Arden's Act

by Elizabeth Thomas

  “Oh, this is too much!” Arden protested to Brian. “To act before the King my second night in London! How will I manage without fainting?”

  “You’ll manage,” Brian said cheerfully. “All the girls do.” He paused a moment, kind concern on his young face. “I can’t help guessing this is your first night in London. Do you have lodgings yet?”

  “Well, no, not exactly,” admitted Arden. “Do you know of any for rent?”

  “Sir William lets some of us stay in rooms at his house. Millie, myself, and some of the actresses. I don’t think he’s taken anyone else since May moved out to the grand apartments Lord Rayburn rented for her. You can take her old room,” Brian said. “If you like, I can escort you there and help you get installed. It’s just a few blocks down.”

  “That would be wonderful, Brian.” Arden smiled as he gave her his arm and pushed the back doors open with his other. Treadwell would have apoplexy if he could see her. Walking at evening without a chaperone, with a young man she barely knew. Certainly Brian had no indecent intentions. Arden assumed he was somewhat lonely and, much like herself, merely enjoyed talking to someone congenial.

  The sky had grown dark during the performance, but a half moon shone, and a few bright stars gleamed. Oil lamps cast their light through the shutters of houses and shops. Arden walked with Brian happily, listening to him as he pointed out the homes of the street’s more interesting residents. The sights and sounds flowed so pleasantly over her that she could almost forget the smells of the city. In time, she told herself, she would quit comparing it to the fresh air of her old country home. Until then, she’d have to buy herself some potpourri to wrap up in a handkerchief. Arden saw many fine ladies with such creations pressed to their noses, getting into carriages beside their husbands or escorts, leaving the theater.

  On second thought, even Treadwell could not object to Arden’s being alone with Brian, because she hardly lacked for chaperones after all. She noted several of the theater people walking the same way as she and Brian, not far enough away for anything he said to her to be truly private. But then again, Arden realized, Treadwell would consider all of them―herself included now―damned to Hell for taking part in such lewd and frivolous entertainment. Even if Treadwell found her now, he’d never want her back. He’d never want to sully her with his own private form of sin. Arden’s heart flew higher after her conclusion, as if even in her heavy black boots she would wander off into the air if she did not carefully place her steps. Perhaps this lightness ex-plained why she laughed so hard at the tale Brian told of Mrs. Davenant’s cat being thrown into one actress’s bath water by another young woman jealous of her part.

  She gradually noticed, however, that her laughter blended with the slow clopping of a team of horses, very close. She turned her gaze to the street. A dark coach of hunter’s green with gilt trim, pulled by two fine bays, kept exact pace with her and Brian. She drew in her breath sharply with her first thought. Treadwell! He had followed her after all, and would force her home, bad reputation and all!

  “What’s the matter, Arden?” Brian’s bushy eyebrows knitted in concern.

  “It’s nothing.” She had almost as quickly realized her stepfather would never buy―or even rent―a coach like that. “I thought for a moment that coach might belong to someone I knew. I wonder why it’s so slow, rolling right with us.”

  “It does belong to someone you know―well, somewhat. It’s Lord Robert’s,” Brian answered. “Is that what you thought?”

  “No, I thought my stepfather had found me. I’m glad it’s only Lord Robert.” As Arden spoke the words, however, all of Lord Robert’s previous attentions to her rushed through her mind. Perhaps in some ways he held more danger for her than did Treadwell. A much more pleasurable danger.

  Echoing her thoughts, Brian said, “I fear Lord Robert has become interested in you, Arden.” She saw him struggle to wipe the worried look from his countenance. How sweet of him to be so concerned for her!

  “Well, he can be very persuasive, and very persistent,” Brian continued, “but at the heart he is no brute and would never force a lady. Of course, to my knowledge, he’s never had to.”

