by Lucy Ashford
Miss Deb O’Hara’s ‘entertainments’ always gathered a crowd. It had been her idea years ago to present selections of their repertoire by herself, keeping the content short and lively. After considerable practice she’d mastered the art of playing two parts at once—in this case, the clown from Twelfth Night and the lovelorn heroine, Viola. By the time she’d skipped from one side of the stage to the other, changed her hat and her voice as necessary and sung a few comical songs as well, she usually had her audience captivated.
But at this precise moment, she couldn’t even remember her lines.
‘I will build me a willow cabin...’
She stopped. She wasn’t getting a headache, was she? She’d slept badly last night in the stable loft, but there was a good reason for that—Mr Beaumaris. And his kiss. He’s safe in the woods, she kept assuring herself. Francis and Luke have him tied up... After taking a deep swallow from the flask of water she’d put on a nearby hay bale, she began again.
‘Build me a willow cabin—’
She broke off once more as her old pony, watching from its stall, stretched to nip playfully at her shirt sleeve. ‘I’ve no apples for you, Ned! Now leave me be—you’re having a nice long rest, but I’ve got all these words to remember!’
And an awful lot on my mind, if truth be told, she muttered to herself before starting her breathing exercises again. ‘Hmmm...’
A crowd was already gathering out in the yard. They sounded to be a noisy, ale-swilling lot, but that was only to be expected, and besides, she’d been used to stepping out in front of lively audiences since she was little. Her very first role had been as one of the young, doomed princes in Richard III, and some raucous onlookers had started jeering the moment she appeared. But they’d gone absolutely silent when she’d made her poignant little speech—God keep me from false friends!—and the sense of sheer power over people’s emotions had enthralled her.
‘You’re born to it, Deb,’ Gerald O’Hara had said proudly afterwards. ‘Some day they’ll be calling out your name in Drury Lane or Covent Garden.’
Perhaps. But meanwhile here she was, struggling to remember her lines for a performance in an inn yard, and the surly innkeeper was banging on the stable door. ‘You nearly ready? All this lot out here are making an almighty nuisance of themselves.’
Deb thought of all the sixpences he would have been busy collecting from them and bit back a sharp retort. ‘I said I’d appear at midday.’ She kept her voice pleasant. ‘And that’s what I’ll do.’
‘Well, see that you keep to it, missy.’
He left before she had chance to reply.
Don’t waste your time and effort arguing with the wretch. Don’t. A feeling of deep dread lurked in Deb’s heart—but it wasn’t the crowd she was afraid of.
Her business with Palfreyman was more or less resolved. At ten this morning she’d hurried to St Mary’s churchyard, watching out for any trap that might have been laid—after all, she wouldn’t put anything past Palfreyman. But everything was quiet there, and relief swept through her when she spotted the letter under the horse trough by the church wall.
Deb sat in the sun on the village green, and carefully opened the letter, which promised that Palfreyman would lift the charges he’d laid against the Lambeth Players. The wording was brief and gave away little, though she thought she could detect Palfreyman’s fury in the jagged penstrokes of his signature.
After buying herself a fresh currant bun from the nearby baker’s by way of celebration, she enjoyed it in the sunshine before wandering thoughtfully back to the inn. What could go wrong now?
Nothing—as long as they could set Mr Beaumaris free and get away before he could catch up with them.
To have been forced to keep him a prisoner overnight was an appalling turn of events—especially as he was a friend of Palfreyman’s. His kiss—and her reaction to it—had disturbed her badly. And there was something else. She could not forget how when he’d first seen her, his incredible blue eyes had opened wide with something that almost shouted aloud: I know you. I know you from somewhere.
Deb continued to pace the stables carefully, swinging her arms and trying to calm her racing thoughts. Palfreyman had a daughter, an only daughter called Paulette, who was the same age as her. And Deb knew for a fact that between the grown-up Paulette and herself there was an uncanny resemblance, because she’d seen her, last year.
