Angel in Scarlet

by Jennifer Wilde

  “That won’t be necessary, Peg. You may go. I won’t need you tonight.”

  “But—”

  “You may go,” I said firmly.

  Peg left, shutting the door behind her, and I looked at my visitor with a cool, level gaze. He was wearing polished black knee boots and elegantly cut black broadcloth breeches and frock coat and a vest of darkmaroon satin embroidered with tiny black fleurs-de-lis, his white silk neckcloth expertly folded. His hair was neatly brushed, pulled back and fastened with a black ribbon at the nape. He looked fully recovered. He looked like a gentleman. No, I thought, with those wickedly arched eyebrows and that cruel pink mouth he looked like some cynical buccaneer masquerading as a gentleman.

  “How dare you intimidate my dresser!” I snapped.

  “I didn’t do a thing,” he protested. “I was as polite as could be.”

  “You undoubtedly curled your lip at her. You glared at her with those eyes. She was afraid to throw you out.”

  “I can’t help it if I have that kind of face.”

  “I told you I didn’t want to see you again, Hugh.”

  He smiled. “Tell me that you haven’t thought about me every day since we parted. Tell me you haven’t longed to see me.”

  “Get out, Hugh.”

  “I have a carriage waiting. I’m taking you to dinner.”

  “I’m going home.”

  “Afraid?” he inquired.

  There was challenge in his voice, in his eyes as well. I looked at him for a long moment before replying.

  “No, Hugh,” I said, “I’m not afraid. I’ll go out to dinner with you, if only to prove that there is nothing left between us. Kindly wait for me out in the hallway. I have to change.”

  I joined him twenty minutes later, cool, composed, polite. I was wearing a low-cut cream satin gown printed with tiny blue and violet flowers and minuscule brown leaves. The small puffed sleeves were worn off the shoulder and the full, spreading skirt parted in front to reveal an underskirt of alternating rows of blue and brown lace ruffles. Dottie had delivered it here at the theater a week ago, and I was glad I had it on hand. The simple pink linen frock I had left the house in would hardly have been appropriate for a midnight supper. Hugh looked at me with approval as I slipped on a pair of elbow-length brown lace gloves.

  The eating house he had selected was near St. James Square and extremely elegant, filled with sumptuously attired ladies and gentlemen, the majority of them in powdered wigs. Crystal chandeliers glittered. Gilt sparkled on the ivory walls. Our entrance caused quite a stir, for I was recognized, of course, and a number of the customers seemed affronted that a common actress would dare appear in their aristocratic establishment. I held my head high, both amused and irritated by Hugh’s obvious efforts to impress me. A nice grilled chop and steamed red cabbage at Button’s would have done nicely but the former stableboy had to show me he could mingle with the bluebloods with ease. I was not surprised when the waiter showed us into a small private room aglow with candlelight from gilt and crystal wall sconces.

  “I hope you can afford this,” I said.

  “I can,” he assured me. “Champagne?”

  I nodded. Hugh was polite and attentive throughout the meal, handling himself with undeniable polish. No one observing him would have questioned his right to be here. The meal was magnificent, flawlessly served, the conversation deliberately light and impersonal. He had learned to ape the gentry to perfection, but the beautiful clothes and carefully cultivated manner didn’t deceive me at all. No, the surly stableboy was still evident in the curl of that lower lip, the slant of the brows and in those moody dark brown eyes that watched me so closely, revealing far too much. He wanted so badly to show me how he had changed, but the essentials hadn’t changed at all. He was still obsessed, still bitter, still tormented by all he felt had been denied him. The raw edges had been polished but the raw emotions still surged inside, as strong as ever.

  Poor Hugh, I thought. I felt the old compassion and wanted to take his hand and tell him it didn’t matter. That was dangerous, I knew, as dangerous as the stirrings caused by the desire smoldering in those eyes, the taut curve of that wide mouth. I remembered, and the memories were potent, and I pushed my dessert plate aside and told him that it had been a very long day, I was very tired. Hugh summoned the waiter and settled the bill immediately and then led me out to the carriage he had hired for the night.