  Arden steeled herself against the memory of his kiss and his gentleness outside the theater. She knew he would never force a lady. “Well, he won’t persuade me,” she assured Brian. “My clothes may be Puritan, but I am of the Church of England, and I intend to prove you don’t have to be a raving Dissenter to have virtue. Nor do you have to be a prude and stay at home doing endless needlework. I shall be a great actress and a good woman. But if Lord Robert wishes to call on me with respectful intentions, I shall have no objection. He is handsome, and he seems kind and intelligent,” she admitted.

  “I don’t remember Robert Courtenay ever calling on a lady with respectful intentions,” Brian told her.

  Dear God! I’ve already fallen half in love with a rake, made him my vision of Romeo! Arden resolved not to fall the rest of the way.

  By now they had arrived in front of a large, plain, wooden house of three stories. Brian turned to go up the steps. Simultaneously, the coach stopped in the street. The occupant got out, but made no effort to catch up with Arden and Brian, seeming content to follow them. Brian entered freely, his right as a boarder, and he held the door for Arden as his guest.

  Courtenay, however, had to use the knocker. Brian passed a serving girl rushing towards the door, and told her: “It’s Lord Robert, Nan. Where’s Mrs. Davenant?”

  “In the kitchen,” called Nan.

  Brian led Arden to a cozy room warmed by a huge fire-place and filled with the delicious scent of cooking meat. A small, distinguished-looking woman, cradling a new babe in her arms, stood gazing at a large haunch of beef on a spit over the fire.

  “I can wait for Nan to come back to turn it,” she said to Brian. Arden smiled at the musicality of her French accent.

  “Madame Davenant, this is Arden West,” said Brian. Arden curtsied, and the woman acknowledged her with a nod and a smile. “Your husband just hired her as an actress, and she’s new to London, so I thought she might have May’s old room.”

  “Bien,” said Madame. “Go find Bess and have her tidy it up. You may take Mistress West to see the room, so she may determine whether or not it will be satisfactory.”

  Brian wanted to lead her upstairs, but Arden knew they would not make it in time. Before she could voice this feel-ing, however, Nan returned to the kitchen, short of breath. The maid’s thin body trembled with excitement and her gray eyes danced.

  “It’s Robert Courtenay, Madame,” the maid said. “He gives his regards, but he doesn’t want to see you. He asks your leave to speak with the new actress in your parlor.”

  Chapter Four

  Brian led Arden into a large sitting room off the ground floor dining hall. He squeezed her hand. “Remember what I told you. You may be embarrassed, but he’s not a brute, and he won’t hurt you.”

  She nodded, not wanting to tell Brian why she already knew these things, and entered the room. Courtenay stood before the small fireplace with his back to her, a glass of brandy in his hand. He had helped himself from the cut glass decanter on the mantelpiece. The stopper, still out, lay beside it. The things one noticed on the edge of panic. Arden forced down her nervousness even though she feared Brian also guessed Courtenay’s mission correctly.

  She drew in a breath, trying to summon resolve along with it. Courtenay pivoted at the sound, turning those brilliant black eyes upon her. Arden had never seen eyes like that before she’d met him. Her heart raced as she realized exactly what she feared―not force, as in the alley, but willingness. What would it be like to have those lips on hers again, not in surprise as before, but in full readiness to welcome them? And to feel those fine, strong arms around her?

  “Good evening, Mistress West,” said Courtenay. He took her hand, now ungloved, and pressed it to his warm lips. “Please sit down,” he urged her, drawing her to a misleadingly delicate cushione
d bench upholstered in pale blue silk. He remained standing.

  Arden sat, but quickly found her voice. “Good evening, Lord Robert. I am happy to have this opportunity to thank you, both for rescuing me, earlier, and for speaking to Lord Davenant on my behalf.”

  Courtenay smiled, arching his dark brows. “You are entirely welcome, Mistress West,” he replied. “May I pour you some brandy?”

  “No, thank you, sir,” she answered, waving her hand at the offered glass and decanter.

  Courtenay laughed, low, but hearty. “You’ve probably never had it except in the middle of a raging fever, too weak to move! Are you sure you’re not a Puritan at heart?”

  “How many Puritan actresses do you know?” Arden retorted, heat rushing to her cheeks.

