Arden's Act

by Elizabeth Thomas

  Fortunately, the serving girl rose to Arden’s bait. “Special occasion, mistress?”

  Arden winced at Nan’s choice of words, but then seized upon it. No point in squeamishness now. “Mistress indeed,” she said. “Robert Courtenay has offered to keep me; I shall go to him tonight after the play. Naturally, I want to be at my best.” The heat rose violently in her cheeks. She did want to be at her best, God help her. This was not merely a scheme to spread the word about her ruination.

  Nan’s eyes bugged out. “’Pon my word!” was all she cried, but Arden could see, “you fortunate creature!” writ large upon the serving girl’s countenance.

  “My bath, Nan,” Arden gently reminded her.

  “R-right away, my l-lady,” Nan stammered. She dashed back through Arden’s doorway and away down the hall.

  My lady, thought Arden ruefully. It’s not like I am marrying him. Though apparently, it’s not such a stretch for Nan. I guess even the mistress of a future lord commands respect from her.

  If asked to wager, Arden would bet Nan took longer than strictly necessary to find the tub and haul it back to her small chamber. The servant seemed much quicker with the buckets of hot water, considering the time it took to heat each one over the kitchen fire. Fine, thought Arden as she waited. She wondered who Nan had favored with her juicy tidbit first. Who would hear next, now Nan had helped the soon-to-be-kept woman with the fastenings of her dress and left Arden to shed her clothes and immerse her nakedness in the warm water?

  Arden allowed herself merely to soak in the tub for a while, but not too long lest the water cool before she finished washing. After a time, she picked up the cake of lye soap Nan had provided and stared wistfully at it. She might as well begin. The soap appeared at least as good as what she had become accustomed to after Treadwell took over their home. Treadwell discouraged bathing as carnal vanity and therefore displeasing to God. He had not, however, kept Arden from remembering the scented French soaps and oils they always had about the house while her father lived. Sweet aromas had perfumed her baths from her earliest recollection―until Treadwell.

  A soft knock sounded upon her door. “I’m not decent,” Arden cried, instinctively covering her breasts with her cloth before the gentle force of the sound revealed the knocker's femininity.

  “It is only I, cherie,” sang Madame Davenant’s cheerful voice. “S’il vous plait, may I enter?”

  “All right,” Arden said. Madame must have recognized the uncertainty in her voice, however, for she responded as she came into the room: “No need to be modest with me, enfante. We have the same parts, n'est-ce pas? In France, women are much more at ease with each other and with their own flesh. And I have no little boys with me for the moment, either,” she added.

  Arden barely comprehended her speech, despite the lightness of her accent. She stared too intently at the small tray the Frenchwoman bore. Upon it stood vials and delicately shaped pieces of soap. From the scent that wafted to her nostrils―underneath the odor of lye―Arden knew her prayers had been answered.

  “Oh, Madame,” she whispered, forgetting her embarrassment. “How did you come by such bounty?”

  “Ma mere,” Henriette Davenant answered, closing Arden’s door behind her. “She sends me little packages now and then―she knows how much I miss the luxuries of home. Quelle fleur, petite? Roses? Violets? Lilacs?”

  “Lilacs, please. We have bushes and bushes of them at my home to the north. Or, I should say, my old home,” Arden corrected.

  “I thought you should have something to help you feel beautiful, cherie,” the older woman said gently, as she poured the indicated oil into the tub of water. Arden looked up and saw knowledge in Henriette’s eyes. Nan had begun to spread the word. Madame now knew; perhaps at that very moment Nan was informing some of Arden’s fellow actresses.

  “You aren’t getting married, bien sur,” Henriette continued. “But you are being deflowered, nevertheless. And you are a good girl, even so. Even though you are to become a mistress and not a wife, you deserve to be pampered like a bride. Your mother is not here, probably would not be if she knew. But I will try to stand in her stead.” Madame Davenant handed Arden one of the pieces of soap; its essence matched that of the lilac oil.

