by Zekas, Kelly
I might have been unable to hold back a rude retort there, but fortunately I was still too busy darting glances at the plant. Mr. Braddock looked exceedingly silly and was entirely visible, which meant when Mr. Kent followed my line of sight, he had no trouble determining who had captured my attention. He shifted his weight, his expression turning rapidly dour.
A bell chimed brightly, alerting us that the show was to begin. “Shall we take our seats?” Mrs. Verinder suggested.
If Mr. Kent wished to speak to me, he was given no chance. The group followed Mrs. Verinder, except Laura, who tugged me aside like her rag doll. “Mama,” she said. “Evelyn and I must go to the dressing room!”
Lady Kent, hanging onto the Verinders’ story of a recalcitrant servant, waved her aside without a glance. Before I could protest or even decide if I wanted to protest, Laura steered me down a narrow hallway and into the lavish, lavender-scented room, where bored theatergoers could escape to gossip or tidy up their appearance.
Laura set me down onto a red velvet settee and bore her eyes into mine, spots of pink surfacing high on her cheekbones. “Evelyn, this is a matter of life and death.” She managed to sit completely still and composed as she said this. No bouncing around the room or high-pitched squealing. Even her hair appeared serious.
“Are you ill?” I asked.
“Yes! My heart is aching,” she said, sighing overdramatically and snatching up a bolster to hug.
“What on earth is the matter?” I asked, sick of the theatrics. And the play hadn’t even begun yet.
“Did you not see Mr. Edwards when you came in?”
I couldn’t say that was my first priority. “No . . . I don’t even know what he looks like. Is he not here?”
“He is! He was the magnificent-looking man in the lobby! I must have a tête-à-tête with him during intermission. You must help. I can’t do it alone. Please!” She attempted a small dive across the sofa toward me, almost kicking a vase of flowers behind her.
“Yip! Help with your . . . tête-à-tête? About what?”
“Whatever he wants!” she said, grasping my hands tightly. “The subject does not matter in the least.”
“Why do you need me? What have you talked about before?”
Distressed, she sat back up, looked down into her lap, and swung her legs back and forth under her seat. “We’ve been introduced. And he had marvelous things to say about the weather!”
I should have expected this. He’d probably spoken no more than ten words to her, and she’d fallen in love after the third.
“I need you to be my foil!” she wailed. “I need someone to disagree with him, so I can agree with him and support him like a good wife should! Please, Evelyn! I cannot become a ruined spinster!”
I didn’t think fifteen-year-olds had to worry about spinsterhood. I had the urge to shake her by the shoulders and snap her out of it, but the despair in her eyes and the belief that my disapproval would only render Mr. Edwards more enticing, in a forbidden sort of way, left me with no alternative.
“Fine. We’ll do it,” I said with a sigh.
She just about exploded at those words, jumping up in a dance of silk and joy (a shame, the hair had looked quite nice) and thanking me a million times over. A woman in the corner, whom I had not noticed before, caught my eye, and her lips pinched into a look of pity.
Eventually, Laura remembered that there was a play to be watched and dragged me back out into our double box overlooking the dull, bluish theater. With people crowding every seat, there was no way to make out a certain dark-haired man, and there was no time to learn what he was doing here. Two empty seats waited for us: Laura took the space next to her mother, leaving me between her and her brother, whose other arm was caught in Miss Verinder’s clutches. If only it were Mr. Braddock she were interested in. I spent a few happy moments imagining the results of her grabbing his arm.
“My, my, it’s a surprise to see Mr. Braddock here,” Mr. Kent said, a hint of acrimony lacing his voice.
“Yes, it is.”
He leaned in confidentially. “Perhaps he’s come to apologize. Or maybe that also needs to be done in his bedroom.”
I strained to keep a whisper. “You know very well why I was in his bedroom! He was injured, and I needed to check on him.”
“No one is going to make an exception for that where your reputation is concerned.”
“I had other concerns at the time.”
He put his hand on his chest. “I’m feeling quite injured myself. Perhaps we might—”
“Mr. Kent! This is not an appropriate place for that kind of talk!”
