Arden's Act

by Elizabeth Thomas

  Arden walked alone to the Davenants' home, if making one’s way through the bustle of a London morning could be called “walking alone.” The air felt moist, but cool rather than cold, and she enjoyed her short journey. When she had come within a block of her destination, however, Arden grew suddenly uneasy. She sensed someone watched her.

  With as much nonchalance as she could muster, she checked up and down the street. By the time Arden saw the middle-aged man with the Puritan coat and hat as black as her own dress, he was not looking at her. On the other side of the street, he walked in the direction from which she had come. Though Arden could not shake the feeling that the man had been staring at her, she could be sure he was not Treadwell, in any case.

  The Davenants had not yet readied themselves to greet the day, but Nan led Arden to the parlor where she had once listened to Courtenay’s proposition. She sat only a few moments before the priest entered.

  “Arden, my child,” he greeted her. “Bonnie told me you wished to talk to me? May I sit down beside you?”

  “Please,” replied Arden, patting the other side of the cushioned bench.

  “Is all well?” He sat in the place she had indicated. “You and Helena are both in good health?”

  “Oh, yes, Father. Thank you for asking.”

  “Then how may I be of service to you? Is it your grief, still?”

  Arden chuckled ruefully. Then she sighed. “It may well be, Father. Something happened to me last night, and I wanted to hear what you think about it.”

  “Does this concern Lord Robert?” Fernaut inquired gently.

  Arden felt herself blushing. “My, news travels fast in London,” she said. “No,” she decided finally. “At least, it does not concern him in any direct sense.”

  The priest smiled and nodded encouragement.

  “To put it as simply as possible,” Arden began again, “I awakened suddenly in the middle of last night. From my bed, I looked over at the rocking chair across the room. Brian sat in it.”

  “What do you mean, ‘Brian sat in it’?” Fernaut’s expression as he formed the question seemed calm, ordinarily curious. He did not stare at Arden as if she had suddenly bloomed green and orange spots.

  “I saw Brian. He smiled at me.”

  “Are you sure the play of the moonlight in the room did not deceive you?”

  “He was the moonlight,” she replied. “He made the only light in the room. As if he were the brightest, fullest moon imaginable, come to rest in the rocking chair.”

  “And you are sure that this brilliant being was Brian?” the priest asked.

  “I looked into his eyes,” Arden told him. “And I don’t know how to explain it, except to say I saw Brian’s soul in his eyes, even though every part of him shone. Just like we see the soul of anyone we love in his eyes. So you cannot tell me,” she finished, fighting sobs, “that what I saw was wrong, that it means he is damned, or lost somewhere between Heaven and Hell. You cannot tell me that, because I could not bear it!” Arden gave in then, and Father Fernaut held her face against his chest, careless of the tears staining his robes. He stroked her long, dark hair, and murmured over her much the way her father had, except for the odd French endearment mingled with his English.

  “All is well, ma fille,” he soothed. “I truly believe that. Do you trust me, cherie?”

  “Yes,” she replied, somewhat calmer. “Do you think I am mad?”

  “No, I do not,” he said, without hesitation. “I asked if you trust me because I need to tell you something. I want you to wait until I am finished, and not to get upset again.”

  “All right.”

  “If you were one of my parishioners,” Father Fernaut began, “especially if you were a poor, uneducated woman working as a scullery maid, I would feel as if I had to tell you just that. I would feel it was my duty as the shepherd of your soul. And, no doubt, if you had gone to your Anglican priest, he would have felt obligated to tell you the same thing. We are not supposed to take the chance you might be confused by complexities, and in your confusion be led astray into heresy.

  “But though you know I am always ready to baptize you into the True Faith,” Fernaut continued, “I must confess to you―oui, moi! ―there is a part of me that is selfishly glad that you are not my spiritual responsibility.”

  Arden’s mouth opened in surprise. His words could be construed as insult. His countenance appeared too warm, open, and―yes, a little sheepish―for this to be likely, however.

