Stratford Jewel

by Oliver, Marina

  Jack shrugged. He didn't know. He had this odd feeling nowadays when he saw Adam, but he couldn't explain it. He had genuinely forgotten the parcel but he wondered whether deep down it was his reluctance to meet Adam which had caused him to forget. It would be no good trying to explain this to his father, though. The old man was very understanding, so far as anyone who hadn't experienced the horrors of war could be, but Jack sensed a firmly suppressed impatience in his father about the fact that he still preferred to be alone, refused to take on greater responsibilities for the running of the business, and showed no interest in girls. Mr Greenwood wanted a grandson, preferably one who bore his name, but he had ceased mentioning this to Jack, or praising Agnes Rhodes and pointing out that her parents owned a very good shop in the High Street.

  Jack retreated to his bedroom, fighting the black moods which attacked him with increasing frequency. He'd expected them to recede once the memories of the war faded, but they had not. It wasn't the war now, though. He thought he knew what it was, but he needed to think. It was connected with Adam Thorn, but he hadn't been able to decide what to do. Celia was performing that night, Rosa was out somewhere, and he would have some peace. He could not concentrate on his father's new plans, they'd have to wait until his mind was clearer. For several months now he'd had a strange sensation whenever he'd been close to Thornley Grange. It was on the route he enjoyed best, through the ancient Forest of Arden, and Jack knew every farm, every house, every field. Though there were fewer trees than in the past, he knew what it had been like centuries ago. He'd read about reincarnation and had begun to wonder whether, in some earlier life, he had been a forester.

  That didn't explain his increasing antipathy to Adam, though. Was it because Adam was showing a preference for Rosa? Was he, Jack, jealous that Rosa might be attracted to Adam? Hastily he pushed the notion away. It was unthinkable. And untrue, it couldn't be true. Then he forced himself to examine the facts. He knew of more than one family, usually living in isolated hamlets, where children had no acknowledged fathers but had uncles or much older brothers closer to them than fathers. He wasn't attracted to Rosa's type, he concluded with relief. She was too tall, too slender and dark. She also had too decided opinions. He had preferred girls more like Celia, small and fair and rounded, accommodating and deliciously feminine. He recalled a couple of French girls he'd met during his first few months at the Front, when he'd still dreamed of love and sex instead of guns and dead bodies, who were very like Celia. And he wasn't at all attracted to her. So it must be something about Adam. It was probably something as simple as the fact that Adam had escaped the war, hadn't been left a wreck of a man with invisible scars that attracted no sympathy. Adam didn't need to hide from the world.

  *

  'You're far too pretty for tragedy,' Gilbert declared.

  They had taken advantage of a sunny day to hire a punt on the river, and Celia was reclining on cushions, basking in Gilbert's open admiration.

  'How do you mean? Juliet is pretty. Not all women in tragedies are old and ugly.'

  'Juliet is perhaps different,' he conceded. 'I'm not sure what I mean, except that just to look at you makes people feel happy. I imagine Lady Macbeth, or Ophelia, to be sad-looking. They have to be fierce, mournful. I always see them as dark, with stronger bones than you have. Rosa suits those parts better so far as looks are concerned. You are so lovely, Celia, so blonde and delicate, it just wouldn't seem right.'

  'I could play them,' Celia insisted.

  'Yes, of course, I don't doubt your ability to play an old crone if you wanted to, but you are so wonderful in light comedy roles. Anyone can throw themselves about weeping and wringing their hands, but it's much more difficult to be good in comedy. You could be one of the best.'

  'Not unless I get an opportunity to impress people here,' Celia said slowly.

  'I don't mean just in Shakespeare, some modern plays might suit you better.'

  'But for that I'd have to go to London, and Father will never agree. I asked him again last night.'

  'It might be possible. I can see you there, even in musical comedies. Can you sing?'

  'I had lessons, and I belong to the Operatic Society, but I'm not good enough for main opera parts.'

  'You don't need to be that standard. Acting ability and your sort of loveliness are more important. Would you like to appear on Broadway?'

