Arden could not speak. Her senses ran riot from his sheer closeness, and even through her clothing her body thrilled to the touch of his hands. Her mind wanted to rebel, but she could not force the words of protest from her lips. Courtenay continued his line of argument uninterrupted.
“If you let me teach you these things, you will have everything you need to become a fine actress. For you do have the potential, my dear Arden.”
“I—I— ” Arden stammered.
“Think well, lovely. Juliet is not the only part requiring a knowledge of passion,” said Courtenay.
Curse him, but he has a point, thought Arden. But I can’t, I can’t let him ruin me just so I can act better. And I definitely can't let him ruin me because I think it might feel good! “No,” she finally said. “I cannot be your mistress.”
Courtenay still held her close, and she could feel the tension still in his body, the tension belying the fatalism of his words. “Very well, then, Arden,” he said softly. “I must accept your decision. But if you think actresses who become the mistresses of influential men do so in exchange for increasing their fame, there is still the matter of my interfer-ence with Davenant. You must agree you owe me at least another kiss,” he finished, trying to hide a smile.
The effrontery! thought Arden. I should slap his face and leave. She realized, though, that if she wanted to take that course, she should have done so from the beginning of their interview. Besides, she had difficulty not smiling herself. Not to mention she could not help remembering the first time he had kissed her. Surely, little harm could come of sampling just that much pleasure again?
“If I kiss you, will you leave me alone?” asked Arden.
“Yes, I will,” Courtenay replied. “I promise.”
“All right then,” said Arden. “I suppose you may kiss me.” She got the words out in spite of her trembling lips. She closed her eyes as Courtenay drew her even closer. Then she felt his mouth upon hers again, warm and sweet. Her lips parted a little in surprise at the glorious feeling of it, and his tongue slipped between them. Liquid fire like she had never known shot through her, and her heart pounded so fast she feared fainting. Even through the dizziness threatening her, Arden discovered the strength to respond. She kissed him back and opened her lips wider to his urgent exploration. There must be something horribly sinful about kissing this way, but she didn’t care―she wanted Courtenay to go on, to keep kissing her and kissing her like this until—until what? Until her heart burst and her soul flew straight to heaven on the fast winds of a cyclone. She threw her arms around Courtenay’s neck to keep from sinking to the floor. Her knees had turned to jelly and would no longer support her.
Courtenay stopped kissing her, and gently pushed her down on the sofa. Arden opened her eyes and saw his own staring down at her. What more? she thought, what next? But once she sat comfortably, Courtenay carefully disentangled himself from her arms. “Goodbye, Arden,” he whispered, turning toward the parlor door. “If you should ever reconsider, you can reach me at my lodgings on the Strand. But I’ll only be in London for a few more days.”
*****
Brian did not allow himself to listen outside the parlor door, but he watched the street below from the window of his room. As soon as he saw Courtenay return to his coach, he dashed downstairs. When his gentle knock received no answer, he put his ear to it, and heard soft sobs. “Arden, it’s me, Brian,” he called through the door.
“Come in.”
Brian walked to her side. Except for the tears streaking her face and the high color of her cheeks, she appeared calm and collected―not as if freshly ravished. “Arden,” he demanded, “are you all right? What’s the matter?”
“He—he kissed me!” she wept, covering her face with her hands. “I let him.”
“Is that all?” asked Brian. If not for her obvious distress, he would have allowed himself a giddy laugh of relief. “I’ll wager you are the first woman Courtenay ever pursued who only let him kiss her. Wait until the troupe hears! Courtenay rejected!”
“Oh, no!” cried Arden. “Brian Malley, you must swear never, ever to breathe a word of this! Tell me you swear!” She clutched at his hand.
“All right, Arden, I swear on the blood of Christ,” agreed Brian. “Will that ease your mind? And your grip?”
“Yes,” Arden said, letting go of him. She still struggled to stop crying.
Brian waited a moment, then spoke again. “I won’t say anything, but I can’t understand why you don’t want me to. You’d be a legend. People would come from all over England ―and France, too, I’d bet―to see, on stage, the woman who spurned Robert Courtenay.”
