Fate's Victim

by Roxane Beaufort

  ‘I was, sir,’ Jacob replied, and there was no longer any deference in his tone. He spoke to Aidan man to man.

  ‘Why are you here?’ A suspicion began to take root in Aidan’s mind, accompanied by anger.

  ‘Where is Lady Angela?’ Jacob demanded, standing his ground.

  ‘I don’t know, and anyway, what is it to you? Why are you in London and not in the country? How dare you come here in this impertinent fashion? I’ll ring for my servants and have you thrown out.’

  ‘Not until we’ve talked,’ Jacob said stubbornly, and Aidan realised he could not intimidate him.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with you…’

  Jacob stepped closer and Aidan’s fists clenched. He had trained in boxing and was half a mind to give this rude young man a clout he would not forget. ‘I left home and came to London after I’d heard that you brought her here,’ Jacob said steadily, without flinching. ‘My uncle owns a grocery shop and I live and work there. I found her ladyship at dawn, running away, terrified of you. I took her home to the shop and she stayed there for a while, looking for work. Then when I had to go on a business trip she vanished again. My uncle, Arthur Taylor, swears he knows nothing about her disappearance, but I’ve questioned a girl I know, called Tilly, and apparently she sought help from her.’

  ‘Ah, and this Tilly has a friend… Doreen. Yes? A pair of whores. Fine company for a genteel lady like Angela,’ Aidan said sardonically.

  ‘You know about them?’ Jacob expressed surprise.

  ‘Doreen betrayed her whereabouts. She’s a greedy bitch who’ll do anything for money, and I mean anything. I went with her to persuade Angela to come back to me, but she fled.’

  ‘And you don’t know where she is now?’

  ‘I haven’t any idea, not that I’d tell you if I did.’

  ‘You swear she’s not here?’ Jacob looked so grim that Aidan wished he had been carrying a revolver in his pocket.

  ‘I don’t have to swear. You’ll have to take my word for it. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of her, more is the pity.’

  ‘Why are you so keen to find her?’ Jacob was no longer the groom who Aidan had once bullied. He was a man now, with money and a business behind him.

  ‘Why are you?’ Aidan remarked icily. ‘I suspect our motives are the same. Both of us are cunt-struck. Ain’t that so?’

  ‘For an educated gentleman you have a filthy tongue, sir!’ Jacob exploded, and Aidan could see the effort it cost him not to strike out.

  ‘I’m allowed, as a member of the aristocracy,’ Aidan sneered, then his attitude changed and he added, ‘are you going to help me find her?’

  ‘I’d do anything for her,’ Jacob vowed. ‘And if she wants to be delivered back into your hands then so be it. But that was not the impression she gave me.’

  ‘Women are strange cattle,’ Aidan observed, pouring himself a tot of whiskey. ‘They say one thing and mean the opposite. As for Angela? I think Hamlet had it right when he said, “The lady doth protest too much, methinks”.’

  ‘I don’t understand. How can she like you when you have ill-treated her?’

  Aidan gave a smile and shrugged his broad shoulders under the damask robe. ‘You don’t know much about the fair sex, do you, Jacob? Now then, are you going to help me? Then you can ask her which of us she prefers… the rustic swain or the powerful master? Do you accept?’

  ‘For her sake I’ll do what is necessary,’ Jacob answered stoutly. ‘But if you lay one hand on her, I’ll…’

  ‘Oh, cool down, nothing will be done that she doesn’t truly want to happen, you’ll see,’ Aidan assured him. ‘Let’s make a plan. Get those tarty friends of yours to assist. They won’t refuse if they are paid.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about Tilly. She has a kind heart.’

  Aidan gave a bitter laugh and said, ‘She’s a woman, ain’t she? One of the most mercenary animals on God’s earth.’

  Chapter 10

  gela had not realised when she crossed a bridge over the River Thames on that fateful night when she fled from Aidan, that she was entering a part of London almost separate from the central city. Not long ago the capital had been divided up into villages, now called ‘manors’, and the division remained. She could not have found a better hiding place. The Pelican and Garter was a popular watering hole, but out of the way. What happened within its walls would hardly make waves in Westminster, Mayfair, Soho or Cheapside.

