Arden's Act

by Elizabeth Thomas

  Arden obeyed, and braved a close look at the man who pulled up a matching chair opposite the one she occupied once more. “Larger than life” aptly described Charles II. His clothing was suitably fine, but his person itself captivated Arden. He stood even taller than Lord Robert, and his height was enhanced by her seated position. His countenance was long, though mild, and his nose large. The dark cast of his skin, inherited from a Medici grandmother, flew in the face of English standards of fair masculine beauty. It attracted Arden anyway, as did the short, neat lines of black mustache above his wide, sensual lips. The King pressed those lips to Arden’s hand as he bowed before her. God help me! Arden thought.

  “I must ask pardon for tearing you away from the second play,” he said. “I only thought of the inconvenience after my man had already collected you. I assure you, though, there was nothing in it to match your talent.”

  “You are far too kind, Your Majesty,” Arden murmured. Charles apparently saw his edition of Harvey on the floor then. He crossed to it, picked it up, and returned to finally take the chair he’d brought near Arden’s. “I’m sorry about your book, Your Majesty,” the actress stammered, lightly amazed at watching his long body fold itself into the seat.

  “Don’t worry. I’m sorry I startled you that much, Arden. May I call you Arden?” he asked, examining the book in his large hands. When she gave belated assent, he held the slight tome out to her, saying: “Ah, old Dr. Harvey. Do you know, Arden that Jemmy and I were left in his charge during the battle of Edgehill?”

  Arden smiled at the monarch’s affectionate nickname for his royal brother and standing heir. She also recovered enough of her wits to notice that the dark eyes across from her were kind―friendly, even. Though yes, Charles’ glance also held frank male appreciation for her face and form. Despite the heat sweeping downwards along her spine, she managed to speak. “I assume he took good enough care of the pair of you?”

  “Only in that Jemmy and I still breathe,” laughed the King. “Dr. Harvey wasn’t terribly interested in the fighting ―other than who would ultimately win, of course. Nor was he terribly interested in a couple of young boys, no matter what their parentage. So he sat on the battlegrounds with a book on his lap, completely engrossed in its pages. My brother and I, however, were quite interested in the fighting. Fascinated, as you might well imagine. We had been told to keep well out of the way, but we wanted to follow the battle as closely as possible. So we said nothing as the traitors’ forces crept ever closer. Dr. Harvey never looked up from his book until a rebel cannon ball smashed the grass beside him. Then, of course, he gathered us much further behind the lines.”

  Arden laughed with him when he finished. “Thank God nothing worse befell the lot of you!”

  “No, at least not for a few years,” replied Charles. “But speaking of the bad old days reminds me of why I asked you to visit me. Though your performance as Juliet pleased me mightily, I’ve been meaning to speak with you since the first time I saw you on stage. I remember you.”

  “Truly, Sire?”

  “Arden is not a common name. Though now flowered into lovely womanhood, you look like the nine-year-old girl who held out a plate of food to me in the fields after the battle of Worcester. You are the same Arden, are you not?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “I needed that meal sorely, and the kindness and loyalty even more. I’ve never forgotten you,” said Charles.

  “I was glad to help, Sire, and I am so proud to be remembered!” cried Arden.

  “Before you married, you performed as Arden West,” recalled the King. “Are you related to Sir Lloyd West, who aided Ormonde in Ireland, and fought bravely on my late father’s behalf in so many battles?”

  “He was my father, Your Majesty,” Arden replied.

  “Was? I’m sorry, my dear. Did he die in the fighting? I thought I might have heard that.”

  “Many think so, and I usually let them,” Arden said solemnly. “But the truth is, I lost my father shortly after you lost yours.”

  “How did it happen?” asked Charles.

