“I—I often wonder what became of him.”
“They followed his trail to Plymouth,” she told me, “but lost track of him there. It’s reasonable to assume he boarded some ship and left the country, although they were never able to prove it—he undoubtedly sailed under an assumed name. He’s probably in the Colonies now, fighting on the side of the Rebels. It would certainly appeal to him, hostile as he was.”
“He had reason to be hostile,” I said quietly.
We were both silent for a few moments as the carriage bowled down the street with linkboys trotting alongside, flames wavering in the dark like ragged orange banners. As horse hooves clopped smartly on the cobbles, I gazed out the window and thought about the moody, dark-eyed youth I had loved, and then I deliberately forced those thoughts out of my mind.
“I suppose you heard about Clinton Meredith,” Solonge said.
I shook my head. “I haven’t heard anything about him since—since he wanted to set me up in an apartment. That was four years ago.”
“He was in love with you, darling. Did you know that? He was desolate when you vanished without a trace. He blamed himself—felt quite guilty about it.”
“So Marie said. I imagine he got over it.”
“He went back to Greystone Hall and, believe it or not, he reformed—or at least he seemed to. He gave up his wild ways and settled down and began to take a sincere interest in the estate. He married Lady Julia Robinson, a demure young woman with a sweet nature and, unfortunately, very poor health. She succumbed to the fever only a few weeks ago. He’s been in deep mourning ever since.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Clinton was—He wasn’t really wicked, just spoiled and unprincipled. He was too wealthy, too good-looking. He had too much of everything and thought the world should pay obeisance to him.”
“Perhaps he’s grown up,” Solonge said. “People do change. I’m the living proof of it.”
Both of us smiled, and the carriage came to a halt in front of the house and the footman opened the door. Moonlight gilded the front steps and the small portico sheltering the narrow porch. A light was burning in the study, a misty gold square against the shadows. Jamie was undoubtedly working on his notes. Solonge told the footman to take my presents, and I asked him to put them on the table in the foyer, adding that the door was sure to be unlocked. Solonge and I looked at each other, both of us far more moved than we cared to admit. It was hard to associate this elegant creature with her silvery hair and gold and white plumes and diamonds and gorgeous pale gold and lace gown with the vibrant, feisty girl I had known, but the bond was still there between us.
“I do wish you’d come in and meet Jamie,” I said.
“I’d better not, darling. Bart’s waiting for me at Grosvenor Square, and he always gets restless when I’m not there.”
“Thank you for the presents, Solonge. You’ve made this the nicest birthday I’ve had in a long time.”
“Take my advice, darling—stop having them.”
I smiled. “Good-bye, Solonge.”
“Good-bye. I’ll send you a letter from Italy.”
“Please do.”
I climbed out of the carriage and, casting aristocratic poise aside, Solonge climbed out after me and caught me to her. We hugged tightly, emotionally, both of us remembering those days gone by. “Take care,” she whispered. “You, too,” I said. We clasped each other for another moment, and then she sighed and let me go, brushing a tear from her cheek. The footman helped her into the carriage and shut the door and ascended his perch on back of the vehicle. I climbed the steps and turned. Solonge held the curtain back and waved as the carriage pulled away, linkboys trotting alongside with torches held high. Brushing away my own tears, I went inside. The past was a part of all of us, and I knew I would never be entirely free of my own.
Chapter Fifteen
Glorious golden marigolds, lovely yellow and white daisies, bronze chrysanthemums, just what I needed, and, yes, a huge bouquet of those daffodils as well. The flower woman assured me I had made the perfect selection, her flowers were the loveliest in th’ ’ole bloomin’ Market. I paid her, and she began to twist sheets of thin green paper around the stems of the bunches of flowers, talking all the while. It was an ’onor ’avin’ me buy ’er blooms. She ’adn’t seen one of my plays ’erself, ’adn’t ’ad th’ pleasure, but everyone knew Angel. Wudn’t ’oity-toity like some of them actresses, I wudn’t. A real person, it was well known. She placed the flowers carefully into the large, flat basket hooked on my arm, and I smiled and thanked her.