  “You are so kind,” Arden said quietly, wiping the hot tears from her face with her washcloth before the other woman could see them. But then she gave into her feelings. “Oh, Madame, I am so frightened! Am I making a horrible mistake?”

  “To what Nan just told me, I add my recollection of le fanatique who intruded upon us last night, and your reaction to him. Though I doubt not Lord Robert’s powers of attraction, I sense you do this because you fear this horrible man,” Henriette stated.

  “I trust your judgment,” she continued simply. “And I know Lord Robert is not a cruel or violent man. But just because you are very scared of Monsieur le Fanatique, does not mean you are not almost as frightened for your reputation, and of the deed itself. As for your reputation, most of those who would condemn you for the sin of carnality would already shun you for walking the stage. As for us, the people of the theater who are your new society―do not worry. Several of the actresses in our company―and the King’s Company, too, I might add―are outright whores, without even the dignity of a particular keeper. Why, Liza of King’s will lift her skirts for any man past puberty. Yet I and many others have often seen her offer a few tidbits of her supper to street urchins. I do not know your Monsieur Treadwell, but he has the look of a man who would not spare a pat on the head for an old and faithful hound, let alone someone else’s dirty orphan. Who is to say whether Christ smiles more on Liza or your fanatique? We are all sinners, ma fille. Who really could cast the first stone at you?”

  Henriette’s smooth voice soothed Arden as she lathered herself with lilac soap. She wondered how the French woman knew her motives, and how she knew so much about her stepfather, after seeing him only once. Arden knew Treadwell guessed right about Madame, at least about being a Papist. The French almost always proved Catholic, except for the odd Huguenot. Maybe, though the woman was by no means the whore he had called her, she might well be a witch―as Treadwell alleged most female Papists to be. Then she could use witchcraft to read hearts. Witch or no, and Papist even so, thought Arden, Madame Davenant makes an uncommon amount of sense.

  “As for the other matter, cherie,” Henriette said as Arden began to rinse her body, “you have an advantage over many honorable brides.”

  “How is that?” asked Arden, though part of her had already whispered that most honorable brides did not get to look forward to Lord Robert.

  “You know it―most marriages are arranged, at least among women of your class. Often the poor girl has just had her first monthly blood and has never even laid eyes on the man, who is probably more concerned with her dowry than anything else about her,” said Henriette. “You, on the other hand, go to a man who wants you. Who has nothing to lead him but his desire for you. I know you are frightened―all virgins are frightened. But to be desired is no small thing. And I have heard gossip,” Henriette whispered confidentially, “that Lord Robert is no man to take his pleasure quickly and roll over, already snoring.”

  “Just how many mistresses has Lord Robert gone through since you’ve known him?” Arden demanded, noticing that her water had chilled.

  “You are the first for whom he has bothered to make a formal arrangement,” Henriette reassured her. “He has given a few of the actresses a tumble or two, but there has been nothing of a more serious nature―that I know of. But as I said, you have little to fear. Yes, there is some pain when your maidenhood is pierced, but overall the act is quite pleasurable if it is done correctly. No, no, cherie! You will catch your death!”

  She uttered this last admonition as Arden, despite the water’s coldness, plunged her head below the surface to wet her hair. “It’s all right,” she told the Frenchwoman when she resurfaced. “I do it as often as I bathe.”

  “But win
ter has not yet passed,” Henriette protested.

  “I have never caught cold from this,” Arden assured her, soaping her hair. After she had rinsed her heavy dark tresses, the Frenchwoman handed her some towels, bid her good fortune, and left. Then Arden added to the empty air: “Besides, I would prefer to please.”

