as her betrothed, which could only mean she’d broken free of the yoke of marriage. No man in his right mind would marry her now.

  He had to admit a part of him was proud of her. And ever so slightly envious. She was free from the bonds that held most people back, those of duty and family, and had taken matters into her own hands. Her life was her own, however scandalous it might be.

  The door to his study opened, but instead of his tea being delivered, Claire entered carrying a small trunk in her hands. The bright color in her cheeks thrilled him. Her health was improving daily and the extract had proven to be much more effective and easier to ingest than the bitter bark tea.

  “How’s your rummaging going?” He took the trunk from her and placed it on his desk.

  “I’m not rummaging, I’m cleaning out Mother’s sitting room for your new bride.”

  “Why don’t you let one of the maids take care of it? No need to put yourself out like this.”

  Claire put her hands on her hips. “First of all, I’m strong as an ox these days and I have to find somewhere to put this excess energy. And secondly, no one’s been in that room since the day she passed away. I’m curious.”

  Claire going through his mother’s effects made him uneasy. Their father had preferred they not discuss her after her death, so the children had followed his lead and kept their memories and feelings to themselves. The sitting room was considered off-limits. Besides, it was so long ago.

  “I found this trunk in an armoire. And it’s locked.” She gave him a conspiratorial smile. “Luckily I was able to open it using one of my hairpins.”

  William laughed. “If I remember correctly, you taught Oliver the same trick and he kept nicking my toy horses, even though I kept them locked in my room.”

  “I do remember. You were awfully stingy when it came to sharing.”

  “Because I knew he’d break every single one. It was a matter of protection.” He laughed at his indignant anger from long ago. “So silly.”

  “He did break your toy theater. Even I was upset at that.”

  The toy theater. His mother had given it to him one year as a birthday present, a small but intricate proscenium stage made from brightly colored cardboard mounted on wood, with cutouts of characters and stage props. He and Claire had invented plays with complicated plots and nasty villains, much to their mother’s delight.

  “I think that was my favorite toy of all time,” he said.

  “I heard father once worrying we’d end up becoming actors, and mother arguing to let us be.”

  “They argued quite a bit.”

  Claire took out several letters and newspaper clippings from the trunk and carefully placed them on his desk.

  “Do you have to do that here?”

  “What are you so afraid of? Don’t you want to know more about Mother? You were only five years old when she died.”

  He had to admit he was curious as to what they’d find. Yellowed newspaper clippings, locks of her children’s hair, and letters seemed to be the sum of his mother’s treasures. He was pleased to see portraits of each of them as children, except for Jasper, of course, who’d been born the day she died. The letters were from close friends and family members. One, however, caught his eye. He picked it up, trying to remember why the name stood out.

  “That’s strange.” She glanced over his shoulder. “Henry Butler. Have you ever heard father speak of him?”

  “Never.” He placed the letter back in the trunk.

  “Aren’t you going to read it?”

  “I don’t think we ought to, Claire. These are her private papers.”

  She snatched it up and unfolded it. “It’s dated right before you were born.” He watched as her eyes moved to the bottom of the page. He waited for her to tell him what it said, but instead she folded it back up and replaced it in the trunk. “Only an old acquaintance. You’re right, probably best to store these up in the attic.” Claire’s eyes shifted back and forth uneasily and she seemed slightly frightened. She’d read something she shouldn’t have.

  “Let me see it.”

  “William, I’m so sorry.” She crossed her arms, gripping each elbo
w tightly. “Are you sure?”

  He wasn’t.

  “You ought to sit down,” she said, retrieving the paper.

  He took a seat in the armchair by the window and read the letter while Claire paced back and forth. It was from a Mr. Henry Butler of Norris Street, who’d written a passionate love letter to his mother. Butler asked her to run off with him, so they might raise their child together. He mentioned an offer he’d received to bring a play he’d recently written to be staged in Bath, and begged her to reconsider her decision and join him.

  You say you can’t leave your children, but by doing so you deny me mine. My love for you is unceasing, and I miss you terribly.