Deb and Francis had gone to the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens on a hot July afternoon. There was a display of Moorish acrobats and the London crowds had thronged to see them, but Deb and Francis had been there for a different reason—they’d come to ask the manager of Vauxhall if they could put on one of their plays for a week in the autumn.
Deb’s mind had been wholly on the negotiations. But when she saw the young woman wandering by with a group of female friends, she’d quite forgotten what she was about to say, because it had been like gazing into a looking glass—a magical looking glass, that turned your clothes from cheap cotton to silks and satins, and your leather boots to dainty kid shoes. The lady Deb was staring at was clad in a lovely pale green pelisse and a neat bonnet that set off her chestnut curls exquisitely. She carried a matching parasol, and everything about her declared that she was rich and proud and privileged.
The manager had gone off to fetch his appointments book. The young woman in green had disappeared among the summer crowds. But despite the blazing sunshine, Deb had felt as cold as if a ghost had walked over her grave, especially when Francis said with wonder, ‘That young lady who went by just then, with all her friends. She bore a remarkable resemblance to you, Deborah!’
‘No,’ Deb had said, shivering. ‘No, you’re mistaken, Francis.’
But afterwards, when the business with the manager was successfully completed and Francis had strolled off to admire the acrobats, Deb spotted the woman and her friends in the crowds again, and found herself unwillingly drawn closer to them.
‘Paulette,’ one of them was calling out. ‘Paulette, do come over here, they’re selling ices, and we must have one!’
The years had rolled back. Once more she was a six-year-old child clinging to her mother’s hand as they were driven by an angry Hugh Palfreyman from his house—but before the great front door was finally slammed on them, she’d caught sight of a small girl about her age, who happened to be crossing the vast, marble-tiled hall with her nurse.
The girl had tugged at her nurse’s hand when she saw Deb and her mother. ‘Nurse,’ she’d said in a clear, piercing voice, ‘Nurse, who is that dirty girl who’s staring at me so?’
Then the door was closed, with Deb on one side, and the little girl on the other. Even at such a young age, Paulette had been dressed in expensive and elaborate finery—a complete contrast to Deb, in her cotton frock. But Paulette was the same age as Deb, her curls were the same shade of chestnut—and such was the similarity that Deb had heard her mother utter a low cry on seeing her.
What different paths the two girls had taken, thought Deb. It was inevitable, really, since one of them was the privileged daughter of a rich country gentleman and the other was a travelling player. Yet even so, to see her cousin at Vauxhall looking so very like her in feature and figure had shaken Deb badly.
She had wandered away into the crowds that day reminding herself that Paulette Palfreyman had no relevance whatsoever to her own life. Palfreyman had disowned his sister and her child completely, all those years ago; he hadn’t even come to his sister’s funeral. Deb had heard occasional news of Paulette; she’d married well last autumn, and was presumably content. No one was ever likely to link the two girls, were they? And did it matter if they did?
It might matter now. As she prepared to go out on the crude little stage, Deb was thinking—Mr Beaumaris may very well have met Paulette Palfreyman, since he is a friend of her father. What if he had spotted the likeness i
n the woods yesterday?
Mr Beaumaris would, she knew, be more than angry with his captors. In fact, he would be furious. But she’d comforted herself up till this moment with the knowledge that he would be unable to identify them.
Now, she had to think again.
The bells of the nearby church were beginning to strike midday. Picking up her two hats—the clown’s black-and-white pointed one and Viola’s jaunty green cap—she drew a deep breath, then stepped outside to a chorus of cheers and the occasional jeer. The inn yard was packed, she realised. Giving them a jaunty bow, she climbed lightly up to the makeshift wooden platform set in the inn’s courtyard, and several of the men whistled appreciatively at the way her breeches and hose displayed her legs. She grinned, gave them another extravagant bow, put on the clown’s hat and skipped lightly across the stage to begin one of the lively songs.
When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain...
