But From Thine Eyes: Scintillating historical drama set in an Edwardian English theatre (His Majesty's Theatre Book 2)

by Britton Conroy, Christina

  “Why?”

  “She’s in love with Romeo.”

  “What do you mean, ‘she’s in love’?”

  She stared dumbly, praying for inspiration.

  “What is it like to be in love?”

  She bit her lip.

  “What does it feel like?”

  Frightened, she shook her head.

  He waited for a few moments, then sat back and put a finger over his lips. He spoke quietly and distinctly. “What does it feel like to be in the arms of a man you care for?”

  Imagining Robert’s arms around her, she sat back and crossed her arms, hugging herself.

  Jeremy smiled slightly. “At some time a man has touched you.” He paused. “That simple touch has made you tremble.”

  Almost in a trance, she relived Simon Camden’s finger brushing her throat. Her eyes blinked.

  Jeremy nodded. “Good.”

  Her eyes went wide. No! I can’t be thinking of Simon Camden.

  “Don’t banish him! Whoever he is, call him back. Hold on to him, you need his image.”

  His image was so bright it blinded: a silver lion’s mane around fierce gray eyes. She shook her head, This is wrong. Think of Robert.

  Jeremy shouted, “Bring him back. Damn it! Let him in!”

  She obeyed. Simon’s face glowed in her imagination.

  Jeremy’s eyes blazed. “You are surprised. You did not expect this particular man.”

  She shook her head, her eyes wide in disbelief.

  “We cannot control our subconscious minds. Do not try. Just consider him a gift for Juliet. This is not real life, and I certainly do not suggest that you leave this room and act out your fantasies, but right now, this instant, he is your strongest image. Juliet needs him. Every actor has looked at a pretend love and pictured a true love. Now, close your eyes.”

  She obeyed.

  “Do not answer out loud. What colour are his eyes?”

  Oh, God, those powerful eyes.

  “What colour is his hair? How is it cut, what is the texture?”

  Her imagination was ahead of him. Her fingers were already deep in Simon’s long silky hair. She stroked his silver beard.

  “Feel the shape of his face.”

  Unaware that her body was gently shifting, she turned her face, imagining she was touching his.

  “Feel his kiss.”

  A soft cry came from deep inside her.

  From his seat in the audience, Rory stared, amazed and alarmed. The audience was riveted. Her emotions filled the room.

  Jeremy leaned his elbows back down onto his knees. He whispered, “Look at me.”

  She tentatively opened her eyes. Totally vulnerable, she was ready to do anything he asked.

  His eyes were strong and friendly. “Hello Juliet. You can see Romeo in your mind.”

  She nodded and a sort of sob bubbled from her throat.

  He pointed to a spot on the wall above the audience. “There is the sun. Go and talk to it.”

  Elly stood up and effortlessly began, “Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,

  Towards Phoebus’ lodging: …”

  The audience listened, amazed at every word. Every nuance was real, alive and captivating.

  When she said, “…and Romeo

  Leap into these arms…” Simon Camden loomed before her, powerful, sensual, and sweet. On the closing, “…and every tongue that speaks

  But Romeo’s name speaks heavenly eloquence,” she felt him stroke her neck. Her eyes squeezed shut and her body cramped.

  The actors broke into applause. Barely aware of them, she looked tentatively at Jeremy.

  “Good.” He smiled and winked an eye.

  Thrilled and relieved, she broke into a smile. Aching to embrace him, she lowered her eyes, quietly returning to her seat.

  Nancy Cushman bellowed, “Mr. O’Connell, what have you done? The poor child will never be the same.” The room exploded with laughter and a release of tension.

  At 7:15, Elly finished carrying costumes downstairs. Her hair was tied back in a rag, and a light sweat shone on her pale skin. She delivered the last costumes to the quick change room, came out, and clutched the door knob. Her heart stopped. Simon Camden stood in the hall outside Katherine Stewart’s dressing room. His hair glistened, and elegant evening clothes accentuated his tall, athletic build. He carried a top hat, and a black-satin cape hung over his arm.

  He talked through the dressing room doorway. “All right, love, have a good show. I’ll find you later, in the pub.” He saw Elly and smiled. “Good evening, Miss Fielding.” His voice was smooth as heavy cream.