  “He never quite came to himself again once he realized the late King’s cause had been lost,” Arden explained. “Not long after he heard the news of your father’s martyrdom, a high fever struck him. He never recovered.” With her simple words to King Charles, Arden found herself remembering those dark last days. Though only seven years old, she had helped her mother tend her father. She'd soaked fresh cloths in the coolest water, wrung them out, and placed them gently on Papa’s burning brow. Early on, he had protested her presence, fearing she’d take ill as well. Towards the end he had not even recognized her. At last, with her exhausted mother still asleep on a chair in the bedroom her parents had shared, Arden arose one morning to change the cloths. When she had touched Papa’s brow, it felt cool, and his tense, pained features had finally relaxed. She thought the fever had broken. Though the fever had gone, it had taken her father with it. She had cried inconsolably when her mother woke and con-firmed her guess. She cried now, despite the presence and seeming favor of her beloved King.

  Who left his seat to rush to her side with a deft swiftness that belied his height. “Don’t cry, dear, don’t cry!” he pleaded, dabbing gently at her face with the finest of linen handkerchiefs. “I have been known to do most anything for a lady in tears, but I haven’t enough riches in all my various kingdoms to make that right!”

  “Your concern goes a long way,” said Arden, trying to rein in her remembered sorrow. “I’m sorry to distress you.”

  “Nonsense,” said Charles. “Part of the problem is, I am a neglectful host. I haven’t offered you anything to eat or drink. Shall I ring for a bite, and perhaps some wine?”

  “No, thank you, Your Majesty. Unless, of course, you would care for something.”

  “Perhaps later,” conceded Charles. With a long finger, he gently traced the path of one tear down Arden’s face, then cupped her chin in one hand. “I would offer you other forms of comfort, dear Cavalier’s daughter,” he said, his deep voice lowering to a husky whisper.

  As Arden fought to find the proper words, Charles kissed her. Though definitely the kiss of a full-blooded man, it did not seek to invade or possess. Truly, the King did mean to comfort a grieving woman. Yet his lips seared Arden’s, and she returned his kiss, struggling to understand the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. In one respect, her desire for Charles appeared the most natural thing in the world. She had virtually worshiped the man since their encounter after Worcester. In another, though her hunger to be well-loved by this man resembled what she’d felt for Lord Robert, part of her wanting was provoked by the sheer impact of the King’s power. Odd, because when she’d been sought by important men following Lord Robert’s departure, Arden had registered no such effects. But they surely flamed within her now. Where, though, did this lust for Charles Stuart fit with her passion for Lord Robert? And how could it coexist with her loyalty and gratitude to Brian?

  As Charles gathered Arden into his arms, the image of her husband’s stricken face swam before her eyes. The King initiated another, more insistent kiss, and began to carry her slowly but steadily in the direction of the huge bed before she managed to gasp: “Please! Your Majesty, please, wait!”

  Charles lowered her carefully to her feet, stepping slightly back from her. Arden looked up into smoldering eyes. Desire, certainly. She recognized the gaze of a man who wanted her. But patience, concern, and confident amusement held their places in his expression as well. “What is it, Arden?” he queried. “Have I intruded too fast upon your grief? I ask your pardon.”

  “No, no, it is not that,” said Arden. “Your Majesty,” she began again. “I am your loyal and devoted subject, and you may use me as you wish.” As she spoke the words, she partly hoped he’d take her at them. “Nevertheless,” she continued, “I would not ever hurt my husband if I could avoid it. I beg this boon of you. Let me go back to him a faithful wife.”

  Charles lowered his
head to peer more closely at Arden’s face. “Oddsfish!” he exclaimed when he had straightened. “You truly care for that scribbler Malley, don’t you?”

  Arden nodded, relieved to note the King still smiled.

  “Everyone thinks you only married him to legitimize Robert Courtenay’s child,” Charles added.

  “You know about all of that?” Arden blurted.

  “A King who knows naught of his subjects’ gossip will find himself in far more trouble than merely being ignorant of actresses’ lives,” observed Charles. “If my father had been in better communication with his people, I might still be the Prince of Wales.”

  His grin broadened, and beneath the mature angles of his face, Arden detected the lively young man enshrined by girlhood memory. She did not know what to say next, but the King crossed to a bureau near the bed and pulled a small red silken pouch from one of the drawers. He placed it, a surprisingly weighty thing, in her hand. “This is for your aid at Worcester, Arden,” he said. “Nothing more.” He rang for one of his Guard, then took her arm and escorted her to the door. “If ever you need anything, Arden, send me word and I will do what I can.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Farewell, dear,” he said.