They fell silent. They listened. After that they roared with applause, but silence descended anew as she went to put on the green cap, sat on a bale of hay placed at the corner of the stage and began Viola’s speech, recounting her sadness in finding herself stranded in a foreign country. The magic of the words took over, and her troubles were—for the moment—forgotten.
Deb was as amazed as ever to see how these country folk—rough and uneducated, most of them—completely melted on hearing Viola’s lovelorn words. After dextrously entwining the two parts and feasting her audience with some of Shakespeare’s loveliest verse, she rounded her performance with the clown’s last song.
A great while ago, the world began,
With a hey, ho, the wind and the rain;
But that’s all one, our play is done,
And we’ll strive to please you every day.
They roared their approval. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she called above the din. ‘Thank you, so much!’ She bowed again and again as they applauded, blowing them kisses. One day, she vowed, I’ll have a theatre of my own in London. I will. It didn’t have to be big, or in an expensive part of the city. She wouldn’t be able to charge a fortune and seat hundreds, as the three big London theatres did—Drury Lane and Covent Garden and the Haymarket. But she would find the Lambeth Players a permanent home; one that her stepfather, Gerald O’Hara, would have been truly proud of.
Almost skipping back to the stable, she found Ned the pony poking his head over the stall and she fed him a handful of hay. ‘It went well, Ned,’ she whispered. ‘Really well.’ Taking off her jester’s hat, she smiled with reflective pleasure—oh, it was the best of lives, to be an actor! Then she froze.
Because she’d just realised that she and Ned weren’t the only ones in here.
‘Bravo, Miss O’Hara,’ someone said softly behind her. That very male voice was followed by the sound of ironic applause. Deb whirled around. No. No, please...
It was Mr Beaumaris. Free, here and larger than life.
Deb felt the colour drain from her face. ‘You got away,’ she whispered. Her mouth was very dry. ‘But how...?’
He shut the stable door and bolted it, just as she made a dart for freedom. Faced with his formidable figure, Deb backed up against Ned’s stall. An ominous fluttering started low down in her abdomen. Goodness, he was tall. He was strong. He was...almost sinfully handsome. Irrelevant, Deb. Irrelevant. She jerked her head up to meet his hooded blue gaze, while he folded his arms across his chest.
‘In answer to your question,’ he said, ‘your two accomplices were foolish enough to leave me unattended.’
‘But surely, you were tied up...’ She moistened her dry lips.
‘They’d left their fire alight. While they weren’t looking, I burned through my ropes.’
She glanced at his wrists, and saw that the fine Brussels lace beneath his coat cuffs was charred and soot-stained. Her heart drummed. This man was truly ruthless. ‘But how did you know that I’d be here?’
‘Your friends told me, Miss O’Hara. In fact, they really had no alternative. You see, I reclaimed my pistol—which they’d carelessly left lying by the fire—so they had no choice but to do whatever I said. I found out from them that you were here, then I made them saddle up Palfreyman’s horse for me. Oh, and before I left, I sent their two nags trotting off into the forest.’
Deb felt herself go very pale. ‘Have you hurt my friends?’
‘Much as I’d have liked to—much as they deserved it—no. I told them to make no attempt to pursue me, but to join their colleagues in—Gloucester, I believe it was. I hope they realise how lucky they’ve been to get away so easily.’
Deb looked around rather wildly for a means of escape for herself, while he proceeded to issue a lethally eloquent diatribe against highway thieves and robbers. And all the time her despair grew. ‘They are not robbers.’ She clenched her fists at her side. ‘They only captured you because they thought—they thought that you were an enemy of ours!’
‘Because they thought I was Hugh Palfreyman,’ he said flatly. ‘Who I believe has every intention of prosecuting you and your players for performing on a Sunday. And before you ask how I know that, the story is all over town.’
‘But that story is wrong. You see, it was all done in private—’
‘Really?’ Beau drawled. ‘I wonder what other—private performances you have in your repertoire?’
