Charred toast littered the old oak drainboard, along with egg shells and a rasher of bacon. A skillet on the large black stove contained a disgusting mess that might possibly have been a madman’s idea of an omelete. A bellyful of red-orange coals still glowed in the stove, and the mess in the skillet was turning even browner. I seized a pad and removed it from the stove, then rushed to open a window, rain or no rain. Pots, pans, dishes, jars of preserves covered every surface. A canister of flour had been overturned, spilling all over the counter and onto the floor. I was going to murder him. Any woman who had ever tried to keep a kitchen would deem it justifiable homicide, and I would be very persuasive when I stood before the magistrate.
Fuming, I cleaned, cursing him every minute, and half an hour later I viewed my accomplishment with something less than bliss. The drainboard was clean and polished, the old oak gleaming, and the glazed brick floor gleamed too, dark red-brown. Copper utensils hung on the yellow-white walls as did strings of red pepper and mauve-white onions. A wicker basket of dried herbs hung from the low beamed ceiling. Most of the odor was gone now, and the window was shut. A pot of coffee perked merrily on the stove. Rain pattered. I wondered how I should do it. Poison? A knife between the ribs? A sharp blow on the head with a heavy object? Fetching a dark blue cup from one of the oak cabinets, I poured coffee and sipped it gratefully, and then I heard stamping on the porch.
I set down the cup and marched through the study and on into the foyer. He was just opening the door, wearing a long black cloak that was soaking wet. His hair was wet, too, plastered to his skull in sleek brown locks, and rain dripped down his face. His arms were laden with an immense pile of newspapers and several metal containers which he had attempted to keep dry under the heavy folds of his cloak. I glared at him. He gave me a sheepish look, kicking the door shut. A huge puddle of water was forming at his feet.
“Have you lost your mind!” I cried.
“Hello, love. Hoped you’d still be asleep.”
“You wrecked my kitchen!”
“Discovered that, did you? I hoped I’d get back in time to clean it up before you found it.”
“Whatever possessed you!”
“I woke up early,” he said. “I thought it might be kinda nice if I cooked breakfast and brought it up to you. Breakfast in bed. Wanted to show my appreciation of you.”
I didn’t say anything. I was too moved.
“I can’t cook,” he confessed.
“You sure as hell can’t!”
“So I decided to run over to Button’s on Russell and buy some breakfast and bring it back. Have it here in these containers, still warm. While I was waiting for ’em to cook it I popped by Fleet to pick up the papers. We’re a tremendous success, love.”
“You’re soaking wet!”
“Guess I am at that.”
“Here, hand me those containers. Get yourself into the study and take that wet cloak off. I’ll light the fire. My God, your boots are muddy. You’re ruining the floor!”
“Sorry,” he said.
I took the containers into the kitchen and lighted the fire in the study as he removed the sodden black cloak. He wore a white lawn shirt and black breeches beneath, and both were damp, the fine white cloth clinging to his chest and back, skin visible beneath. I made him sit down on the hearth. I helped him off with his boots and brought him a towel and ordered him to dry his hair, treating him like a bothersome child and trying not to show how moved I was that he had wanted to bring me breakfast in bed. What a beautiful, thoughtful man he was. What an idiot to go out in this rain in order to buy breakfast for me. I carried his muddy boots to the back hall, to be cleaned later, and I mopped up the puddle in the foyer and draped his cloak over the mantel so that it would dry, too, and he sneezed, vigorously toweling his hair.
“You’re an idiot!” I snapped.
“I had good intentions,” he protested.
“It took me forever to clean up that mess!”
“Bitch, bitch, bitch.”
“You’ll probably come down with a wretched cold.”
“You can nurse me,” he said.
“You’d better take off that shirt and those breeches. I’ll go fetch a robe for you. Stay where you are! I want you in front of that fire until you’re thoroughly dry.”
“I’m roasting!”
“Don’t give me any lip, Mr. Lambert. I’m in no mood for it.”