  William’s throat closed up. What Oliver and the girl had told him, the night they were killed, was true.

  He raced back over to his desk and rifled through the papers Claire had carefully arranged on top of it. One newspaper clipping included an obituary of the “esteemed and talented playwright Mr. Henry Butler,” who died the year William turned five, of consumption, and spoke of his distinctive red-brown hair and tall bearing.

  Memories from his time with Harriet came flooding back. When he’d first met Adam at Chipping Norton, the man had looked upon him with a dazed expression, as if he were a ghost. He’d said he was the “spitting image,” but not of whom.

  Sam Farley had called him “Butler” when they first met.

  Henry Butler was his father. His mother had had an affair with a playwright, and William was the result.

  “No wonder Father was intolerant of me,” he said finally. “My hair and complexion served as a reminder to him. He must have known.”

  Claire put her arms around him. “It explains so much. She loved him but she chose to stay here with the family.”

  “I wonder where they met. Where would a woman of her standing meet an actor?”

  “At the theater, of course. She loved to go, until Father forbade her.”

  “Oliver knew.”

  She took a step back. “What?”

  “The girl he was with knew. That night, when I scoffed at the idea of them marrying, she told me I’d better be careful what I say, as I was no better than she was.”

  Father. Oliver’s death. The realization hit him at once. Not only was he not his father’s son, he wasn’t the true Earl of Abingdon.

  “I’m a bastard.”

  Claire sucked in her breath. “No. You’re every inch the Earl of Abingdon. You handle the title far better than Oliver, who would have us ruined within the decade, if not sooner. He may have been his father’s lawful son, but you’re much better suited for the position. You know that.”

  Anger flared, bitter and full of bile. How could his mother have committed such a heinous act? And with a man of the theater no less.

  She’d bought them miniature theaters and read them plays and encouraged them at every turn. No wonder he and Oliver had found solace in the arms of women who worked on the stage.

  “How could she have done this?” He turned on Claire, his voice shaky. “I told you to leave her things alone.”

  Claire matched him with her intensity. “So your true father was a playwright. Your mother was also mine and she was a wonderful, sweet person. Her protectiveness helped us when we were young, particularly when Father was feeling spiteful. Consider it from her point of view. He can’t have been easy to live with.”

  “She sullied our name.”

  “You know how awful Father was. From what I can tell, she found happiness, for a time.”

  “She was a wanton woman. How do we know Jasper is one of the Talbots?”

  Claire laughed. “Because he looks exactly like father. Obviously they made peace with each other, after a time. We don’t know the complications of married life.”

  “I will soon enough.”

  “Yes.” Claire furrowed her brow.

  “What’s that look for?”

  “I have to ask you something.”

  He knew what was coming and held his breath.

  “William, are you sure you want to marry Lady Marianne?”

  “Of course. Do you find fault with her?”

  “Not on the surface. She’s pretty and lively and comes from a good family.”

  “And we need her, in order to help the duchess financially and solidify our family’s reputation.”

  “That was true six months ago. With the ward, Miss Farley, causing such a ruckus these days, is it necessary anymore? Their family name isn’t much better than ours.”

  “And part of that is my fault, for allowing her to go to Birmingham.”

  “Whoever’s fault it is, the fact remains we have Oliver’s misdeeds to bear, and they have Miss Farley’s. Will your marriage cancel the sordidness out, or simply increase it?”

  “I have promised to marry Marianne, and I intend to carry through. I’m shocked you would even consider such a notion.”

  “I’m simply thinking of what Mother went through.”

  “You can’t compare Marianne to Father. Just as Harriet, I mean Miss Farley, can hardly be compared with Oliver.”

  “Why not?”

  “Oliver was an unreliable boy who never grew up, who did exactly as he pleased, never mind the consequences. Harriet put her family first, or tried to, however misguided her intentions.”

  Claire wagged her finger at him. “You’re defending her. Now that’s interesting.”