  She walked towards him. “Good evening, Mr. Camden.” With soft fingers, he gently stroked her face. Her eyes closed and her stomach tightened.

  “Is that Elly?” Katherine came to the door holding a costume coat. The girl guiltily jerked back and Simon chuckled. Unconcerned, Katherine shook her head. “Simon, you’re incorrigible. Elly, is Connie in the costume shop?”

  “She was a few minutes ago.”

  “Good. Be a dear and take this to her. The clasp still isn’t right. It used to fall open, now it’s so tight I can hardly get it undone.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Elly took the coat and hurried upstairs. The wardrobe mistress quickly adjusted the clasp, and Elly hurried out.

  “Elly,” Simon whispered from the shadows. Trembling, she went to him. He took the coat from her arms, pulled the rag from her hair, and ran his fingers through her thick copper mane. He slid an arm around her waist and seemed pleased to feel a supple young spine instead of the expected whalebone corset. He pulled her tight against him and kissed her, first lightly, then deeply. With the other hand, he stroked her cheek, then slid his fingers down her throat and over her breast. She felt a sweet pain as her body pressed against his. After a moment, he released her. “You’d better take that coat. M’ Lady Katherine is waiting.”

  Without a word, she backed away. Still staring into his eyes, she turned to take the coat, stumbled over her own feet, and raced down the stairs.

  Chapter 19

  Wednesday, December 31, 1903

  The next day was two performances of The Magistrate. Elly arrived at the theatre shortly before noon and chatted with Adams, the old stage-doorkeeper. They both stood to attention as Eric Bates came through the stage door, followed by Simon Camden.

  Eric shook his head. “I believe everything you’re saying, Simon, I’m just not hearing any guarantees. Hello Adams, Miss Fielding.” He acknowledged each with a nod.

  As the two men walked by, Simon squeezed Elly’s hand. She bit her lip to keep from smiling. Climbing the stairs to Eric’s office, Simon said, “There are never guarantees, Eric, but look at the past figures…”

  Elly watched them go. “I’d better be off, Mr. Adams.”

  “All right, m’ girl. Take care now.”

  She dragged herself up to wardrobe and spent a tedious hour sewing on buttons. When she accidentally stabbed herself and bled on the fabric, she was allowed to stop sewing and carry costumes downstairs. On the third floor, she walked out of a dressing-room, and lurched back.

  Simon Camden appeared in front of her. “Easy there,” he smiled. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  She backed against the cold wall. Her eyes were wide, her breathing shallow and fast.

  “But, I am going to touch you.” He planted his hands on the wall, on either side of her shoulders, and slowly lowered his lips onto hers. His mustache and beard felt lovely, and his lips were soft as rose petals, caressing her, loving her. When he pulled away, she leaned forward, following him. He leaned into her again, this time with more pressure. She responded, her breasts heaving, rich with feelings, longing to be touched. The third time he kissed her, his lips opened, and his tongue gently caressed her lips. Hesitantly, her tongue joined his. One arm cradled her slender waist, pulling her tight against him. The other hand searched through heavy fabric, petting and squeezing her small, firm breasts, until the exqu
isite pain brought tears to her eyes.

  Reaching behind her, he unhooked her frock and pulled it down around her waist. He kept her arms locked in the lowered sleeves, then pulled off her camisole and smiled at the sight of her young, supple breasts. She shivered with cold and fear, then groaned as his mouth, warm and moist, caressed her nipples. Quickly, they turned hard as acorns. She wanted to scream with pleasure. Releasing her arms, he let them pull out of her frock and stretch around his neck. He held her body tight against his.

  When his hand reached under her skirt, tears of fright ran down her cheeks. “No. Please, No!” He held her tighter, kissing away her tears. He whispered reassuring nonsense into her ear, while gently pushing his fingers between her legs. She clutched his shoulders, gritting her teeth to keep from crying out. Keeping his mouth hard over hers, he rubbed through thin fabric, until her back arched, and her legs pulled hard together.

  Smiling to himself, he lowered her to the floor and gently pulled off her drawers. She lay back trembling, as he raised her knees and spread her legs apart. His eyes never left her face as he unbuttoned his trousers. Sliding his fingers inside her, he smiled at her wetness.