I went upstairs and found an old brown satin dressing robe in the wardrobe, a disreputable garment that should have been discarded years ago. I carried it back down to the study. He had removed his shirt and was struggling out of the breeches which, wet, were like a second skin and not easy to remove. I couldn’t resist helping him, peeling them down while he stood there patiently. He lifted first one foot, then the other, and I flung the breeches aside. He had obviously dressed in a hurry. He was quite naked, his tall, lean body burnished by the flickering firelight. I stroked his thigh. He grinned. I handed him the robe and told him to put it on.
“Your hair is still damp,” I said crisply. “Here, take these cushions and sit back down on the hearth.”
“You’re a very bossy wench,” he told me. “Reckon I ought to take you down a few pegs.”
“Put the robe on, Jamie.”
“Why don’t you take your clothes off?”
I gave him a look and went into the kitchen and poured him a cup of coffee. He grinned when I handed it to him and tried to pull me down beside him. I gave his hand a slap. Back in the kitchen I opened the containers to discover fluffy eggs scrambled with cheese and herbs, juicy hot sausage patties, pieces of crisp bacon and buttered toast and wonderfully tempting cinnamon rolls baked with raisins and walnuts and glazed with creamy white icing. Remarkably enough, everything was still piping hot. I prepared a plate for him and carried it in along with knife, fork and tan linen napkin.
“You’re not eating?” he inquired.
“I’ll have a cup of coffee, perhaps one of the cinnamon rolls.”
“All that food, all the trouble I went to, and you turn up your nose at it. I’m hurt.”
“You know I never eat this early.”
“It’s two o’clock in the afternoon,” he pointed out.
“Eat your food, Jamie.”
I sat down on the floor a few feet away from him and leaned my back against one of the large brown leather chairs that flanked the fireplace. Propped up on one elbow he lolled there on the cushions before the fire like some indolent pasha, the old brown robe tied loosely at the waist, leaving much of his chest and most of his legs bare. He ate slowly, watching me with glowing green-brown eyes half-shrouded with drooping lids. I ignored those seductive looks and sipped my coffee. The rain was still pouring down, noisier now, drumming on the roof and splashing on the pavements.
“This is cozy,” he said.
“Very,” I agreed.
“Getting terribly warm in here.”
“Think so?”
“You’re wearing too many clothes.”
“I’m quite comfortable.”
“I’m getting more uncomfortable by the minute.”
I loved it when he was in this playful, randy mood, but I managed to assume a prim expression and ignore his implication. He nibbled a piece of bacon, looking at me with darkly glowing eyes, and then he shifted position on the cushions and the slippery brown robe slipped even more, revealing a long, lean flank that was burnished by firelight. His hair was beginning to dry, fluffing up in feathery brown wisps, and I longed to move over there and smooth it down and kiss his temple. I took a bite of the cinnamon roll. It was sweet and rich and buttery, almost sinfully delicious. Jamie had another piece of sausage and finished his eggs and watched as I ate the rest of the roll and licked my fingers.
“They’re delicious,” I said. “You should have one.”
“I’d rather have something else.”
“I’ll get you some more coffee,” I told him.
I took his cup into the kitchen
and refilled it and handed it to him and he reached up under my skirts and clasped my calf, fingers squeezing firmly, kneading the flesh. I pulled away easily enough and moved back and he gave me a disgruntled look and sipped his coffee, lolling back on the cushions exactly like a spoiled pasha. I stepped over to the huge, cluttered desk and picked up some of the papers and carried them over to the long wheat-colored sofa. Kicking off my shoes, I curled up on the sofa with legs beneath me and began to turn the pages. Jamie pushed his empty plate aside and sat up, folding his arms across his knees and looking at me in a most provocative way.
“Read them later,” he said.
“Why not now?”
“There are better things to do.”
“Indeed?”
He climbed lazily to his feet and tightened the sash of his robe and padded across the room and took the paper out of my hands. He caught my upper arms and pulled me to my feet and held me against him, and I pretended to be disinterested in his amorous maneuvers, trying to pull away. He clasped me close and began to kiss my brow, my temple, my cheek, the curve of my throat, murmuring deep in his throat as he did so. He was in no hurry, no hurry at all, and I tried to resist the warm, tingling sensations that crept over me. I didn’t want to melt, not yet. Delay was delicious, and he was the master of it.