  Celia shrugged. 'I dream of it every day. London first, then America. But it will never happen.'

  'It will if you're determined. Your father would forgive you. Darling, I know you'd be a success. When this season finishes, come to London with me.'

  *

  Max called for Rosa early. By nine they were on the Banbury road, with Max singing 'Ride a Cock Horse to Banbury Cross' at the top of his voice. They drove on to Sulgrave Manor and stopped to admire the rich Cotswold stone house. Max was speculating on the restoration work still taking place.

  'The house was bought by public subscription in 1914 to celebrate a hundred years of peace between America and England,' he said.

  'I know, and the restoration work financed jointly. My father gave to the Fund. And then it was endowed by Americans.'

  'The Colonial Dames. So that it could always be open for Yanks like me to visit it. Let's see what they've done so far.'

  Later they drove to Woodstock. 'This is beautiful, a real gem of a town. It's not a bit like my home,' Max said as he admired the old houses set around the wide marketplace. 'My Woodstock has little more than Main Street, and none of the houses are as old as most of these.'

  'Do you miss it?' Rosa asked.

  'I prefer the city, though my folk would like me back. If I start my own practice it would be possible to run it from there, I supppose. But I think – that is, I prefer New York.'

  They had lunch in The Bear before wandering round Blenheim Park, admiring Vanbrugh's magnificent creation. Max had taken Rosa's hand to help her clamber over a fallen tree trunk, and hadn't released her. They walked across the short turf and halted to gaze across the lake.

  'Another house maintained by American money,' Rosa grinned at Max. 'This time by the men finding heiresses. There must have been dozens of marriages between the English aristocracy and American bankers' and industrialists' daughters.'

  Max's fingers tightened on Rosa's, and then he released her hand. 'We don't have many old buildings ourselves,' he said lightly. 'We like to have a claim on some of yours.'

  Soon afterwards they were driving northwards, and Max turned off the main road towards Ditchley Park.

  'You know the way very well,' Rosa commented.

  'I spent some time with maps yesterday. I also read some of the guidebooks. Ditchley was built soon after Blenheim Palace.' He stopped where they could see the main front. 'It's much simpler, isn't it? Those wings curving round, and the pavilions, remind me of some American plantation houses with their dependencies.'

  'Dependencies? What are they?'

  'Separate wings, usually where the bachelors lived. The Lee house, Stratford Plantation in Virginia, has four.'

  'Ditchley's Palladian, isn't it? You see I know a few architectural terms. It's much cosier than Blenheim.'

  He chuckled. 'You don't live in a palace to be cosy!'

  'I'd prefer this,' Rosa retorted. 'I believe the family have a home in Ireland and don't spend much time here. If I owned it I wouldn't want to leave. Just look at the view of those beeches.' She turned and looked at the avenue of trees which were bright green with fresh new growth. 'I wonder if you can see Oxford from the windows?

  Max had booked a table at a quiet country hotel a few miles before Stratford. It was too early in the year to eat in the conservatory, they were told, but while they waited they took advantage of the last of the daylight and walked in the gardens, admiring the spring flowers, breathing in the delicious scents.

  'England in spring time is so lovely,' Rosa said softly, lifting her hand to try and catch the petals of cherry blossom drifting on the sligh
t breeze.

  ' "In spring time, the only pretty ring time",' Max quoted, and as Rosa turned slightly, her eyes widening as she automatically completed the verse and came to the line "Sweet lovers love the spring", he drew her into his arms. 'Rosa, you are so beautiful. Rosalind's the perfect name for you. "From the east to western Ind, No jewel is like Rosalind". I think I've wanted to kiss you ever since we sat in that café, covered in smuts and grime.'

  It seemed perfectly natural to Rosa to lift her face towards his, but instead of the gentle embrace she anticipated she found herself crushed in Max's arms, breathless as she was held against his lean, firm body. His lips were cool, soft at first on hers, but soon hardening as he sensed her instinctive response. She clung to him, lost to every notion of propriety, her thoughts whirling further and further away until only the sensation of being where she'd unconsciously always wanted to be was left.

