I followed him out to the porch. He hesitated, gripping the handles of the bags so tightly his knuckles showed white. Neither of us spoke. Sunlight slanting through the oak boughs caused shadows to dance all around us on the porch. I wanted to beg him to give it up, give it up, but I couldn’t. Pride and self-respect were all I had left now. He frowned and his eyes grew pained again, and at that moment the mature, splendidly attired gentleman resembled the moody, unhappy youth I had first loved so many years ago.
“You’re sure this is what you want?” he asked.
“You’ve made your decision, Hugh,” I said. My voice was surprisingly calm. “I hope you realize your dreams. Mine have just been demolished.”
“I’m sorry, Angie.”
“Good-bye, Hugh.”
He left. I stood on the porch and watched him drive away, and it seemed my heart would break. It didn’t. It never does, not for love. I got through the day and through the night with stubborn determination, refusing to give in to the anguish, refusing to cry, and I got through the next day and the next after that. I knew I would continue to go on. I would survive. One does. Time would help. Time wouldn’t heal, it never does, but time would help. I kept very, very busy. I worked in the gardens and worked in the house, purposely exhausting myself, ignoring the anguish, refusing to acknowledge it. It was not easy. It was not at all easy, but determination saw me through.
On the fourth day I went to the village and bought a London paper, and, yes, there was a long, lurid story about Lord Blackie’s latest exploit. It was filled with dramatic details about his bold rooftop entry into Herron House and his narrow escape. The Duke of Herron and his nineteen-year-old heir heard a noise, got up to investigate and came upon Lord Blackie in a downstairs hall, just as he was leaving, the Maria Theresa diamonds in his pocket. The Duke held a pistol, aimed it at the thief and ordered him to halt. Moonlight streamed through the windows, gleaming on the pistol barrel. Lord Blackie lunged, grabbed the heir in a deadly stranglehold and promised to break his neck if the Duke didn’t drop the pistol at once. The Duke hesitated. The thief applied brutal pressure. The heir began to make gurgling noises and flap his arms in panic. The Duke threw the pistol aside and, using the heir as both shield and hostage, Lord Blackie made his exit, hurling the heir into a clump of bushes and fleeing into the darkness. I put the paper down. So he got away with it. It was, I knew, Lord Blackie’s very last job. He was probably on his way to Italy now. At least he wouldn’t hang.
Another week went by, and it was time for me to start thinking about the immediate future. My lease would be up in three days. Mrs. Gainsborough’s friend would be returning from Cornwall. I would have to find another place to stay. I supposed I would return to London and stay with Megan and Charles or Dottie until I could make some other arrangement. Two days later I began to gather up my personal belongings and pack them away, books, hairbrushes, toilet articles. I had a moment of stabbing pain when, in a drawer in the bureau, I came upon the bright colored ribbons Hugh had bought for me on market day in the village. It passed. I couldn’t bring myself to throw the ribbons away. Folding them carefully, I put them into the bag spread open on the bed, then I went downstairs to make myself a cup of tea.
Hearing creaking wheels and the clop of hooves on the lane a short time later, I stepped to the front door and peered out, astonished to see an ancient farm wagon loaded with hay stopping in front of the gate. On the wooden seat in front of the hay, immersed in lively conversation with the farmer, sat Oliver Goldsmith in shabby, oversized brown coat, wrinkled olive green breeches, disreputable gray stockings and cracked brown pumps. He continued to chat with the farmer for several minutes before climbing down. I had stepped out onto the porch, and, seeing me, Goldy waved, opened the gate and shambled toward me as the wagon pulled away, trailing bits of hay behind it.
“Well, lass,” Goldy said, “I hope you’ve started packing. Chap’s coming back for us at five. He’ll drive us back to the village, and we’ll catch a coach on into the city. Interesting chap. Had a most illuminating talk with him, all about crop rotation and manure—never know when such information’ll come in handy. I must say, Angel, you’re looking a bit peaked. This fresh country air will do you in every time.”