“Would you like to see one of my plays, Annie?” I inquired.
“Lor’, luv, me—I ain’t got th’ means to go squanderin’ money on theater tickets, though if I ’ad, it’d be your play I’d go ta see.”
“You come to the box office tomorrow night, Annie. Bring a friend. I’ll have two tickets waiting there for you—the best seats in the house. Compliments of Mrs. Howard.”
“You mean, you mean—” Annie was dismayed. “Lor’, you are an Angel!”
“And be sure to come backstage after the play is over. We’ll have a cup of tea in my dressing room.”
She thrust a large bunch of flame-colored hibiscus into the basket, smiling a broad smile and wiping gnarled brown hands on her soiled white apron. I thanked her again and moved on through The Market with my heavily laden basket. Friendly greetings assailed me on every side. I smiled and nodded, acknowledging them, feeling the waves of affection. Actresses were supposed to be temperamental and exclusive, haughty creatures who were surrounded by sycophants and had nothing to do with the common folk. That might be very well for women like the pretentious Mrs. Perry and her ilk, but I considered myself a working woman, and I worked bloody hard, finding precious little glamor in my position as London’s Favorite Actress. Being so successful just meant you had to work twice as hard in order not to disappoint your public.
“’Ow ’bout some fine cabbage, Angel?” a burly man cried.
“Not today, Ed. They’re lovely, though. Those last you sold me were wonderfully crisp.”
“Only th’ best for Angel of Covent Garden.”
“’Ear, ’ear,” his companion called. “Our very own Angel, gracin’ us today with ’er presence. Three cheers for Angel!”
Hearty cheers rang out all around, and I acknowledged this tribute with a gracious smile, slightly embarrassed as I always was by such displays of adulation. Gone were the days when I could saunter through Covent Garden with anonymity, but I refused to barricade myself and live in elegant seclusion with a staff of servants to protect me from the public, as did most prominent theatrical folk. My freedom and mobility were far too important to me, and I realized full well that my accessibility was one of the major reasons for my popularity. Leaving The Market, I crossed the piazza. Plump blue-gray pigeons scurried on the stones, searching for crumbs, and radiant sunlight bathed the facade of St. Paul’s. It was late April, a glorious afternoon, and I savored the clear blue sky and the fresh new greenery as I strolled toward St. Martin’s Lane.
Spring was here and the air was soft and scented and flower beds were full of varicolored blossoms and Jamie was leaving tomorrow for Tunbridge Wells. I was going to be bright and cheerful. I was going to make our last day together pleasant and fun. I was not going to be sad. I would fill the house with the flowers I had bought and I would be light and merry and this evening after I returned from the theater I was going to cook a splendid midnight supper and open a bottle of the superb wine I had ordered and give him something to think about while he was away. He would only be gone for two or three weeks, but it would seem an eternity, I knew. Damn the bloody play, and damn Mary, Queen of Scots, too. I was thoroughly sick of her and had no desire to portray her onstage, but Jamie assured me I would adore the play once he had finished it.
I sighed, turning the corner of Chandos Street and starting down St. Martin’s Lane with its rows of mellow old stone houses. There was a carriage
in front of our own, brown and battered, obviously hired, sturdy chestnuts standing patiently in the sunshine while the driver, in a worn green coat, slouched on his seat and munched a crusty roll. I wondered who could possibly be visiting at this hour. Moving up the steps, I opened the door and stepped into the foyer, and I felt an iciness inside me as I heard that rich, resonant, affected voice I knew so well and had come to detest.
“—see no reason why we shouldn’t have a meeting between Mary and Elizabeth, even though they never actually met face to face. An artist is permitted to take liberties with history, after all—Shakespeare did—and it would make a stunning curtain for the second act.”
“The dramatic possibilities are endless,” Jamie agreed.