  The days passed, comprised mainly of hard work, for Max demanded a high standard from his artistes. The nights were spent in his bed where she learned what it was like to be held by a man who cherished her. She was already halfway in love with him. She watched the other performers and picked up tricks of the trade. The magician amazed her as well as his audience with his agile sleights of hand. The acrobats and jugglers were circus-born, the dancers skilled girls who trained under the eagle eye of their choreographer. She had once been a ballerina. Angela was her pupil too, and every time she appeared on stage her confidence grew.

  As for the comedian? He was a trouper of the old school, never put off by hecklers, giving as good as he got, his timing perfect when he trotted out rude jokes and sang bawdy songs. He reminded Angela of a clown in his baggy trousers and sloppy jacket, his big shoes, red nose and comical hat. Off stage he was gloomy, always looking on the dark side. His dependence on alcohol did nothing to dispel this. Max advised him to give it up, but although he kept a tight ship he could not stop him, any more than he could stop his dancers from getting involved with admirers who wanted to take them out to supper in return for physical favours.

  Angela discovered that she was developing her own following but was too shy and fearful to accept invitations. Max guarded her like a bullmastiff, warning her that the males in the audience considered actresses to be little more than whores, a reputation gained in the seventeenth century when women first appeared on the English stage, often ladies of questionable morals seeking a rich protector. Though they were now generally beyond reproach, mud sticks and the legend remained.

  Angela was mostly afraid someone might recognise her and report in to Aidan. She wore a wig, it was true, and this might deceive beyond the footlights, but close up? She refused to take the risk, content to hide in Max’s shadow. He too seemed to be delighted with her and, although they were discreet, word began to spread among the players. She had been with them a fortnight when, as she waited in the wings one evening she encountered one of the dancers, also waiting her cue to go on.

  ‘A real pro already, aren’t you, Angela?’ she said sarcastically, a large girl in purple feathers and sequins who was showing a great deal of bosom and tweaking her nipples to make them stand out. ‘Getting on like a house on fire, and with Max too, so I hear.’

  ‘I’m beginning to get the hang of it,’ Angela replied, adjusting her wide-brimmed Gainsborough hat, nervous as a kitten but knowing she would be all right once she stepped onto the stage.

  ‘And finding out how he hangs, too,’ the girl said, nudging her in the ribs. ‘You aren’t the first and you won’t be the last, that is until his wife comes back.’

  ‘His wife?’ Angela stood stock-still, the orchestra accompanying the comic and the murmur of the crowd fading into the distance.

  ‘Oh, didn’t he tell you he was married?’ the dancer said innocently. ‘Well, there’s a surprise! She’s abroad at the moment with another company, but just you wait. She’s a large woman with a spitfire temper. So be prepared for trouble.’

  ‘He never said…’ Angela muttered.

  ‘Of course he didn’t. But you just watch your arse.’

  No more time for talk or to even think about this alarming revelation. The comic came off, returned to take another bow, then finally finished, reaching for a bottle he had hidden among the props. Angela’s introductory music struck up and she was on.

  They loved her, demanding an encore, and it was a while before she could escape to the backstage dressing room and collapse on a stool.
She stared at herself in the mirror, the naked electric bulbs showing her how garish and sordid was this little space they all shared, and the falsity of her golden wig and painted face. Max! How could he have done this to her, if it was true? She couldn’t wait to get him alone and confront him.

  The chorus girls flounced in, chattering like parakeets, stripping to the buff, baring bottoms and clefts and nipples without the slightest thought for modesty. The air was rich with perfume and female essences. They hung around, fingering themselves or each other before changing into their own clothes, visions in stays and stockings, garters and frilly knickers topped by bustle cages and silk skirts and extremely low bodices. Angela was aware of their sly glances and wondered how many of them knew about her and Max and were laughing behind her back. It saddened her, for she had thought they were her friends.

  He tapped on the door and they fluttered to him like moths around a flame, each jealous and vying for his attention. Even if it was true that he was married this did not prevent them from throwing themselves at him, Angela thought bitterly. Their sometimes spiteful attitude to her must be motivated by envy.