“Goldy, what—what are you doing here?”
Goldy blinked, surprised that I should ask so irrelevant a question. “I’ve come to get you, of course. Understand the owner of this charming abode is returning first thing in the morning, and you need a ride back to London. We begin rehearsals Monday morning, by the way.”
“Rehearsals? I—”
“Useless to argue with me, Angel. You’re going to be my Kate. No one else will possibly do. Your friend Mrs. Gibbons is going to play Mrs. Hardcastle—I fully expect her to steal the play—and I’ve signed Mrs. Sloan to play Constance Neville. Maryelous cast! What a jolly time we’ll have, working together. Have you started packing, lass?”
“As a matter of fact, I have, but—”
“Splendid, splendid! Come, I’ll help you finish. You’ve been rusticating out here altogether too long, lass. Dottie tells me you’ve actually been feeding chickens and milking a cow. Wonder it hasn’t wrecked you completely. You belong in London, lass, in the theater. Covent Garden without its Angel is a grim place indeed. We’ve all missed you sorely. Come on, let’s get inside. Don’t dawdle! A few more whiffs of this damnable fresh air and I’ll be ill for a week!”
Chapter Eighteen
I wondered if there would be another rose tonight. The first had arrived Monday night, waiting in my dressing room when I got to the Haymarket. A single rose, soft and velvety, pink, perfect, in its own slender crystal vase. The note accompanying it merely said “From An Admirer” in elegant copper script on a creamy beige card. There had been another rose on Tuesday night, on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, each pink, each perfect, in its own vase, accompanied by a beige card identical to the first. If my admirer’s purpose was to intrigue me, he had certainly succeeded. I was pleased and impressed by his unique and elegant approach and consumed with curiosity about his identity. It was Saturday now, my birthday, and as the private carriage drove me through the icy February streets, I thought about my secret admirer and tried to picture him in my mind.
He would be mature, of course. No callow youth could have come up with so novel an idea. He would be wealthy, too. Extremely. The crystal vases alone must have been terribly expensive, and the price of those perfect pink roses, in midwinter, must be exorbitant. He was a man of taste, that went without saying, and the elegant copper script on those creamy beige cards suggested great breeding and refinement. I fancied he might even be a member of the aristocracy. So I had a secret admirer who was mature, wealthy, tasteful, refined, perhaps aristocratic. The chances of his being handsome as well were very slim, I knew, but in my mind’s eye I saw him as a suave and virile Adonis, a storybook hero in his mid-thirties ready to woo and win a maiden’s heart. I smiled wryly at the foolishness of this image. You’re twenty-six years old tonight, Angel—twenty-six, it doesn’t seem possible—and far removed from maidenhood. You may still be a romantic at heart, but God knows you’ve no illusions left. Your secret admirer is probably a lean, balding rake panting to get into your bedroom.
The carriage came to a halt in front of the Haymarket and the driver leaped down to hold the door open for me. I smiled, thanked him politely and told him I wouldn’t be needing him this evening after the play as I was going out with my friends, and then I went on into the theater. The private carriage was just one of the luxuries Goldy had insisted his leading lady be granted. It picked me up early each evening at the small, charming house I had taken in Leicester Fields, brought me to the theater, took me home after the play. My dressing room was a dream, all done in shades of white and pale gray and blue with subtle violet accents, especially redecorated for me, and there was always a bottle of very fine chilled white wine and a tray of tempting snacks awaiting me when I arrived each evening. Megan and Dott
ie were accorded treatment almost as grand. The management had vehemently protested all these added expenses, but Goldy had calmly informed them that we were worth it. As the house had been sold out every single night since the play opened four months ago, one of the biggest successes of the decade, the management no longer groused about the extra expense.