  *****

  Robert Courtenay shook his head after Brian Malley left his presence. The poor girl! But he would see to it she never had to worry about that Fanatick hypocrite again. No, actually Malley deserved the pity. The wretched scribbler loved the girl and was too damned stupid―or more likely cautious―to realize it. Courtenay couldn’t help smiling at the younger man’s effrontery, though. At his assurances that Mistress West only yielded to his offer to save herself from what she considered a much worse fate. True, perhaps. Even so, Courtenay did not mind taking advantage of the situation. For he planned to make sure Arden did not regret her decision. He would not only introduce her to passion gently, but he would make sure he completely erased the memory of any touches the old lecher had already managed to bestow. He would also wipe away any casual thought Arden may have already cast in the direction of young Malley. He had bidden Davenant’s apprentice to tell Arden that he and his coach would take her from the theater to his lodgings this evening. He had added that her own apartments would be ready in a week’s time.

  Chapter Eight

  Brian’s news immensely relieved Arden, but she did not entirely trust it. Given a few hours to reflect, Lord Robert might change his mind about her because of Treadwell. So Arden, telling Brian her reasoning, asked him to tell as many souls as possible about her tryst for the evening. Hopefully, so many people knowing about his affairs would make it too embarrassing for Lord Robert to back out. Besides, the more people who knew, the more likely word would get back to Treadwell himself, and she wouldn’t even have to go through another confrontation with him.

  By the time the curtain went up on the Duke’s Company that evening, its audience hummed with the knowledge that one of the realm’s most desirable young courtiers took a mistress from amongst the actresses. The girl who played the serving wench in that evening’s presentation, or so they had heard. By the time Arden herself crossed the stage, her own nervousness caused her to misspeak her first line. The furious blush suffusing her countenance when the entire theater roared their approval at her appearance, however, suited the flustered air of the character she played. Her small blunder would not have mattered anyway. All that occupied the minds of the assembled ladies and gentlemen of the audience―and the rabble, too―was that they get a good look at the chit who had taken Robert Courtenay’s fancy. When her turn came to make her curtsey afterward, thunderous applause again stormed Arden’s ears. It is happening already, she could not help thinking. They are already responding to me as Robert Courtenay’s mistress rather than for my performance. For a half-instant she thought about backing out of her arrangement with him. In the next half-instant she remembered Treadwell, and knew she could not change her mind. She could only resolve to deserve notice anyway, whether or not it resulted from her own acting talent.

  She changed into the best of the second-hand dresses she had purchased―a little-worn gown of apple-green silk that clung to her bosom and waist but billowed bell-like at the skirt. Leaving, Arden fought her urge to ask Brian to walk with her from the theater to Courtenay’s carriage. That would not do, not at all. When she stepped out the backstage door, Courtenay himself appeared to greet her. “Hello, my dear,” he said, smiling warmly as he offered her his arm. “I trust you are well this evening? You look well. This is the first time since your audition that I've seen you in something other than that drab monstrosity. I like the change.”

  Arden murmured her thanks and accepted his support. She wondered at the firmness of his forearm under her fingers and enjoyed the way the softness of the rich brown velvet suit he wore encased the musculature beneath. Though a chill ran through her with thoughts of what the evening would bring, a puzzling sense of safety and security also pervaded her. Courtenay would let no harm come to her. She returned his smile and said, “You are kind, Lord Robert, not to immediately charge me with flubbing my line.”

  “I considered it a compliment, Arden,” he said in a low voice as they reached his coach. He helped her into the vehicle, then sat beside her. “All the patrons of the theater seem to think me a fortunate man,” he continued, taking her hand and raising it to his lips.

  “Or me a fortunate woman, if not a decent one,” replied Arden. “But then, I forfeited their good opinion of me the moment I took the stage.” The warmth of his lips amazed her, even through her glove. She wondered what step he would take next in his efforts to assert possession. But to her surprise, he gently released her hand. He did not crowd her, though they shared one side of the coach. The predatory glint she had seen in those luminous dark eyes when he greeted her had softened greatly. Why not, now he’s caught me? thought Arden. The wolf will return soon enough.

  Courtenay began to speak lightly of political and social affairs, while simultaneously drawing her out on her family background. Arden knew Brian had told him all about Treadwell, but Lord Robert did not mention her stepfather. Instead, he encouraged her to talk of the happier parts of her past. By the time they arrived at his lodgings, Arden had almost forgotten the evening’s purpose, but it jolted back to her as the coach halted.