  Moonlight streamed through the windows of the carriage. Sitting across from him, I studied his face in the soft silver light. He was in a thoughtful mood, silent, his brown eyes full of memories, his mouth held in a tight line. His was not a handsome face, no, by no means, but it was striking and perversely attractive: lean, sharp, intriguing. I had seen it in my dreams, so often, and this seemed like a dream, too. I couldn’t believe that, if I wanted to, I could reach across and rest my hand on that sharp cheekbone and caress that lean cheek. I wanted to. I wanted to love him and comfort him and heal all those wounds he carried inside. I hardened myself against the yearnings that were like a physical ache within me.

  The carriage stopped in front of the house and Hugh helped me down, his hand squeezing mine. He walked me to the door and I gave him my key and he unlocked the door.

  “Thank you for the meal, Hugh,” I said. “It was lovely.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it. You see, I can be a civilized fellow on occasion.”

  “I’ve never doubted that. Do you plan to do another job?”

  The abrupt question startled him. “Eventually. I have a number of prospects lined up.”

  “I see,” I said coldly. “I have something for you. Please wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  I stepped inside and returned a few moments later and silently handed him the neatly folded black silk hood. He glanced at it and then stuffed it into the pocket of his frock coat and looked into my eyes, frowning. We stood there in front of the door for several moments without speaking. He placed his hands on my bare shoulders. I pulled away.

  “Did it ever occur to you that you might get caught?” I asked sharply. “Did it ever occur to you that if—if you’re caught you’ll be carted off to Tyburn and hanged? Is that dream of yours so important? Is it worth risking your life to—to prove you’re not a bastard?”

  “It means everything,” he said in a flat voice. “I want what is mine. I love you, Angie. I want to give you the world. I want to give you a title, an estate, luxury for the rest of your life.”

  “Those things aren’t important, Hugh.”

  “They are if they’ve been denied you through treachery.”

  “Hugh—”

  “I want to marry you, Angie.”

  He pulled me into his arms and covered my mouth with his own and kissed me for a long time, tenderly, thoroughly, and my head seemed to swim and the sweet sensations exploded and I tried to resist but I was too weak. I cried inside, sad for all that was lost, all that could never be. I clung to him, overcome by emotion, and when he finally let me go I was trembling. It was some time before I could speak.

  “I don’t want to see you again, Hugh.”

  “I’m going to marry you. I’m going to make you Lady Meredith.”

  “Go on with your life of crime,” I said. “Pur—pursue your obsession if you must, but I—I want no part of it. There’s no place in my life for you, Hugh. It’s too late. I have my career, and I—There’s someone else. I live with him.”

  “Lambert,” he said. “I know about that.”

  “I love him.”

  “A moment ago, in my arms, you proved that you still loved me.”

  I didn’t reply. I wished with all my heart I could deny it, could look at him coolly and say it wasn’t true, but I couldn’t. Hugh glared at me with dark, intense eyes that challenged me to tell him it wasn’t so. Neither of us spoke. Moonlight spilled over the steps. Shadows brushed the walls. On the street the horses stamped impatiently. Hugh waited and time passed and I summoned all my strength and called o
n all my training and somehow managed to speak in a cool, level voice.

  “I meant what I said. I don’t want to see you again. The past is over and I’m no longer the girl you knew. I want no part of you. I mean that. Good-bye, Hugh.”

  He continued to glare at me, anger in his eyes now, pain as well, and I knew I had hurt him and knew I must hold fast and not let him suspect what I felt inside. I met his glare with icy composure. After a moment he scowled and pressed his lips tight, and then he turned and went back to the carriage and snapped an order to the driver and climbed inside. The carriage pulled away, wheels grinding over the cobbles, hooves ringing loudly in the silence of the night. I stood in front of the door, my lower lip trembling, lashes moist, and it was a long time before I found the strength to go inside.

  I slept very little that night.