As he spoke Beau watched the girl with detached interest. When he’d spotted the playbills put up around the place, promising an entertainment by Miss Deb O’Hara of the Lambeth Players, he’d expected—what had he expected? The Angel was a rough place at the best of times. He’d thought perhaps to find her offering some sort of song-and-dance act, followed by a bit of banter with the raucous, mostly male crowd. He guessed she’d likely be drumming up some lucrative private business for herself later on.
Instead, he’d arrived to find her holding the admittedly rough crowd in the palm of her hand with—Shakespeare. Beautifully, eloquently spoken Shakespeare. Up on that stage, she’d looked slim and calm. She was possessed of a lovely speaking voice and a kind of magical charm that held the crowd spellbound. He’d listened to her with near-wonder.
Shakespeare, for heaven’s sake. Two parts at once, woven together with ingenuity and skill.
And—as he’d noticed before—she was damned attractive. Her boy’s breeches and hose showed just how shapely her slender legs were, while that white shirt didn’t do a thing to conceal the curve of her breasts. He’d stood at the back of the crowd with his arms folded and his jaw set. He saw and heard for himself how the noisy whistles and occasional mocking jeers had died away at almost her first words.
No doubt every red-blooded male in that crowd would be wondering what it would be like to hold her and to kiss her rosy lips. But he knew. He knew, because he’d done it, and despite everything, despite his sheer anger with her, he felt desire rear anew. He remembered those books she carried, and wondered how she could, at times, look so very innocent.
It was because she was an actress, he told himself curtly. That was why. But he didn’t think she was acting now, not in the slightest little bit. He’d seen how the colour fled from her rather exquisite face, as she realised that he knew about Palfreyman and the charges he had laid.
‘I thought you would have gone straight to Palfreyman,’ she said tonelessly. He noticed that she’d backed up as far as she could against some bales of hay at the other end of the stable.
‘There’s time enough for that,’ he answered. ‘I wanted to make sure of tracking you down first. Though I imagine Palfreyman will be very interested to know that I was kidnapped by a trio of vagabonds on my way to visit him. He’ll be especially interested to learn that one of my kidnappers was—his niece.’
If they’d been in a boxing ring, she would have been on the ropes by now, thoug
ht Beau. On the floor, even—but this one recovered quickly. Feeling reluctant but increasing admiration for her, he saw how she tossed back her hair and flashed her golden, dark-lashed eyes until he almost wanted to applaud again, then she declared, ‘You think that I’m Palfreyman’s niece? Why, that’s simply laughable...’
‘Well, you’d better start laughing, then.’ His voice was silkily lethal. ‘And you may as well start telling the truth too. It’s futile to lie, Miss O’Hara. You see, you bear a quite astonishing resemblance to your cousin—the beauteous Paulette.’
Although he’d just landed her a body-blow, she again recovered her poise almost miraculously.
‘Hugh Palfreyman,’ she said, ‘drove my mother—his sister—from Hardgate Hall when she was only seventeen.’ She was meeting his gaze steadfastly. ‘As for me, I met Palfreyman once only, sixteen years ago. I haven’t met him since. My uncle is a cruel and hypocritical man, and I have no wish to ever encounter him again.’
For a moment, Beau hesitated—until he remembered she was a scheming little actress, who’d kept him trussed and bound in the forest. So she and her uncle didn’t see eye to eye? Hardly surprising, since each was as bad as the other. And how much of her story did she actually expect him to believe?
He folded his arms across his chest. ‘Bravo for another fine performance, Miss O’Hara. Nevertheless, you’re coming with me, now, to Hardgate Hall and—’
He broke off because she’d spun round to make with surprising agility for the door. But he reached out to grasp her tight around her slim little waist. ‘My God, listen, will you? You haven’t a hope in hell of getting out of this unscathed. I can ensure that you and your friends are put in gaol, however far they try to run. You and your men assaulted and kidnapped me. There’s nowhere on earth you’ll be able to hide if you escape me now.’