  Courtenay helped her down, and the footman lighted the pair to his apartments. Arden had never seen town lodgings so magnificent before. She held back a gasp as Courtenay led her to an elegant dining room, hung in wall silks of light warm yellow with a darker brown print. Though the mahogany table could easily accommodate twenty guests, it stood bare but for one end. One place setting lay at the head and another to the immediate right, with long tapered candles in silver holders nearby.

  Arden’s host held her chair for her as she sat down. When he had seated himself, he poured them each a glass of white wine from a bottle that already stood open upon the table. Arden fought not to gulp it, to savor the crisp clean taste she had not had since her father's passing. Her new keeper saw the effort, however. “Drink sparingly,” Courtenay said. “I don't want your senses fogged over.”

  The implications, mingled with the warmth of his voice, sent a thrill through Arden. She watched Courtenay pick up a small silver bell and ring it. A young servant immediately brought a small tureen of clear brown broth. Courtenay continued with his easy conversation while his servant ladled the hot, savory liquid into the small bowls before them. When they had finished the soup, however, and the young man had put a thin, white china plate of tender asparagus in front of each of them, Courtenay apologized for the lightness of their fare. “I promise our breakfast will be sumptuous, Arden.

  Considering what we have planned, it is best not to eat too heavily tonight,” he added, his manner matter-of-fact as he looked at her. To Arden’s mind, a little of the predator returned to his visage, and her fear must have briefly flickered across her own. Lord Robert put down his silver and reached for her hand. “Arden, dear, I hoped I would make you laugh again with that, not scare you out of your wits. Can’t I get at least a smile?” he cajoled her. He even resorted to brushing a finger lightly under her chin until she could not help obliging him. Then he said: “Honestly, Arden, it won’t be as bad as all that. If modesty didn’t forbid, I’d even sug-gest you might enjoy it.”

  Despite his merry words, and the sensuous, upturned lips that uttered them, Arden suddenly saw something tender in his countenance, something almost shy. Why, he is distressed by my fear! she realized. But the discovery for some unknown reason made her heart pound even more. She forced herself to listen calmly to what her seductor said as they ate the buttery vegetable. When the servant removed that course and came back with a plate of delicate stuffed quail, Courtenay said, “Thank you, Sam,” and started another apology.

  “I also regret having to leave you tomorrow, but I begin a sea voyage next aftern
oon. ‘Tis at the request of the King.”

  “Oh?” inquired Arden, distracted from her nervousness. “You are still close to His Majesty?”

  “Close enough,” replied Courtenay, smiling. “He wishes me to sail to Tangier for him, and return with a report of its riches and possibilities.”

  “Tangier? Isn’t that the colony of some foreign power?”

  “Portugal’s, but probably not for long,” Courtenay answered. “Nothing is official yet, but King Charles is engaged rather heavily in negotiations to wed that land’s Infanta, and Tangier would be part of her dowry.”

  “Yes,” sighed Arden. “I suppose he must wed a foreign princess, and soon.” Not that it’s anything to you, she chided the young girl inside who had romantically idolized her king. The King of England would never take a squire's daughter to wed, especially not one who’ll not be a virgin, be she foreign or native-born. No matter an early act of kindness between them. “I wonder if he remembers me,” she said aloud.

  “His Majesty?” asked Lord Robert. Arden answered in the affirmative, and told Courtenay the story of how she had aided King Charles on his flight from the battle of Worcester. They had finished not only the quail but a fancy custard dessert tart when Courtenay said suddenly and finally: “I don’t know if he recognized you or not, Arden, but I don’t wish to spend the evening listening to your admiration for another man. No matter he be King of England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales.”

  As if he had heard―and perhaps he had, for servants always eavesdropped―Sam came and cleared the table swiftly and completely. She thought he looked somewhat embarrassed as he left Arden completely alone with the man she feared she had just angered.