  ‘Are you ready, my dear?’ he said, looking over their heads to where she stood in her outdoor clothes. ‘I’m meeting a gentleman in a restaurant in Stamford Street. He is taken with the show, and you in particular, and wants to discuss the matter of a private performance. I have promised him an introduction.’

  She was instantly suspicious. He was fully aware that she did not want to arouse too much interest and the reason for it, so why was he doing this? Had he heard from his wife and wanted to get rid of her? ‘Is this wise?’ she questioned as he drew her towards the door. ‘Supposing he knows Aidan?’

  His curving black brows drew down in a frown and his eyes glittered. ‘I hardly think this likely. In any case, I can’t turn down such an opportunity. He’ll pay well and it will be good for business.’

  ‘Do I really have to come?’ she pleaded, her hand on the arm of his velvet jacket.

  ‘Yes, you are the bait, my dear.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘No buts. We are all obliged to do things we don’t like if the occasion arises. Now stop being a silly goose. We shall be late. And be pleasant to him, above all things.’

  ‘How pleasant?’ she asked, her heart sinking.

  He gave her a shrewd look, but seemed a touch uneasy, then replied, ‘Whatever it takes, dear girl. Oh, by the by, wear your wig. He is expecting to meet a flaxen-haired innocent.’

  ‘Is this really necessary?’ she complained.

  ‘It is. The success of our mission may depend on it. I’ll help you,’ he said.

  So, within a short space of time her own hair was pinned closely to her head, the wig covering it and her hat on top.

  The night was fine and they walked to the meeting place. The Olympia was not exactly on a par with the West End, where the Café Royal attracted the fashionable, witty and extremely rich, but it was a clean restaurant with a reputation for fine cuisine. Angela looked through the frosted opacity of the windows and, when she entered, was impressed by its décor. Walls painted with scenes depicting Venice, large gilt-framed mirrors, long red plush-covered banquettes and tables spread with the finest of white damask clothes. Here and there were statues of gods and goddesses, showing beautiful bodies but with carefully draped genitals, and the whole atmosphere attempted to transport the customer to Italy, and very nearly succeeded.

  The waiters were attentive, clad in black suits with sparkling napkins over their left arms. The manager hovered on the balls of his feet like an overlarge stork, bowing and scraping and hoping everyone was satisfied. Mostly they were and The Olympia was becoming increasingly popular.

  Max and Angela arrived first. ‘We are guests of Sir Gerald Hastings,’ he told the maître d’.

  ‘Yes, sir. Certainly, sir. Come this way, sir,’ the florid-faced individual replied, even more like a wading bird as he ushered them to a table and handed Max the wine list. ‘Would you like to order a beverage while you wait?’ he enquired, the absolute soul of propriety.

  Max perused the list and made his choice. The manager bowed and signalled to the wine waiter who took over, selecting a bottle, uncorking it and pouring a small measure. Max sipped and pronounced it satisfactory and the waiter filled his glass and Angela’s.

  She was impressed by the way in which Max adapted to this situation. It was as if he had been visiting high-class restaurants all his life. Perhaps he had. She really knew very little of his past. She wanted to ask him about his wife, and was just screwing up courage to do so when several gentlemen entered the room.

  Their leader waved his cane in greeting and led his companions over to join Max, who stood, bowed and said, ‘Ah, Sir Gerald. This is your table, apparently.’

  ‘And this is the oh-so charming songster, I presume,’ Sir Gerald replied, and kissed Angela’s hand. She was anxious to withdraw it but he hung on, smiling roguishly.

  ‘Miss Rose Trelawney, from Cornwall,’ Max said, without batting an eyelid.

  Sir Gerald was a large man, not tall but heavily built. His superbly cut evening suit could not disguise the fact that he was running to fat. Two incisive lines stretched from the sides of his nostrils to the corners of his mouth and a greying beard formed a sharp wedge on his chin. He took the vacant chair next to Angela and pressed his burly knee against her thigh under cover of the tablecloth. She wanted to move but caught Max’s eye and remembered his instructions. To her alarm Sir Gerald gripped her hand and moved it across so that it lay on the fly fastening of his trousers. Beneath it she could feel a large, hot swelling. She tried to ignore it and remove her hand, but he held on tightly and she was too embarrassed to make a scene, to say nothing of disrupting Max’s plans.