  The days that followed were bright and sunny and warm. June was almost here. London would soon be hot and stifling, and those who could afford to would leave the city. Audiences were growing sparser by the night, the empty seats seeming to glare at us in silent accusation as we moved through our paces in front of the footlights. Jamie would probably close the play when he came back, and he would be back any day now. There had been no more letters, but he was terribly busy, finishing the play. If Mrs. Perry received any letters, I didn’t want to know. I avoided her as though she were carrying the plague, fuming silently each time she flashed one of her smug, knowing smiles. The woman was not going to draw me into a cat fight, which was precisely what she wanted.

  On a Tuesday, nine days after I had dined with Hugh, I was restless and decided to bake a walnut cake, simply to fill the hours until it was time to leave for the theater. I was out of flour, and I would need shelled walnuts, too. I went to The Market and bought some oranges and a lovely bunch of silver-mauve onions as well, strolling home leisurely with the wicker basket on my arm. It was the last day of May. The sky was a cloudless blue, swimming with silvery sunlight, and the trees were thick with dark green leaves. It was very warm, and I was glad to get back to the relative coolness of the house, its thick walls keeping much of the heat out. I put the things away and sighed, not really in the mood now to heat up the large black iron stove and bake.

  He stepped into the kitchen. I whirled around, startled. He grinned. I frowned, furious at him for sneaking up on me like that. I looked around for something to throw at him. He sauntered over to me and lazily pulled me into his arms and I pulled away, still furious. The amusement left his eyes and he frowned.

  “I—I’m sorry,” I said. “You gave me a frightful turn.”

  “Since when have you been such a nervous type?”

  “Since spending the last month alone!”

  “I’m back now.” His voice sounded strange, studiedly casual.

  “I see that now. You still smell of sweat and horses.”

  “Got back half an hour ago, took my bags upstairs, expecting to find you waiting with open arms. Been out somewhere?”

  “I went to The Market.”

  Jamie reached for one of the oranges I had piled in a bowl on the table and began to peel it. “Glad to see me?” he inquired.

  “You could have written, you sod. You could have let me know when you were coming back.”

  “Too busy,” he said, plopping an orange section into his mouth. “Hadn’t any time for letter writing.”

  I let that pass. “Did you finish the play?”

  “Still have a bit of tidying up to do, a few minor changes to make. It should be ready for you to read in a couple of days. I wanted to get back, have a look ’round at the theater. I hear audience attendance is dropping off drastically.”

  And just how had he heard that? I wondered. “We’re probably losing money keeping it open,” I said. “The nightly receipts probably aren’t paying our overhead. We’ve had a good long run.”

  “Longest ever,” he agreed.

  We went into the study. Jamie licked the orange juice off his fingers. He had removed coat and vest and was wearing dusty brown boots and snug fawn-colored breeches and a loose white lawn shirt open at the throat and faintly moist with perspiration. I fussed with a vase of golden-yellow daffodils on one of the tables, rearranging them. I kept thinking about the long letters he had written to Mrs. Perry. I had to bite my tongue to keep from mentioning them.

  “I see you’ve recovered from your cold,” I said. “How was your stay otherwise?”

  “All right, I suppose. Betsy Sheridan was there, that damnable brother of hers, too. We almost engaged in a bout of fisticuffs in the dining room. He called me a hack. I called him an insolent young pup who happened to get lucky. We’d have battered each other for sure if Mrs. Lindsey hadn’t intervened. She gave us both a tongue-lashing.”

  “You shouldn’t have let him bait you.”

  “Can’t abide the fellow. Are you glad to see me, Angel?”

  “Of course I am,” I said quietly.

  “You’ve a strange way of showing it, love.”

  “I—I have a headache, Jamie, and I’m out of sorts. I’m sorry if I’m not as enthusiastic as you expected me to be. You—shouldn’t have crept up on me like that.”

  He didn’t reply, merely gave me a strange look I couldn’t quite fathom. His green-brown eyes were sober, seemed to be examining me as though looking for some change. It made me quite uncomfortable, and I felt a sudden twinge of alarm.

