Love Plays a Part

by Nina Coombs Pykare

  She looked up to find his lordship’s eyes upon her. “You are looking quite lovely tonight,” he said softly.

  “Milord!” Samantha flushed. “I wish you would not say such a thing to me.”

  His lordship raised a black eyebrow. “I don’t know why not. It’s the truth.”

  Samantha shook her head. “No, it is not.”

  Roxbury grinned brashly. “Just because you try to hide under a faded gown and pull your hair back severely does not mean that I cannot see your beauty.” With one hand he reached out and softly pulled a tendril of her hair that had escaped its pins. “Your hair is quite lovely. In another style it would do justice to the beauty of your face.”

  His hand brushed her cheek as he released her hair, and a tremor ran over her body. Surely he would not dare to kiss her again in front of everyone!

  “Please, milord. It’s unseemly to talk this way in public.”

  The earl’s mouth curved in amusement. “I should be quite happy to do so in private, my pet, if you would but grant me that opportunity.”

  “Milord!” Samantha did not quite know how to deal with his lordship when he spoke in this vein.

  He continued to grin at her with lazy amusement. “Come, Samantha, you have been too long in the country. London women are used to trading bon mots with lords such as I. They find it very amusing.”

  “I do not know about other women,” said Samantha, “but I am not used to it and I do not like it.”

  “What do you like?” asked his lordship, still wearing that amused grin.

  “I like to talk about the theatre,” said Samantha frankly. “When you speak of actors and plays, you are very interesting, but when you behave like a rake -I do not like you.”

  “I see.” His lordship nodded gravely, but merriment twinkled from his dark eyes. “But you must understand, my dear, I am a rake. How can you expect me to be other than what I am?”

  “I do not expect anything of you,” said Samantha somewhat stiffly. “I am sure you do exactly as you please, and have done so for many years.”

  Roxbury chuckled. “You are certainly frank, little one. Most women would be more circumspect with a man in my position.”

  “I came to London to see the plays. I had no desire to make the acquaintance of gentlemen in your position.” Samantha said the words quite firmly and was surprised to hear his lordship chuckle.

  “Quite refreshing,” he replied, “if not particularly original. Everyone knows that the best way to get a man is to appear not to want him.”

  “Milord!” The color in Samantha’s cheeks, already high, surged higher. “You mistake my intentions.”

  “Never mind,” said his lordship cheerfully. “Your intentions are immaterial. What really matters are mine.” He gave her a look of smoldering desire that made her knees begin to tremble.

  Fortunately, at that moment the players began to take their places, and Samantha turned her attention to the stage. She did not want to miss a single moment of Kean’s performance.

  When he took his place upon the boards, his fine sensitive face seemed to show the marks of great suffering. Samantha found she was holding her breath.

  “Note the plain sable clothes,” whispered Roxbury, his lips disturbingly close to her ear. “They fit the part much better than those of Kemble with the tawdry decorations he insists on wearing, including a Danish order that did not exist until hundreds of years after the story takes place.”

  Samantha nodded but did not take her eyes from Kean’s face. Though she appreciated his lordship’s comments, she did not want to miss some significant moment.

  “There are several new points of stage business that Kean has added to Hamlet,” his lordship said some minutes later. “Note the position of his sword in this scene.”

  Samantha watched as Hamlet pointed his sword toward his friends to keep them from interfering when he followed the ghost. “What is so different?” In turning to ask this question, Samantha found her face disturbingly close to his lordship’s and quickly turned back toward the stage.

  “The usual custom has been to point the sword toward the shade of his murdered father.”

  “But why?” asked Samantha, her head still turned away. “He has no reason to fear his father.”

  “So Kean evidently felt,” replied his lordship with a soft chuckle.

  As she watched enthralled, it seemed to Samantha that everything that Kean did was perfect. The solemn and impressive tone of his voice, the magic of his black, black eyes, and the wonderful expressions of feeling on his face were more than she could ever have imagined. When, in the scene with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, he took them one under each arm, as though in jovial comradeship, when he was merely playing with them, Samantha could think of nothing more appropriate and was pleased to have his lordship whisper, “That point too is of Kean’s originating.”