“The two cousins, face to face, Mary proud and poised, refusing to humble herself, Elizabeth cold and scornful—’I expect no mercy for myself, Cousin, but I plead with you to release my beloved Bothwell’—and the third act opens on the eve of her execution. She has learned that Bothwell has gone insane in his Danish prison, her son has become her sworn enemy and the poor darling has nothing else to live for. All her hopes, all her dreams have turned to ashes, but she is going to face her death like the noble, majestic soul she is. It’s going to be magnificent, James!”
“Maybe you should write it for me,” he said.
“Dear me,” Mrs. Perry protested,” I could never write a play—I merely interpret those lines written by my betters, but if I have provided some small inspiration to you I’m more than satisfied. Our discussions have been so very stimulating, James, and I trust they’ve been helpful as well.”
“They’ve been helpful indeed.”
“I know Angel doesn’t like the material, but I feel in my heart this play is going to be your greatest achievement. Charles Hart will be superb as Bothwell, he has such magnetism, and though she’s really not mature enough to play Mary, I’m sure Angel will give a perfectly competent performance. You couldn’t dream of doing the play without her, of course. The public expects her to be in all your plays, even if she’s not right for the part.”
This last was said in a velvety, commiserating voice, indicating her sympathy with his problem, and I actually looked around for a pistol to shoot the slut with. Seeing none, I shut the door rather emphatically and stamped noisily on the floor of the foyer. Silence fell in the study. I sailed blithely in, basket of flowers on my arm, a radiant smile on my lips.
“What a lovely surprise!” I exclaimed. “Mrs. Perry. How nice it is to see you. So unexpected. You must forgive me if I’m a bit breathless. It’s a good walk from The Market.”
Jamie was standing by the fireplace in tall black knee boots, tight black breeches and a loosely fitting white lawn shirt with full belling sleeves, the tail tucked carelessly into the waistband of his breeches and bagging over it. He was holding some manuscript pages and looked both startled and wryly amused by my dramatic, ingenue entrance.
“Mrs. Perry stopped by to bring me a couple of books I wanted to borrow,” he told me. “I’ll need them in Tunbridge Wells.”
“How lovely of her,” I said.
I flashed another radiant smile. Mrs. Perry smiled, too, a tight, carefully controlled smile. She was looking particularly opulent in a deep honey-colored satin gown. The edge of the extremely low-cut bodice was trimmed with black fox fur, as was the hem of the full skirt. The sleeves were short, and she wore a pair of long black velvet gloves. A wide-brimmed black velvet hat slanted across her head, one side dripping amber and black plumes. Full lips a lush pink, deep blue eyes half-veiled by heavy mauve lids with dark, luxuriant lashes, Mrs. Perry exuded that ripe, slightly bruised sensuality that most men find irresistible. I gave her that. She might be old, but she was loaded with allure. She was a good actress, too, perfect as Castlemaine. I tried to remember that now as we smiled at each other.
“What a stunning gown,” I remarked. “A bit extreme for this time of day I should think, but it suits you divinely.”
“Thank you. Been shopping?”
“I always select my own flowers.”
“My maid does all my shopping. I feel it would be rather unseemly for an actress of my stature to appear at The Market—all those people.”
“An actress of your stature could appear at The Market without the slightest danger of being bothered by all those people,” I said sweetly.
Her smile tightened even more as the dart struck home. I set the basket of flowers down on one of the low tables, still the ingenue and playing it to the hilt. Shoving a long chestnut wave from my temple, I brushed a speck of imaginary lint from my sprigged muslin skirt and sighed.
“We’ll be having tea soon. Won’t you stay?” I asked.
“I really mustn’t. I have to think of my figure.”
I glanced at it pointedly. “Of course,” I said.
Jamie chuckled. Both of us whirled around to glare at him and he quickly sobered and immersed himself in the pages he was holding. Mrs. Perry reached up to pat the plumes dripping from her hat brim and said she really must be going. I said that was a pity, she must come back soon, and Jamie put down the pages and said he was very grateful for the books. She said it was no trouble at all and gave him a smile so warm it would have melted ice and he grinned at her and said he’d show her to the door. I watched them leave the room and listened to the words they exchanged at the door, and then I went into the kitchen and took vases from the cabinet and carried them back to the study. I was arranging the flame-colored hibiscus in one of them when Jamie came back, that heavy brown wave slanting across his brow. I ignored him, reaching for another hibiscus.