“But they would also know he tried to dishonor me, Brian, and I’d be so embarrassed,” Arden said quickly. She lowered her head and stared at the fire for a moment, then returned her gaze to her friend. “Brian?”
“Yes?”
“That’s not the only thing,” Arden admitted. “I don’t want him shamed. I know he insulted me, but he also saved me from something awful, right before I met you. Besides, even though he did insult me, I must be awful, because I don’t feel insulted. I have no desire for any kind of vengeance on Mr. Courtenay whatsoever. There, Brian, do you think I am horrid?”
“Oh, no,” Brian said immediately. “I don’t think you’re horrid. Just honest. And kind. The point is, you did refuse him.” But he didn’t give voice to the small spot of melan-choly inside him that whispered: She refused him because of morality―not because she isn’t attracted to him. How long can she hold out? Aloud he said, “Come on, Arden. Madame has dinner ready for us. Then, if you’ll allow me, I’ll help you get settled in your room.”
Chapter Five
Arden found dinner and her new room quite satisfactory. A comfortable bed came with the chamber, and she slept well. The many events of the day had exhausted Arden rather than overstimulating her to the point of insomnia. Even being down the hall from the Davenants’ nursery, inhabited by at least six little boys, did not keep her from peaceful slumber.
She rose early, however, without need of summoning by Nan or Bess. She dressed herself, put her hair into a bun, and surveyed the result in the mirror. She’d keep the dress, since it worked so well as a maid’s costume, but she’d never wear it except on stage after today. After today, no one would mistake her for a Puritan.
Arden took another look at herself in the mirror. Yes, her green eyes recalled the color of emeralds, and the lush darkness of her hair gratified, no matter what Sir William said about fashion. With her tresses piled on top of her head, the widow’s peak on her forehead stood out more, emphasizing her heart-shaped face. Still, a miracle, really, that Robert Courtenay found her attractive despite this garb. He’d never have noticed her but for the degeneracy of his friends.
She saw her reflection redden opposite as she remembered the sensations of Courtenay’s kisses. Before she could help it, his remark about having lodgings on the Strand came back to her. Arden hadn’t seen the Strand yet, but she knew it must be very fine. She wondered what he and his surroundings looked like right now. His valet probably helped him dress in a room even finer than her father’s had been before he died, before Treadwell had come bringing the plague of plainness in his wake. She found herself imagining what Courtenay looked like before he put on the shirt his valet laid out on the huge four-poster bed....
Stop it, Arden. That way lies ruin. She forced her con-centration back to the task at hand. She brought her bag from the corner of the room and set it upon the bed, opened it, and shook out its contents onto the dark green coverlet. They sparkled satisfyingly up at her―a diamond necklace, matching bracelet, and two matching earbobs. Again Arden thanked God her coaches to London had met with no highwaymen, and she’d managed to avoid the city cutpurses thus far.
The jewelry represented all she had left of her father aside from memories. The pieces had first entered the family through her father’s grandmother, who in her youth had waited upon old Queen Bess.
The Queen herself had gifted Arden’s ancestress with the jewels, which had passed through the female line until her father’s mother―an only child who had borne four sons and no daughters. Not merely the stones themselves made the jewelry valuable, but the pieces' history.
Arden told herself her father would have understood. He could no longer protect her, and she had needed to flee Treadwell. Needed to run away to London with nothing but the clothes on her person and the coarse cotton shift in which she re-wrapped the jewels to replace them in her bag. Perhaps some would condemn her as frivolous to trade this inheritance for extra clothing, but she truly needed a new wardrobe. Arden would no longer wear Puritan garb, but neither would she be extravagant―a few dresses, a nice pair of shoes, and some new undergarments, including some stockings. Just as her father would not have wanted her to remain under Treadwell’s domination, he would have understood her desire to shed the apparel marking that oppression. Perhaps she would only have to sell the bracelet. Nevertheless, Arden left all of the jewelry in her bag as she picked it up and marched down the hall to Brian’s room.