  As the curtain fell on the long soliloquy at the end of the second act, Samantha let her breath out in a great sigh. “That was worth anything - to see that!” she exclaimed, turning back to him. His face was still far too close, but she felt it rather silly, now that the play was no longer in progress, to talk away from him. She moved to the further edges of the canvas, and though he smiled in amusement, he did not press closer to her. Samantha sighed again. “He must be the greatest actor ever to have lived.”

  “Be sure the stars in your eyes do not blind you to reality,” said his lordship dryly.

  Samantha raised startled eyes to his. “How so, milord?”

  “Just remember, there have been other greats before him - Garrick, Betterton. And Kean is only a mortal man, with a man’s weaknesses and failings. If you make a god of him, you will only be hurt when you discover - as you inevitably must - that his feet are made of clay.”

  “But he is a great actor,” insisted Samantha.

  “Of course he is,” agreed his lordship. “But that does not make him a great man.”

  Samantha pondered this distinction. “I think Mr. Kean is a very nice person,” she said finally.

  Roxbury wrinkled his aristocratic nose. “You may believe so, though much of London does not. But nice and great are certainly not synonymous. If one wishes to speak of a great man, he” - he grinned wickedly - “or she, should speak of someone like Charles James Fox, the late Whig leader. Now there was someone great.”

  Samantha shook her head. “I know nothing of politics. Papa and I spoke only of the theatre.”

  Roxbury bowed slightly, a rather difficult thing to do with dignity while seated on a pile of canvas, but he did it quite gracefully. “Then we shall not discuss politics. The theatre is far more interesting anyway. Now that Boney has been finished off for good, politics is a dull subject.”

  As Samantha considered how to reply to this, the curtain rose again and Hamlet launched into his soliloquy on death. The expression of sorrowful melancholy on his face caused Samantha to hold her breath in awe. It seemed so fitting, so well thought out, that nothing could have made it better.

  Then came the scene with Ophelia. Mrs. Bartley looked a trifle old for such a heroine, Samantha thought. She had always imagined Ophelia as very young and very innocent. Mrs. Bartley, on the other hand, though she had a noble and expressive face, seemed more mature. But perhaps the company had no one else suited to the task. Certainly Lily Porter was incapable of such a role. But when Kean began to speak, Samantha forgot about Mrs. Bartley’s face and figure; so engrossed was she with his portrayal of Hamlet that nothing else seemed to matter. The whole scene was done with so much tenderness that her eyes filled with tears.

  As the scene ended and Kean was about to leave, he turned suddenly, the expression of his face changing, as if he were struck by the pain he was inflicting. Coming back from the edge of the stage, with his face showing great sorrow and tenderness, he kissed Ophelia’s hand. Samantha swallowed hastily over the lump in her throat as the tears flowed unheeded down her cheeks. She felt a warm hand on her own as the earl pressed a c
lean cambric handkerchief into her fingers.

  She applied it to her wet face. “Thank you, milord.” She felt his warm breath on her ear and grew even more aware of his closeness to her, but this time she did not think about drawing away. There was something strangely comforting about his presence, something that she did not care to submit to analysis. She hung on to the handkerchief during the rest of the performance, using it frequently. When the curtain fell on the last act, she turned to his lordship. “I do not always weep at the theatre,” she said softly. “But such emotion is overwhelming.”

  To her surprise the earl did not greet this statement with his usual amused smile but merely nodded at her, his own eyes dark with feeling.

  Samantha stared at him for some moments, wondering if this were the same man whose brash comments so embarrassed her at times. Finally she spoke. “You are a strange man, milord.”

  One of his dark brows rose dramatically. “How so?” he asked, one side of his mouth twitching slightly.

  Samantha forced herself to continue. “You - you seem almost like two people. Sometimes you are very kind and gentle, and at others you are -”

  “Go on,” he urged. “Speak freely.’

  She took a deep breath. “At others - when you are being rakish - you seem to have no consideration for another’s feelings.”