  “Do you know you are the only Anglican―well, besides Bonnie―who knows who and what I am?” Fernaut asked.

  “I never really thought about it. I am honored by your trust.”

  “Yes, that is no small thing,” replied the priest. “But what I mean to tell you is that you are the only person with whom I can talk without having to confine myself strictly to the tenets of my faith.

  “I believe in the doctrine of the Holy Mother Church,” he continued, “but I also believe there is an infinite number of things we cannot know. ‘For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.’”

  “‘In my Father’s house are many mansions,’” Arden returned.

  “Exactly,” agreed Fernaut. “We don’t know what Heaven is, Arden. We are not supposed to know. We do not know where it is, or how far it can reach towards us. For all we know, it could be swirling all around us. Invisible, except to a few on rare, blessed occasions.”

  “Then you think he can still be in Heaven, even though I’ve seen him?”

  “‘In God, all things are possible,’” said Fernaut. “Yes, ma fille. I believe both. I believe you may well have seen Brian, and I definitely believe he is in Heaven.”

  Arden looked at the face of the priest sitting beside her. His blue eyes were kind as usual, but he did not seem to be merely humoring her.

  “I also believe,” he admitted, “that you are blessed in what you've been allowed to see. I wish I could have seen.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “You have much relieved my mind.”

  As Father Fernaut escorted her to Madame Davenant’s door, he told her: “I must ask you now, Arden, to grant me the sanctity of the confessional.”

  “Certainly, Father.”

  “Do not tell anyone in my flock what I have told you,” he said, smiling but serious. “You may tell Bonnie. I know that you must, so I give you my permission.”

  “I understand,” Arden replied. She kissed him on the cheek, and moved into the street.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Arden knew she needed sleep, but an odd desire possessed her. Bonnie had Helena, and Helena would not need feeding for another hour or two. She headed for the second-hand dress shop she had visited before her first tryst with Robert. Of course, she told herself, she only came to replace the plain black dress Robert had torn. Once there, however, she found herself looking at the shop’s most beautiful and costly items, wondering what Courtenay would think if he saw her in them. Her morning may have been taken up with thoughts of her late husband, but Father Fernaut’s kindness had gifted her with the freedom to think of the present. Arden did buy the black gown she came for, but she also decided on a gown in a shimmering gray taffeta.

  “I do not think it has ever been worn, Mistress,” the shop clerk told Arden, as she raised a voluminous fold of the skirt for closer inspection. Not quite cloth of silver, but the material’s sheen and color brought a smile to her lips.

  “I’m sure there’s a sad story behind that,” Arden replied, “but I don’t want to know. The gown is lovely.”

  “Very suitable for you, Mistress.” The clerk wore the beginnings of a puzzled expression. Arden had already seen a few such looks from those who had seen her performances and found something familiar about her, but who did not connect the young woman in a simple black dress with the flamboyant actress displaying the shape of her calves in a tight pair of men’s leggings. She smiled, not
only at the thrill of being mysterious to a stranger, but noticing the black braided trim of the taffeta gown. Robert would not like the black, but he would not be able to help liking the way the dress would flatter her figure and coloring. Her normal coloring, when she’d had a decent sleep. Arden added the silver taffeta to her purchases.

  *****

  Arden did manage to get some more sleep before Courtenay returned to her lodgings in the early afternoon. She had already awakened, and was feeding Helena once more in anticipation of leaving for the theater, when his forceful knock sounded upon her door. She did not precisely recognize it yet, but Arden strongly suspected his presence. She broke the seal of Helena’s lips, laid her gently upon the quilt, and straightened her shift and bodice. Bonnie, after first checking that Arden had made herself decent, opened the door.

  Courtenay burst in, bringing energy to a previously calm and quiet room. He reached inside the silk lining of the rich, brown velvet frock coat he wore, and withdrew a plain, folded piece of paper. He placed it in Arden’s hand, and kissed the tips of her fingers.