  “I see,” he said after a while, and again his voice was much too casual. “Well, I guess I’ll go upstairs and clean up and get into some fresh clothes. I want to get to the theater early, go over the receipts, see how we stand. We’ll talk later.”

  He left the room, and I listened to his footsteps moving up the stairs, disturbed by that peculiar look he had given me. I frowned. Something was wrong. I could sense it. It was as though an invisible wall had sprung up between us, and it had nothing to do with his creeping up on me and my angry reaction. He had looked at me as though he thought I might be hiding something, as though … as though that close scrutiny might provide an answer to some question in his mind. Puzzled, bewildered, upset, I glanced at the clock. It was barely two, hours before time to go to the theater. I sighed and then went back into the kitchen. It was going to be a very long day. I might as well bake the goddamn cake.

  Jamie was remote during the days that followed. He was very polite and considerate, and that was somehow much worse than harsh words or anger would have been. He spent most of his time at the theater, working on the play in his office there, and although we slept in the same bed at night, we did not make love, not once. After almost four years I was accustomed to his moods, his insecurity, his frequent outbursts of temper, but he had never been like this before. The strain was almost unbearable, and I hadn’t the least idea what had caused it. Too proud to confront him, to ask him what was wrong, I was as polite, as considerate as he, even after I saw Mrs. Perry leaving his office one afternoon when I arrived at the theater earlier than usual.

  After studying the receipts and observing the decreasing number of people in the audience on successive nights, Jamie decided to close the play after Saturday night’s performance. I, for one, was sick and tired of playing the winsome Nell, as delightful as the role had been in the beginning. The rest of the cast seemed relieved as well. Megan declared that she was ready for a few weeks of rest and Charles said he would be glad to see the last of that bloody heavy wig he wore onstage every night. Nevertheless, there was an air of sadness backstage after the final curtain call Saturday night. We had all been working together for almost a year, and there had been a strong feeling of camaraderie among us, despite Mrs. Perry. That was over now, and all of us felt a sense of loss.

  On Sunday morning I was in the kitchen at ten, making eggs and buttered toast and bacon. I was just putting them on the table when Jamie sauntered in, already dressed in brown frock coat and green and white striped vest and a green silk neckcloth. That surprised me, but I made no comment, pouring a cup of coffee and ha
nding it to him as he sat down at the table. I sat down across from him and remarked that it was a lovely day and he said yes, lovely, if a bit warm, and I asked if he were going out and he replied that he was going to his office at the Lambert and would be gone most of the day, and we ate in silence after that.

  Jamie finished his toast with strawberry preserves and took a final sip of coffee, then stood up, dropping his napkin beside his plate.

  “By the way,” he said. “I finished the play a couple of days ago. I left the manuscript in the study, in case you’d care to read it.”

  “I’ll read it today,” I told him.

  He left the kitchen. I heard the front door open and close a few minutes later. I finished my coffee. I had another cup. I washed the dishes, put things away, deliberately delaying the time when I would have to pick up that manuscript and read. I wanted to like it, fervently wanted to like it, but I already had severe reservations about the subject matter and I knew he would want my opinion and knew I would have to be honest. Finally, when the kitchen was sparkling, when I could delay no longer, I walked into the study and saw the manuscript on the table in front of the sofa and felt a terrible apprehension as I curled against the cushions and picked it up.

  I read slowly, carefully, trying to visualize each scene onstage, trying to imagine how it would play, reading some dialogue aloud to hear how it would sound. Three hours later I set the manuscript aside and stared at the empty fireplace without seeing it. The play was bad. It was incredibly bad, far and away the worst thing he had ever committed to paper. The structure was sound enough, but the whole second act was devoted to an emotion-charged encounter between Mary and Elizabeth, who had never met in real life, and it was violently melodramatic, would never, never play convincingly. Elizabeth was a caricature, not a character, while Mary was so good, so pure, so noble she was totally unbelievable. The curtain scene, her execution, might have been effective and quite moving had the dialogue not been so stilted and had one been able to care one way or the other. The play was a ponderous, tedious bore, and I dreaded having to tell him so.