Malley kept her waiting in the hallway only a few moments while he finished his own morning ablutions. Arden heard the splashing of water in a basin. When admitted, she took the chair he offered and opened her bag. “Do you know a reputable place where I might get a good price for these?” she asked him quietly.
“God’s blood!” Brian swore. “I had no idea you were rich, Arden!”
“Am I, then? Will these bring a fair price?” asked Arden.
“Nothing brings a fair price when you pawn it,” Brian replied, frowning, “but relatively speaking ...”
“Then you know where to go?”
“As well as anyone, I suppose. I have a cousin, fallen on hard times when her parents died. I helped her sell some of her belongings. Which reminds me, when you become rich and famous enough to hire your own lady’s maid, she needs employment.”
“I’ll do that as fast as I can,” said Arden, smiling. “Do you think I can get away, then, with only selling the bracelet? And have enough for a few frocks, some shoes, and—well, you know, necessities?”
“I think so.”
“Will you come with me, please? To make sure they don’t try to take advantage?” Arden asked. “That is, if you have time before you must go to the theater.”
“I needn't get there any sooner than you. The revision of Lear isn’t due until next week, and I’ve already finished a good bit of it. I’m just helping out today.” As Arden had learned the day before, Brian served also as a sort of thea-trical man of all work―scurrying behind the scenes, making last-minute changes, making sure all the actors and actresses had what they needed.
“Good,” Arden replied simply. She paused a moment, then continued. “Now, Brian, if I’m to sell only the bracelet, what shall I do with the others? If I take them with us, I risk them to cutpurses. If I leave them ...”
“You are right to be cautious. I’m not sure of all the people who board here, yet, either. But Madame is an honest woman, and she keeps a strongbox,” said Brian. “Let’s go see her.”
Her necklace and earbobs resting comfortably with Mrs. Davenant’s own treasures, Arden set out with Brian. He led her to a shop a few blocks away. On the inside, the place resembled a chaotically cluttered crow’s nest, but the proprietor seemed a decent man, as far as his sort went. The exchange made, Arden slipped the heavy coins into her purse and stood with Brian on the bustling street outside the shop.
“Do you know of any dressmakers nearby?” Arden asked her companion. “And a second-hand shop? I have enough to have a few new things made, but I’d like to buy some used, to wear until the others are finished. And a shop that deals in ladies’—er—underthings?”
“Well, Arden, this is not my field of expertise,” said Brian. “But I’ve heard the actresses talk, and I know they frequent a few places nearby.” He guided her away from the pawn shop, and off down the street.
*****
In the coffee house across the way, Robert Courtenay sat at a window table, sipping the last of his cup. He’d seen Arden and Malley enter the pawn shop, and guessed the young lady needed to make a transaction. New to London, she must, of course, need money. He chuckled wryly to himself, wondering what treasure she had parted with to stave off the necessity of making a deal with him. He patiently savored another cup of coffee while he waited for Arden and Malley to exit, not taking the chance of looking down at the book he’d brought with him.
He placed some small coins on the table for the server, and left the coffee house. He crossed the street to the pawn shop.
“Good day, sir,” said the proprietor. “Is there anything I can show ye? Or do ye wish to sell?”
“That young gentlewoman just in here with that boy,” began Courtenay.
“Aye, a pretty thing she is, isn’t she?”
“Which item did she pawn?”
“This here beautiful diamond bracelet, sir,” answered the proprietor, extracting it from a jumbled pile in a glass cabinet. “She said it came to her family from Good Queen Bess, no less.” He showed Courtenay the engraved ER for Elizabeth Regina on the gold clasp.
Courtenay smiled. Truly an exquisite piece. “I’ll bet she loathed parting with that,” he said to the broker. These honest girls, he thought, shaking his head.
“She did look grave, sir.”
“What are you asking for it?” demanded Courtenay.