  “Davenant sent some urchin to deliver this to you,” he explained, smiling as though he knew a delicious secret. “I met him out front and told him I’d see it safely to your hand.”

  Arden unfolded the paper and read the hasty scribbling of her employer: “His Majesty has commanded us to perform As You Like It in the Cockpit at Whitehall this afternoon.”

  “A command performance,” she told Courtenay.

  “I know,” he chuckled.

  “You were with the Davenants?”

  “Guess again.” He withdrew something else from the lining of his frock coat. A creamy white envelope, made from much finer paper than the other. Arden briefly glimpsed elegant engraving on one side before Courtenay turned it against his palm. “On second thought, perhaps you are not ready,” he mused. His eyes moved purposefully, taking in her plain, black raiment and scowling.

  “Yes, I am in black again,” Arden admitted. “But let me tell you why.” She told him her reasons, and his expression relaxed somewhat.

  “I do understand, and though I have mixed feelings,” he said, arching a black brow at her, “I am somewhat sorry I destroyed one of your disguises. Still, I hope you haven’t gotten rid of the better things in your wardrobe.”

  “No,” she told him. “And I just happened to purchase something even better.”

  “Splendid! You have something to wear.” He gave her the envelope.

  “There’s no seal,” Arden observed.

  “His Majesty didn’t see the need to waste the wax after I assured him I’d run it right over to you,” Courtenay replied.

  Arden opened the envelope, which bore her name written in the loveliest script she had ever seen. She kept her hands steady only with great effort. The King! What can the King want with me―that Robert can be happy about?

  Inside the envelope was a parchment invitation engraved in the same script. “The King wants me to come for dinner and dancing at Whitehall after the performance!” she cried, throwing her arms around him and kissing him. “He invited you too, didn’t he?” Arden demanded.

  “Yes, my dear,” Courtenay replied.

  “And you asked him to invite me, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “I thought we’d both enjoy some dancing, and some company.”

  “Thank you! Thank y—”

  He cut her off with a long, deep kiss. “Shall I take my reward now?” he queried, afterwards.

  Arden flushed. She felt the effects of his ardor throughout the most sensitive areas of her body. “You could tempt me even from a night such as you have provided,” she admitted. “But I am one of the leads, and the King could have my head if I didn’t show up to perform. So, Bonnie and I shall prepare almost everything I will need to go to Whitehall,” Arden continued, “while you shall go and fetch the few missing pieces.”

  “And what might those be, sweet?”

  “My diamonds,” she chuckled. She had returned them to the safest place she knew after coming back to London. “I’d like you to get them from Madame Davenant’s strongbox, please. You’ll want me to glitter at court.”

  “As you desire, Arden.” He bowed to her, and left her lodgings.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Courtenay had never seen anything like Arden’s entrance into the Banqueting House at Whitehall Palace. She shone stunningly, more like a seraph than an actress. He marveled at her ability to take a gown on an impulse from a second-hand shop, and transform it with her body and face into the most elegant raiment on any woman present. The other females attending the party wore brilliant, gaudy hues―the height of fashion, he knew. The bright colors often clashed with each other in adorning the same figure, though, reminding him strongly of the parrots he’d seen in Tangier.

  He rushed to Arden and put his arm through hers. He escorted her to the other side of the vast dining corridor, where the King and Castlemaine presided over a table raised somewhat above the others by means of a platform. He noted that Castlemaine had neatly managed her own precedence. James, Duke of York, next in importance to Charles, had the chair to the right of his elder brother, and his Duchess, Anne, had the chair to the left. Castlemaine, however, had usurped the King’s very lap.

  “Mistress Malley,” Charles II acknowledged, smiling as Arden drew away slightly from Courtenay to curtsey before His Majesty. The King’s eye lingered on her beauty, and the newly-minted Lady, even more bloated with pregnancy than when Courtenay had seen her last, noticed.

  “The actress,” Castlemaine drawled dismissively.

  The Countess, Courtenay wanted to say about the pretentious Castlemaine, but only because she cuckolds the Count for the King. But he had no wish to insult the King himself.