  “How sweet you are.” He kissed her knees, the insides of her thighs and moved his tongue higher, until she lurched back, gritting her teeth to keep from screaming. Her heart was leaping out of her chest. She felt a searing pain the instant he entered her, then a sensation so exquisite she could only sob. He tightly embraced and kissed her as he entered her again-and-again. Through a clenched jaw, he groaned louder and louder, his face contorting as if in pain. Suddenly, he pulled out of her. Gasping for breath, and stifling a scream, his body cramped, then collapsed in an exhausted heap. They lay quiet for a few minutes.

  When he had enough breath to speak, he said, “You deserve better than the hard wood floor. I hadn’t planned it this way. I’m sorry. Are you all right?” She shivered with cold. He stood, pulled on his trousers, and helped her into her clothes. Her hair fell in a great copper fold, and he gently pushed it away from her face. “Elly,” he lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “Are you all right?” He was genuinely concerned. “Say something.”

  She tried to smile, but the words, “I’m fine,” came out in a sob.

  He held her tight and she clung to him, burying her face in his shoulder, inhaling his musky cologne. “You’re not with child, I finished on the floor. At least you don’t have to worry about that.”

  She whispered. “Thank you.”

  His mouth dropped open. “Oh, dear, she’s polite at a time like this. My precious girl, I practically raped you, and you say, ‘Thank you.’”

  She laughed. “Oh, no Simon, that wasn’t rape. I know what… That definitely wasn’t…” Swallowing a sob, she took his face in her hands and kissed him. He held her lovingly.

  Voices sounded below stairs and they guiltily pulled away from each other. She frantically smoothed her skirt. “I’ve got to fix my hair. Is the rest of me all right?”

  He turned her around and nodded. She ran her fingers through his long, tousled hair, stroked his beard, hurried to her dressing room, and collapsed into a chair. Leaning her elbows on the dressing table, she put her head in her hands, waiting for her racing heart to slow. There were no stoves on the top floor. It was so cold she could see her breath. She looked into the mirror. Her hair was a mess, but a radiant blush flushed her cheeks, and she laughed. The soreness between her legs was slightly worrying, but she knew it would go away. Reliving Simon’s touch, she closed her eyes. Even with the soreness, her body wanted more.

  She ran a comb through her hair, quickly winding the copper mass up and out of the way. Grimy window glass rattled softly, and her feet made a sand dance as they slid under the table. The cracked walls were streaked with gray, and everything smelled of greasepaint and dust. She caught a reflection of her pale eyelashes and remembered Simon’s thick blond lashes hovering over his gray eyes. Lady Richfield had said she should find a lover with experience, but Simon was Katherine Stewart’s gentleman friend. What have I done? Her heart raced again. She swallowed a sob. I can’t tell anyone. Not ever.

  Robert’s clear dark eyes shined in her memory. Remembering his sweet smile, his scent, and the feel of his soft lips, her body cramped again. Could it be like that with Robert?

  She glanced back into the mirror, caught a reflection of an empty hanger, and remembered her employment. The costumes! She tore out of the door and down the stairs.

  Chapter 20

  Sunday, January 3, 1904

  At first light, Sam Smelling kissed a green ribbon he had pulled from Elly’s hair. “For luck.” He folded it into his lapel pocket and shivered with dread. Tomorrow Robert Dennison was coming to London. If Anthony Roundtree had Robert followed, he would find Elly.

  Valise in hand, four newspapers tucked under his arm, he boarded the 6:00 a.m. train at St. Pancras Station for Skipton, the southern tip of the Yorkshire Dales. As the nearly empty train left the station, Sam pulled out his notebook and reviewed rough maps Elly had drawn of her house and grounds. He silently repeated the unfamiliar name: Elisa Roundtree, Elisa Roundtree, Elisa Roundtree. He checked his list of targets:

  1. Anthony Roundtree: her father.

  2. Sir John Garingham: her betrothed.

  3. Lillian Roundtree: her maiden aunt.

  4. Dr. Frederick Vickers: present at Elly’s birth, her mother’s death - signed the birth and death certificates.

  5. Elizabeth Graves: witnessed her mother’s marriage to Anthony Roundtree.

  6. Father Laurence Folen: performed the marriage ceremony.

  The hypnotic train motion soothed him into a deep sleep. Before he knew what was happening, a grizzled trainman shook him awake. “Waike oop yoong man, your stop’s next. Tha got t’ change i’ Bradford if yer wantin’ Skipton. It’s coomin’ rait away!”