“Really, Jamie—”
“You’re a tempting wench,” he purred.
“I have a headache.”
“I’ve got a great cure for it.”
“You’re impossi—”
His mouth covered mine and his arms tightened around me and my knees turned weak and I stumbled and he lost his balance and we almost toppled onto the sofa, swaying precariously until he got his footing. I clung to him for a moment until he had steadied himself and my own legs were steady too and then I placed my hands against his chest and pushed and he fell onto the sofa and looked startled and I smiled and he reached up and seized my wrist and gave it a savage jerk and I fell on top of him and he wrapped arms and legs around me and got me in a hold and I broke it and we wrestled and rolled and spilled onto the floor and he took hold of my hair and tugged it and covered my mouth with his again and I tried to shove him off me but he was too strong, too heavy, but I refused to give in just yet, the game too delightful, too divine.
He kissed me and made murmuring noises in his throat, pinioning me with his weight, and I ran my hands over his back and shoulders and felt the slippery satin and the muscle beneath and parted my lips and his tongue thrust savagely into my mouth and his body tensed, bone and muscle pressing down, hurting me until I managed to shift position and pretend submission and he relaxed and began rubbing my abdomen with that hot, hard tool as he continued to thrust his tongue in and out, jabbing the back of my throat. He raised up, straddling me with a knee on either side of my thighs, his hands reaching down to pull up my skirts, and I reared up then and he toppled over and I laughed again and he lunged for me as I crawled toward the fireplace.
He caught hold of my ankle and pulled and I fell flat as he caught my other ankle and held fast, pulling, and I slid on the floor and his hands moved higher and gripped my calves, my knees, and up came my skirts and over I turned and onto me he crawled and into me he plunged, filling me fully, strong, straining. I wrapped my legs around him and he reached out, groping, and got one of the cushions and positioned it under my hips and pulled back and plunged and pounded and repeated and I raised and reared and our movements matched and magic and marvelous sensations besieged us both.
Later there was sweet soreness and satiation and silence broken only by the gentle crackle of the fire and the splash and patter of rain outside. I cradled him in my arms, his head heavy on my shoulders, and he slept and I savored those ashes of aftermath and savored the weight and warmth of him and the lovely smell of his body. He stirred after a while and opened his eyes and looked into mine and smiled a sleepy smile and slept again, cradling me, and my heart filled with fondness and affection. The fire burned down, coals glowing a dim pink-orange, and the rain slowly ceased, although it continued to drip from the eaves with a monotonous plop-plop. I gently disentangled myself and put a cushion under his head and went upstairs, limbs aching, a wonderful languor in my blood.
My linen frock was deplorably wrinkled. Smiling, I removed it and washed thoroughly, then put on a tan muslin dress sprigged with gold and brown flowers. I brushed my hair, which was a tangled mess, and I thought about the man napping downstairs. I could have been the mistress of a Lord, could have had a luxurious apartment and jewelry and servants and a generous monthly allowance, and instead I was living with a mercurial, temperamental playwright and working like a slave under constant pressure and tearing my nerves to shreds and taking the money I earned and investing it in his plays. Marie would have said I had made a very bad bargain. I was more than content with my lot. I loved working in the theater, and I loved this charming old house in Covent Garden and … and I was extremely fond of the man downstairs.
Did I love him? Not the way I had loved Hugh Bradford, with all my heart, all my soul, with anguished emotions and tender desperation. I thought of Hugh often, after all this time, and the feeling was still there, the pain, too, even though it no longer had the same stabbing impact. I wondered what had become of him, and I wondered if he remembered the girl I had been and the night under the stars. Jamie did not stir my soul. He stirred my wrath, my mirth, made me yell and made me laugh, made me frown and made me smile. He did not make me feel poetic and sad and sensitive. He made me feel exuberant and bawdy and gloriously, joyously alive. He drove me to distraction at times, particularly when we were working on a new play, made me so furious I longed to crack his skull, but I had never considered leaving him. Did I love him? Perhaps love wasn’t the word for it. I was happy with our life together, and that was enough.