  At last, with a shuddering sigh, Max released her. 'I shouldn't have done that. I ought to say I'm sorry,' he said quietly. 'I'm not. Not unless I've offended you.'

  Speechlessly Rosa shook her head. How could either of them be sorry for something which had seemed so right.

  'Then let's go back, see whether our dinner's ready.'

  ***

  Chapter 4

  'Celia, not again,' Rosa begged.

  'But it's so unfair,' Celia persisted. 'Gilbert says I'm far better than she is.'

  'She has probably been to drama school and had a couple of years' experience.'

  'She's only twenty.'

  'The Herald complained both principals in Romeo were too young for such demanding parts.'

  'What do they know? Critics talk rubbish most of the time,' Celia declared. 'And anyway, Juliet was only fourteen. It's ridiculous when actresses in their forties try to play the part. But if I don't do it soon, I'll never have the chance.'

  'You might just manage it when you're thirty-nine,' Jack said impatiently. 'Stop complaining, Celia, I'm trying to balance these books.'

  'Why don't you work in the office?' Celia replied petulantly. 'If I want to talk in the parlour I've a perfectly good right to!'

  'The office is cold. This business keeps you in idleness, strutting about some stupid stage when you ought to be concentrating on finding a man to marry you. You'll grow into a bitter old maid, and then where will your precious acting get you?'

  Celia glared at him, tears welling in her eyes, then with a heart-rending sob she fled from the room. Rosa sighed.

  'It means so much to her, Jack,' she said slowly, wondering why she was pleading for understanding for Celia's tantrums, while she herself longed with equal intensity for a career on the stage. 'If she can't catch someone's attention during the Festival she feels she may never have another chance.'

  'It's Mother's fault, allowing her obsession to influence how she brought us up. I sometimes think that when Grandfather refused to let her act she married Father because of his name. She was determined to act out her fantasies somehow.'

  'That's not true. Well, not entirely, they did love one another. But don't be unfair to Celia just because you have no ambitions for yourself.'

  'How do you know I don't?' Jack demanded. 'Maybe there isn't enough money for what I want.'

  Rosa looked at him in surprise. He'd never before admitted to any ambition. 'You have the money Mother left you. Why can't you use that?'

  Jack snorted. 'That? It's laughable. There would have been far more if she hadn't given so much to the Memorial Theatre, and persuaded Father to contribute a lot more than he could afford.'

  'What do you want?'

  'If he'd invested money wisely we could have had a good house outside Stratford instead of living here, on top of the business.'

  'Is that what you'd really like? Do you resent the loss of that possibility?'

  Jack stared at her, then passed a hand across his eyes. 'Sorry, Rosa. These totals just won't come right. I'm tired.'

  Rosa suppressed her irritation. Jack needed peace to recover from his dreadful experiences during the war, they'd said, but it had been over for eight years now, and she was finding it difficult to continue making allowances for him. 'Can I help?' she asked. 'Shall I check the figures? I won prizes for arithmetic.'

  'Would you? I'm going cross-eyed. Here, that left-hand column has to agree with the addition along the bottom.'

  'Don't you mean the right-hand column?' Rosa asked after a moment.

  Jack looked where she was pointing, then laughed. 'Sorry, I wasn't thinking. I still have problems sorting out right from left when I'm tired. Remember how you teased me when you'd first learned the difference? It infuriated me.'

  Rosa concentrated while Jack stretched out in an armchair before the fire. The room was quiet apart from the crackling of the fire and the occasional shifting of a piece of coal. As she completed the addition and sat back with a sigh she saw Jack looking at her. 'It balances,' she said reassuringly, but he didn't appear to take in the words.

  'Are you going to marry Adam Thorn?' he asked abruptly.

  Rosa blinked. 'Why ask me that, now?' she demanded.

  Jack shrugged. 'Thinking about Celia, I suppose. At least you're not so foolish as to want to spend your life pretending to be other people.'

  How little you know me, Rosa thought. That would be preferable to marrying Adam.

  'Has Thorn asked you?' Jack persisted.