“Very well,” he said. “If you wish to speak about it somewhere much more inappropriate, just say the word.”
At that moment, Miss Verinder rapped his arm and pouted for his attention. Fortunately for all our ears’ sake, the lights dimmed, and the crowd’s rumble of anticipation covered anything she wished to say.
Normally, this was one of my favorite Shakespeare plays, but with so many thoughts, emotions, and anxieties boiling within me, I wasn’t at all in the mood to waste my time here. While the rest of the audience was drawn into the world onstage, I couldn’t help but find the sets, costumes, and acting completely fake. There was not a single true note in Beatrice and Benedick’s witty conversations. The “love” between Claudio and Hero was based on nothing. And all the men were too foolish to see Don John’s comically obvious lies.
After the disastrous aborted-marriage scene, the curtain closed and the lights were relit. I didn’t have a chance to speak one word to anyone before Laura—treating the intermission as if it were the play—seized my hand and pulled me straight to the lobby to find Mr. Edwards.
Sneakily, she wove us through the shifting crowd and arced us behind him rather than charging him head-on. She seemed to have a lot of practice in the clandestine maneuver, and against my will, I was half impressed and half amused. When we were close, Laura turned her back to her target, leaned, and gracefully bumped into the tall, thin-mustached man, feigning astonishment.
“Oh! Mr. Edwards. Ever so sorry. What a pleasant surprise to see you here!” she simpered. “May I introduce my good friend, Miss Wyndham?”
“Ah, yes, a pleasure, indeed,” he replied, bowing and looking as if he’d just discovered the hard way that there was a fly in his soup. “How do you do, Miss Wyndham?”
“Excellent,” Laura replied, somehow mistaking my name for her own. “And you?”
“Quite . . . well,” he said, regaining himself after a momentary befuddlement. “The play is very good, is it not? A true example of drama at its best.”
“If this play is the best drama that can be mustered up, Mr. Edwards, I’m afraid it’s fighting a losing battle,” I said.
“Evelyn, don’t be so critical,” Laura scolded theatrically. “I think this show exceedingly good so far.”
“I wholeheartedly agree and applaud your taste, Miss Kent. I especially like the blend of this production’s dreamlike opulence with the truthful, human performances,” he said superciliously.
“Yes! Just the words I was about to say! A striking compromise between the real and . . . a lavish dream!”
Mr. Edwards raised his thick eyebrows and seemed to find Laura more attractive as she repeated his opinion back to him. “Mr. Irving always does a wonderful job, doesn’t he?”
“I don’t find him particularly unique,” I cheerfully lied.
He waved his folded program as if it contained his proof, and he almost hit a passing couple. “I doubt you’ll find anyone in London who is better.”
“I especially liked his Hamlet,” Laura proclaimed. “And last year’s King Lear.”
“Oh yes, I saw King Lear four times!”
“How unfortunate for you,” I said, finding my role as a cynical baiter rather easy and enjoyable.
“I find it an unfortunate shame that you feel that way. You are missing out,” he returned, straining to remain polite.
&nbs
p; “Yes, honestly. You should be more agreeable.” Laura’s voice had a sickening shade of honey in it when she turned back to Mr. Edwards.
“Did you know that they originally planned to stage The Merchant of Verona last year?” Mr. Edwards asked, looking at Laura with a speculative glint in his eye.
“Truly?” Laura asked, looking utterly shocked—and not at his error. Heavens. Who would have thought this would actually work? She didn’t even need my help. The two blathered on, both agreeing that Mr. Edwards was deeply fascinating, while I just stood and watched, silently amused, until someone brushed by my back and a familiar tremor ran up my spine.
“Pardon me.”
Mr. Braddock. I spun around to see him slinking away from me, while awkwardly keeping a safe distance from others. His slow gait was enough to fool almost everyone else, but I could see the attempts to hide his pain in every step. Why had he come in this condition?
“Excuse me, Laura, Mr. Edwards,” I said and stepped away before there was an objection.