I went back downstairs to find him on the sofa in breeches and robe, drinking a cup of coffee, eating a cold cinnamon roll and reading the newspapers he’d brought home. His hair was disheveled. There were faint gray smudges under his eyes. He looked lazy and replete, papers in his lap and scattered messily about the floor.
“Did you heat the coffee?” I asked.
He made a face. “Yeah. It tastes awful.”
“I’ll make fresh.”
Engrossed in an article, he raised his cup into the air and I took it out of his hand and carried it into the kitchen. I made a new pot of coffee and carried cups for both of us back into the study. He didn’t look up from the paper he was reading but raised his hand into the air again and gripped the cup that materialized. I wasn’t his servant, no indeed, but I often enjoyed waiting on him, and I didn’t scold now. I gathered up some of the papers and sat down on the other end of the sofa and sipped my coffee and read.
Our friends, the well-fed journalists, had written predictably laudatory articles about the enchanting Mrs. Howard who had surpassed herself in the role of Nell Gwynn and had done a delightful bit with the spaniels that had caused great merriment. Mrs. Howard was vivacious. Mrs. Howard was radiantly lovely. Mrs. Howard wore a stunning array of costumes. My Charming Nellie was a fine vehicle for London’s best beloved actress. Praise was given to Charles Hart as well and to the engaging Mrs. Sloan. Even Mrs. Perry got her share. There was altogether too much about the spaniels, altogether too much about my private life and my shopping at The Market and nobbing with the common people. These puffery pieces would undoubtedly sell a great many tickets, but the actual reviews were considerably less kind. Mrs. Howard, a talented actress, was wasting herself in these turgid melodramas, of which My Charming Nellie was an apt example, a gaudy hodgepodge of history garishly mounted with leaden pace.
“It’s going to run forever,” Jamie said.
“You’ve read these?”
“Most of them. The party paid off. Our friends did us proud. The critics don’t matter. Never have. What do they know? Those who want intellectual fare will go see Garrick do Lear. Those who want a good time will come see My Charmi
ng Nellie.”
I could tell that he was hurt by the reviews. He always was. It hurt even more that they invariably praised me while damning his skills as a dramatist. I had to tread very cautiously, male pride, male ego being what they were. I gave a sigh and pushed the papers aside and told him we were bound to make a bleeding fortune.
“Bound to,” he agreed, “even if it isn’t a masterpiece.”
“You weren’t trying to write a masterpiece,” I told him. “You were trying to write a thundering good entertainment. You did. Sod the critics.”
“Sod ’em,” he said.
“If you wanted to write a masterpiece, I’m sure you could.”
“Sure I could.”
“And we’d promptly go bankrupt,” I added.
Hurt, pride wounded, he had been prepared to sulk, but his fundamental good humor got the best of him and he had to grin at my remark. He shoved the papers out of his lap and took hold of my hand and pulled me close beside him and slung an arm around my shoulders. He told me I was a rather terrific lady and a good little actress even if I had flubbed the fight scene last night.
“Flubbed the fight scene! I was marvelous! So was Megan!”
“It looked false, looked staged. I told you a hundred times during rehearsals that I wanted the audience to feel those punches, feel that hair tearing at the roots. It’s supposed to be a brawl, and the two of you were cavorting about like a couple of giggling schoolgirls on a picnic. We’re going to have to work on it, love.”
He was absolutely impossible! But, as usual, he was right. We did work on the fight scene, putting in hours every afternoon before the performance, and it was much better, much more convincing, bringing spontaneous applause from a wildly enthusiastic audience. Megan and I both had a nice collection of bruises and scratches before we got it right but, as she wearily pointed out, it was all for our art. My Charming Nellie played to packed houses throughout September, October and November, and the usual Christmas slump didn’t affect us at all. It was the most successful drama in London that winter, and by January production costs had been more than covered and Jamie and I were both earning tremendous profits. He was already researching the life of Mary, Queen of Scots and mulling over the dramatic possibilities therein. I was less than enthusiastic about playing that particular lady, whom I felt was a cold-hearted schemer and not at all sympathetic, even though she was beheaded, but he paid no heed to my protests and forged ahead with his researches.
Angel in Scarlet Page 33