“No need to be upset,” he said.
“Upset? Me? I’m not upset. Whyever should I be upset?”
“I didn’t ask her to come by. She just showed up. I thought she’d leave the books at the theater for you to bring home.”
“Very thoughtful of her to bring them,” I said.
“As a matter of fact, it was.”
“Pity I came home so soon.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.
I finished with the hibiscus, fluffed them a bit, set the vase on the table and began to arrange the giant marigolds in a shallow white vase, sticking daisies among them.
“I asked you a question,” he said. “Are you implying—My God! Are you implying I planned to sleep with the woman?”
“That’s what she had in mind, I can assure you. She came dressed for it. That gown—at four o’clock in the afternoon? Oh yes, she came prepared. The hook was baited and no doubt she’d have pulled you in if I hadn’t arrived when I did.”
“I resent that! I have no interest whatsoever in—”
“Spending hours with her in the Green Room, discussing your beloved Mary, that I can tolerate, but when she brazenly comes to my home dressed like an expensive Piccadilly whore and tries to undermine me with her sly remarks I draw the line!”
“You’re jealous!” he exclaimed. He looked pleased.
“Jealous? Of an inconsequential supporting player pushing forty and losing her looks? Don’t be absurd! I’m not jealous, don’t flatter yourself, you sod. Wipe that grin off your face. I just happen to know that bitch would like to take my place!”
“Sure,” he said.
“She wants to supplant me!”
“Of course she does.”
“You admit it!”
“Why shouldn’t I? She’s wretchedly obvious, love, transparent as a sheet of glass. Think I don’t know what she’s been up to? Think I’m that dense and dim-witted? Sure she’d like to take your place. What actress with any ambition wouldn’t? I was on to her little ploys from the first, but she has been helpful, Angel, she does know a great deal about Mary, and she’s given me some very good ideas.”
“I’ll bet she has!”
He smiled a slow, pleased smile and came toward me and I stiffened and he paused and shook his head, very amused by my anger. I stuck the last marigold into the vase and picked up the
large bunch of golden-yellow daffodils and debated whether I should put them in the tall, fluted white vase or the shorter, rounded cut-glass container.
“She hadn’t a prayer,” he told me.
“Indeed?”
“No one could ever take your place, love.”
I ignored that remark and put the daffodils in the tall white vase, and I heard his exasperated sigh but didn’t look up. I was being totally unreasonable, I knew that, my anger was at her, not him, but he was so … so exasperating! And he was going to leave in the morning and I would be alone, wake up alone in the mornings, and he would not be there to touch and tease and delight. I put the bronze chrysanthemums in the cut-glass container and fetched a brass pitcher with a long spout from the kitchen and filled it with water and poured water into all the vases of flowers. Jamie watched as I placed the vases at various points around the room.
“Finished?” he inquired.
“For the moment.”
My voice was cool, but that didn’t deter him. He came over to me and put his hands on my shoulders and squeezed gently and gazed down at me with sleepy seductive green-brown eyes and I smelled the musky, male smell of him and felt his warmth and felt his strong fingers kneading my flesh, one hand reaching up to lift my hair and curl around the back of my neck, but I was still irritated and I wasn’t going to melt and give in just because he had a magnificent body, just because he had a full curving mouth and a wonderful crooked nose that was endearing and kept him from being too handsome, just because he was a superlative lover and knew how to make me feel such glorious, wicked feelings inside, even now, when I didn’t want to feel them at all. I had had such plans for today, his last day home, such delicious plans for tonight, and now they were in ruins and I was quite put out.
“I hate Mary, Queen of Scots,” I snapped.
“You’ll love the Mary I’m going to write for you.”
“I wanted you to do a play about Aphra Behn. She was a strong, independent lady who made her own way in a man’s world and became a huge success. Her life was full of romance and adventure, too. I don’t know why you can’t write that play for me.”
Angel in Scarlet Page 35