  “There is a first time for everything,” said Courtenay. His dark eyes glittered with merriment as he replaced the empty glass and the decanter. “But Mistress West, I did not call for your verbal thanks, pleasant though they are. I have a proposition for you, one I believe will be of great pleasure and benefit to us both.” As he spoke, Courtenay sat down on the bench beside Arden. She knew she should edge over, to put more distance between them. But her body did not wish to cooperate. In her moment of hesitation, Courtenay clasped one of her hands in both of his, making the option of movement even more awkward. He brought her hand up to his mouth once more, but gently turned it palm upwards to kiss it. The heat of his lips, their feathery touch on the fortune lines of her hand, made Arden fight to keep her shivers invisible to him.

  “I would be your lover, Arden,” Courtenay confessed in a low voice. “I would teach you to feel things every woman should experience.”

  Arden forcibly withdrew her hand and stood up. “So,” she said, trying to keep fear from her voice. “All day, when-ever I thought of you, I would wonder―why do you keep such friends? Of course, one is an influential Duke, but still―I thought you nothing like them! But here, you prove yourself not so different after all!”

  “Oh, Arden, no!” Courtenay cried, rising impulsively. He moved to put an arm around her, but when she backed further away, he dropped his hands to his sides. “Arden, I’m not going to hurt you,” he said softly. “What almost happened to you today was wrong, terribly wrong. And yes, my friends can frequently resemble jackasses, but, part of it, you see, they thought you an actual Puritan. And we’ve all spent so many long years in exile with the King . . .”

  As he trailed off, Arden knew she should retort with: “And it would have been all right, if I had been a Puritan?” Her lips wouldn’t even try to form the words. She knew what he meant. Treadwell and his clumsy attempts to touch her sickened her in their own right, sickened her even more because he had married her mother and played the role of parental protector. They sickened her most, though, because he was one of them. He had joyously recounted many times seeing the old King murderously beheaded, and took such obvious pleasure in the destruction of everything her late father held dear. She could understand wanting to hurt one of them, even though she knew it was wrong.

  “What I propose would be so different, Arden,” continued Courtenay. “You would be cherished, caressed, showered with comforts. And protected. You would be treated with gentleness, always.”

  Her fears quieted, Arden could feel her cheeks growing warmer. She had no hope Courtenay hinted at an honorable offer, but the riot her blood made rushing through her body demanded she ask. If a chance existed that she could allow him to continue. . . . Not impossible, was it? For a man like Courtenay to fall in love with her quickly and wish to marry her? She might be an actress, but the blood in her veins had not come from commoners. Not unheard of, for a future lord to take a wife from the gentry? “Then—you wish to court me?” Arden managed, her voice barely a whisper.

  “No, my dear,” he answered gently, sitting back down beside her and reclaiming her hand. “Your innocence is touching, and I will honor it with the truth. My bride has long been chosen, but has a few years before she reaches marriage-able age. I want you as my mistress.”

  Arden pulled away. She knew she should do much more, including leap from the bench and rail at him for insulting her. Quite possibly, she should burst into angry tears. But oddly, she wanted to do none of these things. She merely said, “That cannot be, Lord Robert.”

  Courtenay’s black eyes, surprisingly, held no anger. They seemed instead to be sincerely interested by the object of their study. “I will not bother to plead the house in which I could set you up, the luxuries I could provide for you,” he said. “I guess they matter not to you, even though you will be hard pressed to live on your acting wages. Yet, you haven’t screamed for Madame Davenant, or hurled any cushions at me, so it can’t be your virtue that concerns you. What is it, then? Have you taken an aversion to my person?” He pronounced the last phrase almost merrily, mocking an intonation Arden had heard used many times by country daughters seeking to plead their way out of arranged marriages.

  Arrogant devil! He knows that would be virtually im-possible for a woman. Before Arden could find the courage to confirm his self-confidence―for some reason, he compelled her to honesty―Courtenay reached up and placed a finger to her lips.