  “Uh, thanks.” The short ride to Skipton was on a smaller, less comfortable train.

  The picturesque Skipton station was bright with afternoon light. Chilled to the bone, Sam hurried inside to a potbellied stove radiating warmth. The elderly stationmaster dozed with his feet on a chair. He leapt to attention and straightened his uniform. “Good day sir. How may I serve y’?”

  Sam smiled cordially and warmed his hands. “I’m looking for Father Laurence Folen.”

  The stationmaster looked surprised. “Well sir, there’s a Father Folen up Settle way.” He leaned close, whispering, “Got in trouble and the bishop shipped him out to the moors. His wife left him an’ all. Had no proper church for years now. Trots around on a pony, prayin’ with folk in barns and sheep huts. No way o’ knowin’ where ‘e might be. Y’ might ask the Catholic priest Father Flynn, up at St. Ann’s. He knows everybody.”

  Sam nodded. “I’m also looking for an elderly woman named Elizabeth Graves.”

  “Well the countryside is covered with folk named Graves, but I don’t know a woman o’ tha’ name.”

  “I see. What about Dr. Frederick Vickers.”

  “That’s an easy one. Runs a dispensary in the dales, near Grassington. Used to have a very good practice in town, very sociable fellow he was. Turned queer a few years back, prefers taking care of sheep farmers and the few miners still working. That’s that last of Garingham’s mines you know.”

  “How do I find Dr. Vickers?”

  “Aye - well, t’ train ’ll take you on to Grassington. From there you’ll need to ‘ire a horse, or get a lift from a farmer.”

  Sam found Saint Ann’s Church just as high mass was ending. Hungry and exhausted, he was very pleased when plump, elderly Father Tim Flynn invited him to dine at the rectory. Father Tim collapsed into an easy chair, yanked off his collar, and tossed it aside. “Aw, but those are hateful things. Sure I am the almighty didn’t intend his priests t’ live in a continual state of purgat’ry, but here we are. So, young man, what brings y’ to Skipton?”

  Sam sat on the sofa, opened his mouth to speak, and was covered with three hug
e, licking dogs. Wet noses, tongues, and violently wagging tails were everywhere.

  “Hello, m’ darlin’s, here y’ are, yes, yes!” Father Tim hugged and kissed a shorthaired black Labrador, a longhaired golden, and a third beast that seemed a cross between the two.

  Enjoying the affection, but not the mess, Sam stood up. One by one, he held each dog by the collar, and pushed his rump, commanding him to, “SIT!”

  Father Tim beamed. “Jasus, Mary, and Joseph, the good Lord’s sent me a dog trainer.”

  During a delicious meal of roast beef and Yorkshire pud’, Father Tim shared the local gossip. “Laurence Folen! Blessed Mother o’ God, never thought anyone’d b’ lookin’ fer that scoundrel. A bit too fond of his choir boys he was. We all have our transgressions. Mind y’, I’d rather transgress with the ladies,” he winked an eye.

  Sam smiled back. “It appears the Reverend Folen married a lady to a second husband before her first husband was dead.”

  “Yer joshin’ me! Did Folen know the husband was living?”

  “I’m not sure anyone knew.”

  “Can I ask the name o’ the lady?”

  “Bertha Roundtree.”

  “The Roundtrees from Settle?”

  “The same.”

  “Anthony’s wife?”

  “…and Charles’s.”

  Father Flynn lit his pipe. “I knew the Roundtree family, years ago. Albert Roundtree was a marvelous good lookin’ man. His son Charlie was like him and the girl, Lillian. Young Anthony, Tony they called him, was a throwback o’ some kind. Albert broke his neck fallin’ from a horse. Charlie came into a lot o’ money and took himself off to Hamburg to study engineering. Stayed there fer years gettin’ in thick with a German firm, marrying the daughter. Tony was supposed t’ be managin’ the estate, but gambled it away, piece by piece. Charlie died workin’ on the canal in Suez. Damn shame it was. After that, rumors came ‘round about Tony keepin’ fancy company. I heard tell about a daughter, but never a wife, so that was a mystery.”

  “It’s no mystery anymore. The money belongs to Charles Roundtree’s daughter. Anthony claims to be her father. Elisa’s mother died in childbirth.”