I marched across the room toward him, keeping my eyes on his feet, struggling not to make a scene with the hundreds of people surrounding us. I seized his jacket and pulled him into an alcove. We were a snug fit, and I couldn’t help but be acutely aware of him and the few inches of breath that separated us. The bitter scent of medicinal herbs seemed to sharpen all my senses.
“What is it? What are you doing here?” I hissed.
He leveled his gaze, chin up, and when he spoke it was determined, as if he had been waiting all day to tell me. “This morning, you said guilt can be effective motivation . . . and, well, I’m feeling too motivated to sit by idly. I’ve made terrible decisions that I regret to no end, and you have every right to distrust me, but I can only apologize and try to do some good by finding Miss Rosamund before any harm or pain comes to her.” His eyes refused to drop mine.
“And what? You decided Rose was probably an actress in Much Ado About Nothing? Or are you simply here for your own fun?”
“Is this outing with Mr. Kent part of your search?” His eyes flashed with something that looked suspiciously like jealousy as he drained a glass of liquor in his hand.
“Don’t be absurd. We can’t all just mysteriously vanish from society for a year. I have a reputation to uphold.”
“And I am upholding our bargain. I am following a man connected to Dr. Beck.”
I stiffened. “What? Do you have more information? Why did you not inform me?”
“I am informing you now. It is a delicate situation, so I must handle it myself.”
“What is it?” I whispered, pitching my voice low. “You cannot keep something like this from—”
“When Dr. Beck was trying to convince me to join him, he wanted me to meet this man. I never did, but Camille’s mention of Dr. Beck’s funding last night made me consider their relationship. I believe he may be the benefactor or part of a society funding Dr. Beck’s research.”
It seemed we had the same thought. “Who is he? What is his name? What society?” The words tumbled from my mouth as I looked around for this man I knew nothing about.
“I’ll spare you the details,” he said with an infuriatingly condescending glint to his eyes. “We can’t startle him. If he is funding Dr. Beck’s work, he will undoubtedly be secretive about it.”
“And you think he is in attendance?”
“He is.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
“Absolutely not. This is far too dangerous.” I thought he was about to take my hand, but he pulled his own back and stuffed it in his pocket, looking uncomfortable.
“It’s dangerous to everyone around you if I don’t come,” I persisted. “You’ll be sitting in a row of sick, unconscious people, or is that part of your testing—” He paled so much that I immediately regretted the words.
“I purchased seats in different parts of the theater and will move every hour. But by all means, continue. The guiltier I feel, the less likely I’ll be to give you life-endangering information.”
“Ah, so that’s what you’re doing? Protecting me by neglecting to mention this mysterious man’s name? Like you kept the fact that Dr. Beck has a power from me? Ha!”
At those words, he fixed me with such an intense stare, it seemed as if the rest of his world lost all significance. “What did you say?”
It was strange to see him so perturbed. “You did not know?”
He shook his head urgently. As quickly as I could pour out the information, I explained Miss Grey’s sudden arrival, her abilities, and her visions of Dr. Beck.
“And she has no idea of what the power may be?” he asked at the end of it.
“She’s never witnessed it.”
“Then that is more of a reason to be cautious. Dr. Beck could be capable of anything.”
I gritted my teeth slightly, refusing to be swayed. “And I’m capable of recovering from anything.”
“Your healing is not instantaneous. We have no idea if it is fully effective for every situation, and I do not want to test its limits. I want you to stay out of this. There are worse fates than death, especially in the hands of that man. You must trust me to get her back.”
This time he did take my hand—imploringly. Behind the drapery no one could see us, though my mind was far from propriety anyway. I idly wondered how many more times Mr. Braddock and I would find ourselves in odd corners and too close. The spinning current was dulled through our gloves, but I knew he felt it, as well. My legs trembled as I looked up at him, and I could see he was equally affected—skin flushed, lips slightly parted. The heady feeling was almost enough to make me agree to stay away. But not quite.
“This is precisely the problem,” I said, pulling my hand away. “I keep foolishly wanting to trust you, and then you always provide another convincing piece of evidence for why I shouldn’t.”