  He shrugged. “I’m not. I’m saying they don’t compare. If anything, it’s more imperative than ever our two families merge, if this nonsense is ever going to die down.”

  She didn’t respond, instead placed the papers back in the trunk and closed it.

  William crossed his arms and wandered to the window, staring vacantly out at the street below.

  His brother’s curses had come back to haunt him.

  “May I point out one fact?” Claire asked.

  “No.”

  “You speak more passionately of Miss Farley than you do of Lady Marianne.”

  “That’s rubbish.”

  But it wasn’t. His sister had always been able to pinpoint exactly what was upsetting him, having done so numerous times after their mother had died, when she’d taken over the role of caregiver. He’d forgotten how uncanny her intuition was.

  She turned him to face her. “You say Miss Farley is free to do anything she’d like.”

  “That is true, and she’s doing it.”

  “What would you do, if you could do anything you liked?”

  The answer came to him in a flash. But he refused to say it out loud. Instead, he repeated what was expected of him. “Manage the estate, take care of the family name and business, watch over you and Jasper.”

  “But is that truly what you’d prefer to be doing?”

  “Of course. As Lord Abingdon, it’s my role.”

  “Look at Mother. What if she’d followed her heart?”

  “If Mother had done what she wanted, and flouted every convention of society, Jasper wouldn’t have been born, and you and Oliver would have been left behind to live with Father. How can you even ask that question?”

  “All right, you have a point. But unlike mother, you have no one to be beholden to.”

  “If you mean I don’t have any children, yes. But I am betrothed to Lady Marianne.”

  “You’re not married yet.”

  He let out a harsh laugh. “If I broke my engagement with Lady Marianne, I’d face a breach of promise suit, and the scandal sheets would be thrilled with the opportunity to throw more muck at us. You’re not thinking straight. Are you sure you don’t have a fever again?”

  She shook her head. “You know I’m as healthy as you are. Stop thinking in straight lines, William. Your entire life is ahead of you. If you could do anything, what would it be?”

  The
more she asked the question, the more the idea took root in his mind. But it was untenable.

  “Stop trying to stir things up. I plan on marrying Marianne on Saturday and bringing her here to live with us. And I would hope you’ll behave properly and give her a sister’s welcome.”

  “I’m sorry, William, I am. But this news has to be a bit of a shock.”

  He rubbed his face with his hands. He was the son of a playwright. Wouldn’t Harriet be amused by the news?

  If anyone found out the truth, he’d be ruined.

  “Think, William,” Claire urged. “What would you like to do with your life?”

  He stared at her. “I couldn’t.”

  She knelt at his feet. “Tell me William. Tell me everything.”

  Once he began, the words came tumbling out of his mouth, one after another. The amorphous idea that had been swimming in his head took shape, and, once uttered, became an aspiration and then an ambition. And all the while Claire listened, nodding and questioning and encouraging him until he was exhausted.

  When he was finished, they looked at each other and smiled.

  Chapter 19

  Although William passed several acquaintances on his way to the Drury Lane Theatre, all cast him a wary eye and didn’t even bother to nod in his direction. The bore from Lady Rutland’s dinner party had even dashed into a dressmaker’s shop to avoid him, to his amusement. Unlike poor Marianne, he didn’t care. He was relieved, in fact, to avoid the silly talk he’d been brought up with. The weather, inquiring after one’s health. All rubbish.

  He’d made a risky calculation with his actions, one he hoped would work out well for the people he most cared about: his brother and sister, the duchess. Marianne, with her flighty ways, also deserved to be treated with respect.

  But the one person he couldn’t live without, the one who had most reason to never speak to him again, was why he was venturing into a theater after vowing a month ago to steer clear forever.

  After Claire’s discovery, he’d learned his father, Henry Butler, a rising playwright of considerable talent, had worked at the Drury Lane right before his death. As William pushed open the heavy door to the theater, he couldn’t help but wonder whether his palm landed where his father’s once had, if there might be some kind of tactile connection to the man he’d never met.