  His lordship pondered this for some moments, his brow furrowed thoughtfully. “I will make no excuses for my behavior,” he said finally. “It has never before provoked anyone to speak so severely to me.” He raised a hand to still her protest. “But I will think about what you have said.” Slowly he drew on his gloves. “And now I shall leave you to your thoughts. Good night, Miss Everett.”

  “Good night, milord.” Samantha, startled by this rather abrupt leave-taking, rose to her feet as his lordship did.

  “Yes, I shall certainly weigh your words,” he said as he bowed low over her hand. His tone seemed to carry a little levity, but when he raised his head, his expression was perfectly sober. Then, without another word he marched away, leaving her to watch the afterpiece with unseeing eyes.

  Chapter 7

  The next two days passed rapidly. Samantha went busily about her chores, and if sometimes she paused in the midst of some task to consider the earl’s odd behavior, no one noticed but Maria. Whatever she thought of such behavior, the old seamstress kept silent.

  Puzzle as she might over the earl, Samantha could not understand him, and finally she endeavored to keep the man from her thoughts. This was not a particularly easy task, as memories of his lordship had a habit of intruding into her head just as the man himself did into her life. Still, she went cheerfully about her duties, determined to do her very best at the job that meant so much to her.

  The third afternoon after the performance of Hamlet, Samantha was passing down the corridor outside Kean’s dressing room when she was startled by the sudden opening of the door. “Since you’re in such a foul mood today,” she heard a male voice proclaim from just inside the room, “I shall take myself off. But I’ll be there Thursday next to see your Iago.”

  A sort of mumbled growling issued from the room as the gentleman emerged and almost collided with Samantha. “Beg pardon,” he said, smiling down at her.

  Samantha looked up into a pair of dark eyes and recognized the man she had seen next to Jake in the pit. “It’s all right, milord,” she murmured.

  “Good.” The gentleman nodded toward Kean’s room. “If you’re going to see him, beware. He’s cross as crabs today.”

  “Yes, milord.” Up close Samantha saw that the dark smiling eyes were set in a dark, attractive face. He ran a hand through unruly black curls and seemed to hesitate before he continued on his way. Then Samantha saw why. This man limped. There was a deformity in his foot that all his elegantly tailored clothes could not hide.

  Samantha drew a deep breath. That must be Lord Byron! The one who wrote the poems that everyone was talking about. And to think that he sat next to Jake in the pit - and conversed with him!

  She turned away, unwilling to watch his painful progress down the corridor. More mumbled grumblings issued from Kean’s dressing room, and Samantha moved timidly toward it. If Mr. Kean were ill, he should not be left alone. Carefully she stuck her head around the door. Kean was lying on the couch, his hair disheveled, his clothes rumpled. His back was to the door, and she still could not tell if he was ill.

  She advanced softly into the room, unwilling to disturb him, yet fearful that something might be wrong. “Mr. Kean, are you ill?”

  “Huh?” He rolled over and looked at her blearily. “Hello, Samantha. What are you doing here?” The words were quite distinct, but Kean’s face looked white and drawn.

  “I was passing by, sir,” she replied, “and a gentleman came out. I believe it was Lord Byron.”

  “You believe right,” said Kean. “I sent the man packing. Can’t stand him hanging around all the time.” He pushed himself to a sitting position and winced.

  “Are you ill, sir?” Samantha hurried closer.

  Kean waved her away. “Of course not,” he said rather impatiently.

  “Is there something I can get you, sir? A drink of water, perhaps?”

  Kean’s fine features wrinkled in disgust. “Lord, no, girl. Are you trying to poison me? There’s nothing you can do for me unless you’ve got a flask of blue ruin about you.”

  Samantha took a hurried step backward. “Oh, no, sir. I never - imbibe.”

  Kean laughed and then put his hands to his pounding head. “Come, girl, close the door and sit down. You’re better company than that lord any day. Sit down, I say!” His voice rose on the last sentence, and Samantha hastily sank into a chair. She did not know quite how to behave.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a man after he’s had too much?” he said, watching her intently.