  “An extremely good one,” Charles corrected his lover quickly, “and much, much more. Mistress Malley is the daughter of one of my late father’s most ardent―pardon the pun―supporters.”

  Courtenay saw the blush that brightened Arden’s face, and heard her spontaneous giggle. “You are too kind, Your Majesty.”

  “Jemmie,” said the King, turning to his brother. “Have you met Arden yet? And dear Sister, have you?” By “Sister,” the King meant the other pregnant woman at the table, his sister-in-law, the Duchess of York. Courtenay liked her, though others at Court whispered that the former Anne Hyde had deserved the loss of her firstborn for using the pregnancy to rise above her station and marry James Stuart. Courtenay sympathized with her pain and wished her well. He had been proud of the King for his behavior in the matter. Though James had tried to deny his secret marriage to Anne, Charles had forced his brother to acknowledge the union. He had also raised Anne’s father, his adviser and former tutor Edward Hyde, to the rank of Earl of Clarendon. The Duchess smiled politely at Arden when she curtsied again to her and the Duke of York. Courtenay hoped Anne’s recurrent bulk as much meant York had reconciled himself to his marriage as it evidenced a desire to secure the line of succession.

  “As I was saying,” the King continued, “Mistress Malley is not only one of the most talented actresses I have yet seen.” Courtenay saw Arden flush even more intensely, shutting her eyes against the sweetness of her Sovereign’s praise. Pride for her tugged at Courtenay as well, yet at the same time he could wish the King’s flattery did not move her so deeply. “She is the lady grown from the dear young girl who offered me a plate of food as I fled Worchester. You remember, Jemmie, I’ve told you so oft. At first I thought her an enemy, dressed as she was like a Puritan child.”

  “I thought the same when I first saw her, Your Majesty,” Courtenay said.

  “But she recognized me through my disguise, and offered me homage along with my food. She answered my quick questions to the effect that her Puritan rags came from her stepfather. He’d have tanned her sweet little bum if he’d caught her giving me succor, but she’d been taught correctly by her true father, two years dead. She cared not for what “that nasty Tread
well” thought. Though still a child, she was quite a pretty thing even then. Isn’t it wonderful to see how beautiful a flower has bloomed from the bud?”

  The men at the King’s table nodded enthusiastic assent. The ladies gave less vigorous nods, though the Duchess appeared genuine in her agreement with her brother-in-law. Castlemaine’s nod had been the scantest of movements.

  They were excused from the King’s presence, and approached a sideboard laden with fine food. As it was Lent, the fruit of the sea provided the main dishes. Large, fine prawns swam in cream sauce, accompanied by many different kinds of fish, steamed mussels, scallops, and boiled crabs. Though the vegetables came mainly from winter stores, the carrots and cabbages lay soaking in rich, creamy butter. The breads were abundant; fragrant white loaves sat next to rolls of rich wheat. Sweets had been placed upon the board as well. Tarts and pies had been made from the preserves of last autumn’s fruit. The finest cakes with the richest icings supplemented these, decorated with colorful candied flowers. Courtenay and Arden filled their plates. Her soft exclamations of surprise and delight at the fare available to her made him smile. They also made him silently curse the stepfather who’d made them exotic luxuries to her, and vow that she would never lack them again.

  No room had remained at the King’s table. Courtenay, having spent some time in exile with Charles, had dined at his table on occasion. With his father still holding the family title, however, he did not yet possess enough power at Court to command a regular seat there. He therefore escorted a still-rosy Arden to a place at another table, this one boasting the Davenants, the Bettertons, and Mr. Samuel Pepys. Pepys held a clerkship at the Naval Board, an important one, for he had sailed on the ship that had carried the King back from exile. He’d left his pretty French-born wife at home, and had no doubt chosen this table because he, too, loved the theater. Pepys also chose it because it afforded his best possible view of the new Lady Castlemaine, with whom he was besotted.