The man named his price, a good deal higher than what he’d given Arden, Courtenay would wager. Nevertheless, Courtenay pulled his purse from the pocket of his frock coat, and deposited several pieces of gold into the proprietor’s upturned palm. He pocketed the diamond bracelet and left the establishment. His only question now consisted of whether to present the trinket to Arden before or after he had accomplished her seduction
*****
Arden performed before His Majesty King Charles II for the first time that night. Despite her worst fears, she managed to do so without stammering, or tripping on her hem and falling on her face. She avoided catastrophe mostly due to her refusal to look toward the King’s dais, even though it pulled at her gaze like a magnet. While on stage, of course, she kept her eyes on her fellow thespians. While she waited in the wings, she let herself look out into the theater―everywhere but towards the center where His Majesty sat. The Whitehall Palace Theater, known as the Cockpit, was elegant―or it would have been, if King Charles’s refurbishing of it were complete. Brilliant green baize fabric hung everywhere, but wooden scaffolding still crowded against some of the walls.
Finally, after her last scene, Arden allowed her eyes to feast. Charles Stuart had changed much since the last time she had seen him. Though he appeared to enjoy the play and laughed frequently at its wit, Arden noted that his face had become more grave, aged with the troubles of the past ten years. Also, his garb now shone far more regally than had the woodsman’s clothes he’d worn escaping Parliamentary forces after the battle of Worchester. The King’s handsomeness in Arden’s eyes had not lessened. He remained swarthy, dark, and mysterious. A maturity mantled him now, adding to his royal dignity.
When the play ended, and Arden’s turn came to walk to the edge of the stage and curtsy to the King, again fortune stayed with her. She didn’t trip or stumble. Despite her humbly lowered gaze, she realized that King Charles indeed looked back at her. Could he have possibly recognized her? She had been only a child, of course, but maybe he had seen something familiar in her face? Maybe the sight of her had unaccountably brought to mind a young girl standing in the fields outside of Walsall, holding a plate of bread, meat, and cheese out to a young fugitive King? Or maybe he simply appraised her as a female, as rumor had it he did all of the actresses.
Arden could talk of nothing else afterwards, sitting in the Davenant’s parlor with Brian and Madame. “Do you think he remembers?” Arden demanded of them both after she told the story.
“You know, it’s possible,” said
Brian, sipping some hot cider. “They say the King recalls every bit of kindness from the bad old days, and he rewards people quite handsomely.”
“I don’t want any reward!” cried Arden. Despite the bargains made earlier in the day, she had worn her old dress to the Cockpit to avoid the necessity of changing, and she wore it still. “To think that he remembers me would be wondrous enough!”
“But a reward never hurt anyone, cherie,” laughed Henriette Davenant. Her children had all gone to bed for the night, and she now courted merriment. As the matron poured more cider into Arden’s cup, however, Nan’s loud shrieking made her pause.
“I can’t let you in! I am sure the master and mistress don’t know you, sir! I am sure you mean naught but trouble to us!”
“Naught but trouble for anyone who keeps me away from my daughter!” came the dreadful answering bellow. Arden’s cup slipped from her hand, shattering on the polished wooden floor. That bellow could belong to no one else but Treadwell.
Chapter Six
After a moment, Arden reassembled her courage. Nothing for it but to see him, so she said as much to Mrs. Davenant. But before Treadwell was allowed to enter the parlor, Arden whispered to Brian: “If he takes me from this room, please follow us.” A tall, spare bald man in his sixth decade pushed Nan aside and stepped into the room, not bothering to remove his conical black hat. Is he really that ugly? Arden wondered as she got to her feet, or is it just my feelings for him that make him so? How Mother could stand to marry him, after she’d had Father... She knew her mother had needed to put food on their table, so Arden did not completely condemn her, but couldn’t she have found someone better? Dear Mother, thought Arden, you wouldn’t consider making me marry a rich husband unready, but I was even less prepared for Treadwell.
“There you are, slut! Have you sold your honor yet? You have certainly sold your immortal soul, living in the den of this Papist whore!” Treadwell’s booming voice filled the whole room, and Arden could see Mrs. Davenant, Nan, and Brian staring at him silently, too shocked even to gasp at his effrontery.
Arden's Act Page 4