  “God bless you, Your Majesty,” Arden replied softly.

  When Charles handed her over to the guard, he told him: “Study Mistress Malley well, Frederick. She may be the only example of a virtuous actress we shall ever see. May we all be as fortunate in our brides as Mr. Malley is in his!”

  Gallant words, thought Arden, for a man of his knowledge.

  *****

  Brian sat in their room at the Davenants, still awake when Arden came through their doorway. His face, sad, welcomed her anyway. He thinks I have done it, bedded the King. But he still loves me! Arden realized.

  “No, Brian,” she told him immediately. “Nothing like that happened.”

  “Truly, Arden?”

  She had not intended to tell him much more, but she could not deny the questions in his hazel eyes. “Oh, he kissed me a bit,” she admitted, “and he sought more, but I told him I wanted to be faithful to you, and he let me go.”

  “Long live the King!” cried Brian, rushing up to hug her. After returning his embrace, Arden showed him the red silk pouch. “Purely in thanks for giving him food at Worcester,” she assured her husband. She spilled gold and silver coins upon the coverlet of their bed. “He remembered me, Brian!” she couldn’t help exclaiming. “He truly did! Whatever shall we do with all these riches?”

  “Hang onto them, I guess,” said Brian. “We’ll need them when the baby comes.”

  Arden lay awake long after Brian began softly snoring beside her. She had managed―just barely―to refuse the King of England in order to ensure her husband’s happiness. She had no idea whether she would be able to refuse Robert Courtenay in a similar situation.

  Chapter Twenty

  A few mornings later, after many embraces from the other denizens of Davenant’s house, Arden, Brian, and Bonnie caught a coach for Oxford. Arden nervously worried about highwaymen, because the King’s parting gift to her as well as her inherited diamonds nestled in a corner of their luggage.

  The conveyance had barely traversed a city block when Brian anxiously inquired, “Is the ride too bouncy, Arden? Are you all right?”

  “No, the bounce is fine, and so am I.” Arden had to make similar replies all along the Thames as they headed northwest, because Brian persisted in his concern for her. Finally, she patted his hand gently and said: “I’ve heard that old wives’ tale, too, Brian, but I think bouncy coach rides only cause miscarriages in the newly expectant.” After that, he ceased to trouble her about the ride’s comfort. When they stopped at an inn for luncheon, he insisted on lifting her from the coach and carrying her to a seat in the dining room.

  “Brian, this is absurd!” Arden protested. “I’m taller than you―probably heavier, now, too. And I am perfectly capable of dismounting from a coach and walking into an inn.”

  “I just want to take good care of you, Arden. The only reason I didn’t lift you in at the beginning was I hadn’t yet thought of it.”

  “You are so sweet to me, but so foolish!”

  “Truly, Brian, Arden is one of the healthiest young women I’ve ever known,” Bonnie assured him. “She is going to come through childbed splendidly. Just look at those hips!”

  Brian ordered mountains of roast beef, along with bread and cheese. When the innkeeper’s wife brought the platters to them, she asked, “Come from London then? Have they recaptured the lion yet?

  “Begging your pardon, mum, but what lion?” asked Brian, pushing a great deal of the food toward Arden.

  “Don’t you know?” the woman asked. “One of the King’s lions has escaped from the Tower Zoo. The people from the last coach told us all about it.”

  “No, we hadn’t heard,” said Arden, scooping some of the savory meat onto the plate before her. “I hope no one gets hurt.”

  Bonnie chuckled ruefully. “More likely it’ll be the lion what gets hurt. Poor beast, loose in London!”

  As the mistress of the inn left them, Brian pushed yet more food at Arden. “I thought your family raised sheep in Oxfordshire, not pigs,” she laughed.

  “You must keep your strength up. You can never know how much strength you will need.” Arden noted her husband had enough tact not to add “for your ordeal,” but the words blazoned from his worried hazel eyes. Arden tried not to worry, herself. She knew the dangers childbirth involved for women, but she did not fear for her own life. She supposed it showed a sinful amount of pride, but she felt entirely too much a child of destiny to believe she might actually die so soon. She didn’t look forward, however, to the excruciating pain she’d heard women whisper about. And what of the child? Childbirth presented as much danger to the newborn as to the mother. Arden did not object when Brian hefted her back into the coach.