The revival of She Stoops To Conquer was a gigantic success, all right, but not merely because the critics had deemed me “a consummate comedienne, sheer perfection as Kate.” Megan was magnificent as Constance Neville, playing the role with a light, droll touch that enchanted audiences. Derek Stuart as Marlow and Jack Wimbly as the bumbling Tony Lumpkin had received enthusiastic plaudits from critics and public alike, but, as Goldy had predicted, it was Dottie who blithely walked off with the play. Her comic turn in Act Five when, in her own garden, she believes she is lost in the woods and mistakes her own husband for a treacherous highwayman always brought the house down. Dottie invariably received more curtain calls than any other member of our close-knit ensemble, and all London had taken her to their hearts. A whole new career had blossomed for her and she was besieged by offers from rival managements who longed to capitalize on her immense popularity, but Dottie staunchly refused to let her head be turned and continued to run her shop, “moonlighting” at the Haymarket each night.
“Here you are,” she exclaimed, meeting me in the hallway outside our dressing rooms. She gave me an exuberant hug, rubbing her cheek against mine. “Happy birthday, dear. You don’t look a day over eighteen.”
“You lie divinely,” I retorted. “Won’t you come in for a sip of wine before you start changing?”
“Alas, dear, at my age it takes me hours to apply enough makeup to conceal the ravages of time, and I always have trouble with that bloody red wig. We’ll celebrate afterwards, at the party. My girl delivered your gown to the theater this afternoon. It’s hanging in your wardrobe. There’s no bill, dear. It’s my birthday gift to you.”
“Dottie, that gown cost a fortune. I can’t let you—”
“And I’m earning a fortune by making a fool of myself onstage every night. The business has never been better, either—seven girls working for me now, all of them with more work than they can do. You’ll accept the gown with my compliments, dear, and dazzle ’em in it at the party.”
I returned her hug, too touched for words. She patted her pompadour, gently shoved me away and told me she had best start plastering on the paint. Dottie moved down the hall to her dressing room door, and I opened mine and stepped inside.
I saw the roses at once. They stood on a low white table in a magnificent cut-glass vase, at least three dozen of them, long stemmed, each as pink and perfect and velvety as the others had been. Their fragrance filled the room, and I moved over to them as to a fire, warming myself in their glory. Touching one of the soft pink petals, I found that it did indeed feel like velvet, caressing the ball of my fingertip as I stroked it. Never had I seen such beautiful roses, so delicate, so rich and glorious a pink. It was as I was admiring them that I saw the large flat white leather box and the card. I picked up the latter.
Happy Birthday, it read. May I see you after the play? Your Admirer. The copper script was elegant against the beige. He knew this was my birthday. He must be … must be someone who knew me. The date of my birth was not general knowledge, had never been given in any of the newspapers. Like every other woman over twenty-one, I was acutely aware of age and, with future subtractions in mind, kept quiet on the subject. Who did I know who was mature, wealthy, tasteful, refined, perhaps aristocratic? No one I could think of fit all the particulars. Puzzled, I put down the card and opened the white leather box.
The jewels seemed to blaze with a life of their own, shimmering brilliantly against a background of gleaming white satin. There were three scalloped loops of diamonds suspended from a diamond band, a dozen pear-shaped sapphire pendants dangling from the loops, each framed with smaller diamonds. The diamonds glittered with silver and violet fire, and the large sapphires were of a unique violet blue, the most gorgeous I had ever seen. I took the necklace out of the box and it shimmered all the more, gem fires flashing, darting, dancing from my fingertips.
The door opened. Megan stepped into the room, her eyes widening with shock when she spied the gems.
“My God!” she exclaimed. “They’re real!”
“They certainly are. Have—have you ever seen anything so gorgeous?”
“Never. Your secret admirer?”
I nodded. “He—he knows me, Megan. He knows this is my birthday, and he picked out these stones especially to go with my violet-gray eyes. See, the sapphires have a violet flame trapped inside the indigo.”
“I wish he knew me, luv,” she said. “The last gift Charles gave me was a new pair of scissors, and then only because he wanted me to do some mending. Do you have any idea who he is?”
“Not a clue.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said sagely. “String him along, luv, at least until he gives you a bracelet and earrings to match. Lord, he must be as rich as Croesus to be able to buy a necklace like that.”