He peered down at me, and the air practically hummed with our competing powers and annoyance. “Very well. I’d much rather lose your trust than lose”—he frowned at the turn of phrase—“anything else.”
The bell chimed. The sea of people began drifting back into the theatre. Refusing to give in, I drew back, crossed my arms, and prayed as I grasped for the most likely name from Miss Grey’s diary. “Perhaps I’ll just visit Lord Ridgewood at his home and ask him myself.”
His eyes widened. I’d guessed correctly. He shook his head, jaw tight. “You are impossible.”
I was, and I refused to break eye contact.
“Fine,” he said at last. “I will send for you tomorrow at nine o’clock. Do not go anywhere without me. You must promise to do nothing reckless.”
“Says the limping, head-bandaged man pursuing infinitely dangerous people late into the night.”
Smiling against his will at that, he held my gaze for a second, hesitating with some unspoken thought behind his eyes. But he sighed and changed tactics.
“Oh, please convey my apologies to Mr. Kent. I was to have nothing further to do with you, and it appears I’ve completely disregarded that,” he said, before leaving the nook.
I followed him out, trying to set aside my roiling frustration. He gave my hand a final squeeze before limping off down the hallway.
When I took my seat again, Laura would not look at me. I whispered to her, “How did the rest of the conversation go?”
“I don’t want to talk, ever again,” she spat, looking down and contemplating the wonders of her lap.
“Laura,” I persisted. “Laura.”
Sullen, she turned her whole body away into a very uncomfortable-looking position to make her point.
On my other side, Mr. Kent leaned over and spoke right into my ear in a low voice. “I must say, that was a curious change you made to my sister’s plan.”
“She was doing perfectly fine without me. She didn’t even need my help,” I returned, perplexed.
“Then let’s remove safety nets under tightrope walkers to boost their confidence,” he said with a bitter edge.
Was he really so angry about this? “Sometimes it’s more helpful to let someone do it on their own,” I replied calmly. “I clearly ruined her evening, and I’m sorry. But I had to talk to Mr. Braddock about finding Dr. Beck.”
“Ah, yes, another secret rendezvous at an inconvenient time. Mustn’t miss those. Do you think, has he just been keeping Miss Rosamund in his house this whole time?”
So he was jealous, as well. Ridiculous. I tried to keep my voice even, diplomatic. “No, he’s trying to help.”
“So am I, but I have to do double the work when you keep information from me. Tell me honestly, do you even think you need me to find her?”
“No,” I said. “But that’s because Mr. Braddock knows them—”
He stood up. “Of course, I quite understand.” He turned to the rest of the group and gave a bow. “Good night, all, I’m sorry but I must be off.”
“But Mr. Kent, you’ll miss the ending,” Miss Verinder simpered.
“All the ending does is ruin perfectly good suspense,” he said with a wink and headed for the door.
I shot up, squeezed past Miss Verinder, and stopped Mr. Kent by the box door. “Wait!” I whispered. “That does not mean I don’t want your help. Please. Stay.”
His face softened a bit, but not enough. “Miss Wyndham, a wise girl told me something a long time ago, and it’s stuck with me ever since. She said, ‘Sometimes it’s more helpful to let someone do it on their own.’ ” And he left me to the box, where no one else seemed to be on speaking terms with me. Delightful.
When the play, the clapping, the curtain call, and the agony finally ended, our party was rightfully exhausted as we passed through the lobby toward the exit. Lady Kent exchanged parting words with Mr. and Mrs. Verinder, Laura sulked over to the side and stared at framed playbills of old productions of Romeo and Juliet, and without Mr. Kent to cling to, Miss Verinder fell into step with me.
“Miss Wyndham, I’m sorry I was quite occupied with Mr. Kent tonight. It’s a shame we did not have much opportunity to speak,” she said, to my silent disagreement. “How did you enjoy the play?”
Without Mr. Kent or his stepmother within earshot, I didn’t quite know what she was planning. I hardly knew how to speak to her like a normal person. “It was . . . dreadful,” I replied, hesitatingly.