  They continued on until nightfall brought them to another inn, and by then Arden’s hunger had grown extreme. She had nibbled since four o’clock at the bread Madame insisted she take with her, but she refused nothing Brian offered her from this inn’s table.

  When Brian asked the innkeeper for private sleeping accommodations, Arden protested. “We don’t need to spend that much,” she told him. “We can all sleep in the common room.”

  “No, Arden. I want to make sure you get a proper rest. I’ll even get a room for Bonnie, to herself.” Their cousin couldn’t sleep alone and unchaperoned in the common room, but she certainly could have shared a private one with little discomfort. Arden smiled softly. Brian must be using his concern for her as an excuse to gain privacy for other things besides sleep.

  So when they undressed and climbed into the remarkably flea-free bed, Arden snuggled against her husband’s back and nuzzled the back of his neck with her lips.

  He flinched as if touched by a red hot poker, and moved closer to his edge of the bed.

  “Brian, what’s the matter?”

  “Oh, nothing, love. It’s just been a long journey. I’m tired.”

  Arden rolled over and closed her eyes. Brian spoke truly; the ride had tired her as well. To think! He’d actually gotten them a private room out of concern for her! Well, by tomorrow night they would be at the farm, and Brian’s indulgences wouldn’t cost them anything.

  *****

  Dusk had begun to purple the sky when the coach arrived at the Oxford stop. Arden stared, still able to discern the cathedral spires dark against that purple. Brian and Bonnie broke her reverie. Each grasped one of her shoulders, directing her attention to a line of waiting conveyances. “There’s Danny and Esther!” they shouted simultaneously in her ears.

  Arden’s gaze lighted on a somewhat rickety wagon, driven by a man who could have been Brian five years older―though of the two, Brian had the best chance to be called handsome. Beside the man sat a girl. Arden guessed her age at thirteen years. Though she looked back at Arden with an open, welcoming expression,
the family eyebrows made “plain” a charitable adjective. The paired horses pulling the wagon looked serviceable, if not particularly youthful.

  As had become custom, Brian helped Arden out of the coach. He did allow her to walk―on his arm―to the wagon. Danny and Esther had jumped down to greet them. Brian’s little sister’s eyes shone, and she rushed to her prodigal brother, hugging him tight. The eldest Malley, meanwhile, doffed his worn farmer’s hat at Arden.

  “I’m pleased to finally meet my brother’s wife,” he said. “Daniel Malley, at your service, and this child is our sister, Esther.”

  Arden dropped a curtsey. “Arden Malley, formerly Arden West, at yours.” Esther, who had now loosed her grip on Brian, giggled with delight and took the hand Arden offered. Danny and Esther also exchanged hugs with Bonnie, before the men helped the women and girl into the wagon.

  “You might as well try to sleep,” advised Danny, as he slapped the reins over the broad grey backs before them. “We won’t be home until nearly midnight.”

  Arden did feel tired, and she leaned against her hus-band’s chest, closing her eyes. Along with the low, steady beat of Brian’s heart, she heard Esther’s awe-struck whisper: “She’s beautiful, Brian.”

  “Yes,” said Brian, instinctively tightening his comforting hold upon her. His tone of voice matched Esther's, awe-for-awe. Arden smiled, but did not open her eyes.

  “And I see you’ve wasted no time getting her in a family way,” chuckled Danny. “Congratulations, Bri! I didn’t know you had it in you!”

  Arden felt her husband nod his acknowledgment, sensed Bonnie’s knowing silence, and sighed. She hoped the baby would favor her. If it looked like Lord Robert, she didn’t know how they would continue the deception. Nor did she need a solid reminder of her former keeper’s good looks. Such contemplation kept her awake until the wagon had rolled far enough from Oxford to let her smell the countryside and remember home. At that point, Arden gave in to the soft swaying of the wagon, the lull of the horses’ muffled clopping. She fell asleep with the scent of fresh grass and clover in her nostrils.