  ‘I greatly admire your singing, Miss Trelawney,’ Sir Gerald said, and lifted a finger to toy with one of her curls,’ and I particularly like young ladies with hair like fairy-floss. You are very pretty, my dear.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, you are too kind,’ she replied, hating herself for simpering, but this seemed to be what was expected of her, all part of the act.

  ‘Indeed, y-yes, we agree, d-don’t we, ch-chaps?’ stammered one of his cronies, a weak-chinned individual with ginger hair plastered to his bony skull with verbena-scented oil.

  ‘That’s the ticket, Algie, old boy. Didn’t hear you tonight, Miss Trelawney, but we’ll take Gerald’s word for it. He knows about these things,’ chimed in another, handing his top hat, white silk scarf and opera cloak to a waiter who hung them on a coat stand.

  Sir Gerald ordered champagne that arrived in an ice bucket, and soon corks were popping like miniature artillery. The wine frothed out, spilling into crystal flutes. The bubbles tickled Angela’s nose, the sweet liquid trickling over her tongue and down her throat, and gradually Sir Gerald’s insistence on pressing her hand into his groin did not seem quite so unpleasant.

  The gentlemen were hungry, and soon snacks appeared: salad, prawns, oysters, canapés, washed down with more champagne. Sir Gerald was in an expansive mood, handing round cigars and generally acting the feudal lord. The circle around the table grew larger. She was the only woman, aware of male eyes, male faces, lecherous male smiles. It was flattering but made her increasingly uncomfortable. She looked to Max for support, but he was engrossed in conversation, singing the praises of his company. Tears burned behind her eyes. She wanted to lay her head down on the table and cry, but then someone topped up her glass. She drained it and felt better.

  Champagne! She thought dizzily. When she was famous she’d have it for breakfast, dinner and tea.

  She heard Sir Gerald say to Max, ‘So, it’s agreed then? You’ll bring Miss Trelawney and your dancers to my house on Hampstead Heath next Saturday evening, when you’ve finished performing at the Pelican. I’ll send carriages, and it will be worth your while.’

  ‘You don’t want a juggler or comedian or magician?’ Max enquired blandly.

  �
�No, just the women,’ Sir Gerald said, making no bones about it.

  ‘As you say,’ Max promised, and Angela despised him: he lost his power and arrogance when faced with a title and wealth, and the promise of gain.

  With a final squeeze of her knee and a peck on the cheek, Sir Gerald left with his cronies, after telling the maître d’ to add the bill to his account.

  ‘Coffee, sir?’ the man asked Max once the gentlemen had bundled into Sir Gerald’s carriage and headed across the Thames and up West.

  ‘No, thank you, we must be leaving. Ready, my dear?’ And Max rose and assisted her into her wrap. He seemed so pleased with himself that she could not voice her doubts as to Sir Gerald’s proposition. He was experienced in matters theatrical, and must know if his acceptance was wise.

  In their room later they sat by the fire and he drank brandy and she was on the floor at his feet, resting her head against his knees. Then, emboldened by champagne, she tipped back her head and looked directly up into his face and asked, ‘Is it true that you are married?’

  She felt him start and saw the darkness that settled over his strong features. ‘Where did you get that tale?’ he said harshly, and his fist clenched around the brandy goblet.

  ‘One of the dancers told me.’ A bolt of fear shot through her and a pang of anguish, too. She could tell by his reaction that it was true. ‘Why did you lie to me?’

  ‘I didn’t lie.’ He was immediately on the defensive. ‘The subject never came up.’

  ‘Those clothes you said I could borrow. Were they hers?’

  ‘Some of them,’ he said grumpily. ‘She’s been gone a while, and we never got on well anyway. No need for it to make any difference to you and me.’

  She sat up sharply. ‘It’s bound to make a difference. How can I trust you now? And may she not arrive at any time?’