  'He'd ask Father first,' Rosa prevaricated.

  'He'll ask one day. What will you say?' he demanded, his voice curiously hoarse.

  'I – don't know. Let's wait and see whether he does ask.' Rosa tried to sound careless.

  'I hope you – ' Jack broke off abruptly. 'I – oh, it's none of my business, I'm not your guardian. You need a good husband.'

  'I don't have to have a husband,' Rosa told him, but he was already leaving the room. And if she did, was Adam the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with?

  *

  If Max had not promised to help with the staging of the Birthday Play he'd have left Stratford at once. How could he have been so crass as to kiss Rosa? The day out together, which initially had seemed such a good idea to make amends for Felicity's rudeness, had instead been a disastrous mistake. He'd wanted to see the famous houses, and to do so with an attractive companion had seemed harmless. It had been a foolish indulgence. He'd been away from home for too long, and had forgotten how to behave with gently reared girls. It was unforgivable for him to have allowed his liking for Rosa to betray him into such ungentlemanly conduct. That stroll in the garden had made him forget both common sense and manners. What would she think of him? Would she despise all Americans? Or would she now expect a declaration of love and a proposal of marriage? He had some idea that in England such behaviour was tantamount to an offer, which he could not make. Marriage was not in his programme, not yet. He intended to build up his career first. He'd resisted the family pressures to return to Woodstock because he wasn't ready to marry Jenny Wishart. She was eminently suitable, young and pretty, heiress to her father's considerable fortune, and made it plain that she adored him. Their marriage would unite two of the most important families in the county.

  He spent as much time as he could studying architectural books in his hotel room, but memories of Rosa kept intruding. Even when he accepted some of the many invitations pressed on him by Mr and Mrs Rhodes, eager to entertain such a delightful young man in whom their beloved child showed an interest, he couldn't entirely escape reminders of Rosa. Agnes did tend to prattle on about her. Max, decidedly uncomfortable, knew Agnes was developing too warm a liking for him, her probing hints designed to discover his feelings for Rosa. He took himself to task. There had been other girls, but he'd never had any difficulty in forgetting them. He'd abandoned Felicity without a backward glance when her demands had become too exacting, as he had Gloria de Vries, some years his senior, wife of one of his partners in New York, with whom he'd enjoyed a torrid affair last year. Why was Rosa different? He sighed. He must
avoid her during the rest of his stay in Stratford.

  *

  Celia reclined in a punt, wearing her new spring outfit. Gilbert, poling along with the ease of a natural athlete, was attracting many glances from other girls enjoying the river on a beautiful warm day. When Gilbert steered into a tiny secluded creek, curtained by willows in their fresh pale foliage, she sighed and gave him a rueful smile.

  'I'm sorry, I'm not good company.'

  He sat beside her and began to stroke one of her hands. 'I know, I understand how disappointing it is. There hasn't been a single opportunity to show what you can really do.'

  'And even if there had been, the London critics don't seem to consider Stratford worth reporting.'

  'You have to come to London. Find work there, then you'd be noticed. Let me arrange it.'

  Celia looked at him speculatively. He was by far the most attractive man she'd ever known, with his dark, smooth hair, thin face, and smouldering eyes that looked black in most lights. She'd been gratified when he paid her attentions, even more so when he remained attached to her despite lures thrown by other actresses. He shrugged them off, saying none could hold a candle to his precious Celia. They'd laughed together over Agnes' simpering glances, but she had transferred her attentions to the American. Good luck to her, Celia thought, busily weaving fantasies. If Agnes could distract Max from Rosa, her sister might turn to Adam. Although they had often talked of going to London together, Celia was honest enough to admit privately she didn't want Rosa with her. Her younger sister, she suspected, was a much finer actress. Gilbert's insistence that Celia was perfect for comedy roles had underlined that fear, though she would never openly accept her inferiority.

  'What do you say?' Gilbert broke into her reverie. 'Shall I write to those people?'

  Celia suddenly made up her mind. She would never achieve the fame she craved here in Stratford. 'Yes. It can do no harm to ask.' Somehow she would persuade her father.