“He wants to see me after the play,” I said.
“See him,” she implored.
“I intend to. I’ll have to give this back.”
Megan frowned and laid her palm against my forehead. “You don’t seem ill,” she told me, “but I’m convinced you’ve recently had a severe blow to your head. It’s addled your brains.”
“I couldn’t keep it,” I protested.
“I want you to count backwards, very slowly, starting with ten,” she said in a concerned voice. “I’ll go fetch an ice pack, luv. I’m sure it’s not anything fatal.”
I put the necklace back onto its nest of satin and closed the box. “Roses are one thing, Megan. Jewelry like this is altogether different.”
“You’ve got that right, luv.”
Megan examined the tray of delicate snacks sent over each evening from Button’s and finally selected a tiny square of bread spread with white cream cheese, a curl of pink salmon on top. I opened the bottle of chilled white wine, pouring a glass for each of us. Megan took another snack and sipped her wine, sinking into the overstuffed pale blue chair and gazing at the roses.
“I suppose, being you, you do have to give it back,” she said. “I do hope he’s presentable, though, someone you can see now and then. You need someone in your life, luv. It’s been six months since that Hugh Bradford left you. You’ve been living like a nun ever since you returned to London.”
I had told Megan about Hugh. She knew he was the man I had fallen in love with years ago, that he had spent the summer with me, had left me, but of course I had mentioned nothing about his criminal activities or the real reasons why he had departed. Time did help. I could think of him now without the pain sweeping over me. It was still there, locked inside, but I had learned to keep tight control over my emotions.
“I’ve been extremely busy, as you know,” I told her, “and I’ve been able to see more of my friends than I have in ages. My Sundays At Home have been wonderfully stimulating.”
“Sundays come just once a week,” she replied, “and friends are no substitute for a man in your life. Maybe this secret admirer of yours will sweep you off your feet.”
“Maybe he will.”
Megan set her wine glass aside and got up to fetch another snack, selecting a square of dry toast spread with goose-liver pâté with minced truffle. She offered the tray to me. I shook my head.
“Do you ever think about Lambert?” she inquired.
“I try not to,” I said dryly.
“Pity about his play. The audience didn’t actually throw stones on opening night, nor did the critics rush onstage brandishing knives and axes, but it was a total disaster. Seven performances, the last four to empty houses. I have it on good authority that Mrs. Perry was burned in effigy and received hate letters from the critics. Lambert lost a fortune on that particular production.”
> “I’m not surprised.”
“He’s living in grubby rooms on High Holborn, feverishly writing a new play and looking for backers to finance it.”
“He—he isn’t in need, is he?”
“I imagine he has enough to eat, luv, but The Lambert is closed up tight as a tick, and until he can open it with a new play and get some revenue coming in, he’s going to have to count every penny. He sank almost everything he had into Mary, My Queen.”
“The most ambitious, the most spectacular play he ever mounted. The idiot! I told him it was doomed as soon as I read the script.”
“Sure you did, luv, but Mrs. Perry assured him it was brilliant, and that’s what he wanted to hear. Men! Who can figure them out? Thank God Charles finally got another part, replacing Dick Philips in The Henchman. During those weeks I was working and he wasn’t, he was impossible to live with, said he felt like a kept man.”
“I suppose you told him he was worth keeping.”
“He is, luv. I’m holding on to this one.”
Millie, my dresser, arrived and Megan went to her own dressing room, and an hour later we were both onstage, breezily performing Goldy’s masterpiece. In a towering red wig and utterly outlandish green and black taffeta gown, our friend Dottie proceeded to steal the play again, causing the house to howl with delight as she went through her paces as the daffy, befuddled Mrs. Hardcastle. She was a wonder, her timing perfect, every bit of stage business executed with flawless aplomb, and she made it all seem as natural as breathing. I wanted to step out of character and applaud her myself. We received a standing ovation that night, and I thought the very rafters would collapse when Dottie took her bows, so loud were the cheers.
Angel in Scarlet Page 43