  “No, don’t tell me!” he cried. “You have already made an arrangement with that glorified stage hand Malley! That’s why he has been so solicitous of you. God’s blood! I didn’t know the lad had it in him!” Courtenay’s terseness belied the levity of his words, and now something like anger did smolder in his dark eyes. Arden sensed that only a great effort of will kept his finger gentle on her lips until he brought his arm back to his side.

  “No, Brian is just my friend,” said Arden. “No, truly, Sir, it is my virtue.” She had no idea why she wanted to explain to this man, who in the eyes of the world horribly insulted her. She didn’t feel insulted. She felt more as though invited on a delicious adventure she must decline due to prior responsibility. So Arden continued, though she didn’t know how to make him understand.

  “I want to be good,” she told him. “I want to prove that actress need not be another word for whore.” Even as she spoke the words, a voice in her head taunted her with the knowledge she’d already accepted this man’s help in getting a speaking part. Only a matter of degree. “I know, Sir, I have already used your kindness to my advantage, above and beyond your rescuing me from a horrible assault. Because of you I’ve had lines, and I haven’t needed to dye my hair. But―and I mean you no disrespect―except for your boorish friends in the alley, I did not ask your assistance. And I don’t ask for any more.” Agitated, Arden rose from her seat. “Now, please don’t be offended with me, and try to hinder my efforts out of spite,” she added, standing before him with her hands clenched together behind her back.

  Courtenay calmly stretched his arm along the top of the sofa. Again, Arden sensed he exerted great will to keep his movements so controlled. “I felt no insult until you assumed I could be so petty as to act spitefully toward you,” he told her. She could see the spark in his eyes, though his tone remained low and even.

  “I apologize, then, Lord Robert,” said Arden. “Please forgive me, I don’t know you. I’ve had reason in my life to believe people can be spiteful when crossed. As I said,” she continued, “I want to be good. As I told you, I’m not a Puritan, but the Church of England teaches chastity as well, even if hardly anyone learns it anymore. One doesn’t have to be a Fanatick to come a maid to one’s bridal bed.” She stood staring down at him, but he returned her gaze so intently that she had to look away. The silence between them lasted for some time, and Arden struggled not to show her discomfort. She had just decided to leave the small parlor, throw polite-ness to the dogs, when Courtenay finally spoke again.

  “But Mistress West, do you know what goodness is?” he asked. “There are so many religions―how do you know which one is right? Not that I’m a heathen,” he added, seeing the shock on her face, “but still, it’s something to consider. Why, in the East, they have even built a religion
around the secret acts between women and men. And in ancient times, priestesses served their gods and goddesses by giving their bodies to whomever brought offerings to their deity. They believed this most holy, I assure you.” He rose, and in a moment he stood directly in front of her, much closer than he should be. He cupped her chin in his hand and looked deeply into her eyes. “Even our own dear Christ, Arden, cares more about how kindly we treat each other than what pleasure we take from our bodies, I suspect.”

  “Perhaps,” admitted Arden, backing away from him. She no longer had much room between herself and the fire screen.

  “And what about whether or not you are a good actress?” asked Courtenay. “You’ve expressed to me your intent to ‘breathe life into parts.’ To gain as much respect for your acting craft as any masculine thespian might?”

  “Yes, but what has that to do with anything?”

  “I witnessed your lovely scene from Romeo and Juliet,” he told her. “Oh, it charmed, in an innocent way. But you got it totally wrong.”

  “Wrong!” Arden seethed. And to think she had imagined him lying cold before her! Perhaps not such an unpleasant thought as she had made it out to be in her audition.

  “Romeo and Juliet married,” Courtenay said flatly. “What’s more, they did manage to spend at least one night together. Now, you recited very well, and you did manage to convey that you felt for the poor dead boy in front of you. But we all found it obvious you’d never known him, not the way a woman knows a man.” While Arden stood mesmerized by his voice, by his eyes, he wrapped an arm about her waist and drew her closer to him. “If you knew what making love is like, Arden,” he whispered, brushing a stray lock of hair away from her face with his other hand, “you would have been much more convincing.”