  Samantha shook her head. “I’m afraid I haven’t, sir.”

  “I thought we were going to be friends,” said Kean accusingly.

  “I - I forgot that, si - I forgot,” she repeated.

  “And you were supposed to call me Ned. Remember?”

  “I -I remember. But you seem so different. Not yourself.” Samantha found it difficult to look at him.

  Kean frowned, and for a moment she feared she had offended him, but then he said in a voice of great feeling, “I suppose my poor Mary feels that way to. I’m not the man I was when we married.”

  Samantha felt a little reassured by this and relaxed somewhat. “But s - Ned, I don’t understand. All the lords and ladies are eager to make your acquaintance. Why, you must have dinner invitations to all the great houses in London.”

  “We do, we do,” Kean nodded. “But it’s like I told you before. I’m not comfortable there. These lords - and ladies - they talk politics and the state of the economy, and taxes.” He shrugged eloquently. “It all means nothing to me.”

  “But the theatre,” cried Samantha. “They love the theatre.”

  Kean frowned. “They may say that, but when they talk about the theatre, it’s such terrible nonsense. Even my little Charles would know better.” He sighed heavily.

  “But Lord Byron,” protested Samantha. “Surely you must be able to talk to such a creative man? He’s an artist too.”

  “He only writes the words,” said Kean with a glitter in his dark eyes. “The actor makes the words live.”

  “Besides,” he continued, “I can’t reach the real man. Byron himself is an actor, playing a part.” He dropped his face into his hands. “It’s only when a man’s at his lowest level, Samantha, closest to the animal nature, that he dares to be himself. That’s where I was last night - drinking gin with my friends the thieves and pickpockets. They never look down on a man.”

  “But -” Samantha began again.

  “No more about that.” Kean leaned back against his pillows. “Your presence is making me feel somewhat better. Tell me, did you enjoy last night’s performance of Policy?”

 
; “I found it an indifferent play,” replied Samantha, deciding to humor him. “Even with the efforts of Mr. Elliston and Mrs. Glover.” She paused and added truthfully, “But I am not a very good judge. I have only read Shakespeare and a few others. That must necessarily leave me biased toward plays which might well have seemed good to me had I never known the master’s work.”

  Kean smiled. “You’ve a deal of understanding for a woman,” he said. “In fact, even for a man.”

  “Thank you, N-Ned.” Samantha still had trouble with his name. “I conversed with Papa a great deal. But only about the theatre.”

  Kean’s smile grew larger. “An excellent man, your father. He equipped you quite well to live in the ton.”

  Samantha shook her head. “I don’t wish to live in society,” she said. “I like my life here.”

  Kean’s smile turned impish. “You like it now, but when the arrow of love pierces your heart, you will change your mind. Cupid does that.”

  Samantha shook her head. “I know nothing of love. Nor do I wish to.”

  Kean’s smile did not fade. “You can hardly reject forever what you know nothing about. Mark my words, Samantha, the fat little cherub will get you sooner or later.” Kean’s eyes began to sparkle. “Haven’t I seen Roxbury hanging about you?”

  “Yes, but he is merely amusing himself. He talks to me about the theatre.” Belatedly she remembered Kean’s opinion of lords’ knowledge of the theatre and paused.

  “Never mind, Samantha. Go on. Roxbury knows something about the stage, all right. Knows enough to let an actor be, too. Doesn’t come toadying around just because I’m famous. He minds his business and I mind mine.” Kean nodded. “That’s the kind of lord I like.”

  Samantha could not help but smile at this simple speech, but her expression soon changed as Kean continued. “You could do worse than let Roxbury set you up.”

  Samantha shot to her feet. “Mr. Kean! Such a thing to say! I should never stoop to such an abominable thing.”

  Kean smiled. “Ah, yes, Samantha. I forgot your delicate background. You play the part of poor country girl so well. But still, it needn’t be financial necessity that moves one into such a situation. Roxbury is quite an attractive man. He could teach you a lot.”