Arden's Act

by Elizabeth Thomas

  The Queen proved a small, delicate creature, dark-complected like her husband. Pretty enough as far as royal brides dictated by the affairs of state went, but she did not possess the fashionable beauty of Castlemaine. Talk had it that already the King's mistress had caused trouble between the newly wedded royals by placing herself on the list of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting. The Queen had boldly crossed out Castlemaine's name. Though she eventually bowed to the King's pressure, she did not do it without a fight. Arden, as well as all of London, knew the Queen still fought the Lady Castlemaine's demand for her own apartments in Whitehall.

  Arden's first sight of the new Queen on the arm of Charles II confirmed what she had already gleaned from gossip. The Queen's warm brown eyes shone with passion for her husband. A deep pang of sympathy struck Arden―memories of her own girlhood crush on her sovereign, mingled with current knowledge of both his magnetism and his faithlessness. God help her, thought Arden. She truly loves him! She wished Queen Catharine the sincerest good fortune in thwarting Castlemaine. Arden decided that if a moment with the King in relative privacy came her way, she'd be bold enough to ask him to be kind to his wife.

  Arden succeeded in avoiding Courtenay until the dancing began. She thought about declining, but though the King chose to lead the dance with his Queen, he called out to Arden and would not let her refuse. By meddling royal design or horrid coincidence, she found herself paired with Lord Robert. In spite of herself, her hand trembled as he took it―whether from desire or from fear of his forbidding scowl, Arden could not have said. Courtenay had not been able to deny royal command, either.

  “And are we still writing, Mistress Malley?” he inquired coldly. He executed his part of the step in a formal, exact manner Arden had not thought a facet of his personality.

  “Yes,” she replied, making her voice even and hoping he could not feel her pulse pounding through her palm as she held her hand pressed against his.

  And that had been that, really, to Arden's relief and dismay. She did not allow herself to wonder how the evening might have progressed had she answered “no” to his terse question.

  By the time September arrived, Arden felt she could not put off finishing the play any longer, yet she remained undecided about how it should end. Brian would still occasionally appear to her, the wonder and astonishment long gone off from his visits. He merely threw his bright white hands in the air, however, or shrugged his glowing shoulders when Arden asked him what he wanted her to do.

  Then Helena helped Arden stall by producing her first tooth. Preceding this appearance was at least one night of wailing and sleepless suffering―a night which prompted Arden to take Helena for a visit to Margaret. If she had been diligently scribbling the final scenes of the play, of course, she could have sent Bonnie. As a good mother, however―or at least a good mother with an elusive Muse―she felt she should go herself.

  The Quaker girl had her own room in her aunt and uncle's home. In addition to a modest, narrow cot, it had a desk and many plain, simple tables. Growing herbs thrived in little pots resting on many of them; others held small vials of infusions. Drying plants hung fastened to the walls.

  “Dost thou need more of the potion?” asked Margaret.

  Remembering that even Quakers heard gossip, Arden realized Margaret probably knew of her parting from Robert. She could only wonder what the talk of the town must have made of her cold, stilted dance with her former lover. “No,” she replied.

  “Not that thou are not welcome merely to visit,” Margaret said, smiling gently but flushing a little with embarrassment.

  “Not that I would not come merely to visit,” agreed Arden, “but actually, I was hoping you had something for a teething child.” Helena whimpered obligingly to prove her mother's point. Margaret stretched out her arms to take the child, cooing at her and raising a smile in response.

  “Of course I do,” said Margaret. She shifted Helena to her right arm and reached toward a group of vials with her left hand. She paused, staring at the fluids in each one, then selected a reddish liquid. “Oil of clove,” she proclaimed, smiling at Arden. “Just rub this on her gums,” Margaret told her. She handed Helena back, and demonstrated. “This ought to purchase thee a little peace and quiet. Then, the tooth should be in after a couple of days.”

  Arden had no desire to leave after Margaret handed her the vial. Fortunately, the young midwife asked her to stay and have some ale. “Uncle George brewed it himself,” Margaret said proudly. “Too much, of course, is not wise, but a pint a day is healthful.”

  The Quaker pulled another hardwood chair up beside her desk, and poured out two large pewter mugs of dark golden liquid. Helena seemed quite soothed now, and made no protest at her mother's bundling her in one arm and seating herself. Arden gratefully accepted the ale, and after she had let some of the golden brown liquid soothe her throat, Margaret asked: “How dost thou with Brian's play?”

  “Not well,” Arden confessed. “I am at the point where I really must bring it to a conclusion, but I haven't any true idea whether I'm finishing a comedy or a tragedy. The heroine could either take a huge dose of poison,” she continued, “and fall elegantly to the floor in convulsions, or the hero―or, at least, the only man left alive at this point―could come rushing in just in time and marry her.”

  Margaret appeared to be pondering the matter, but Arden interrupted. “Ah, I shouldn't ask a good Quaker girl to think about a play.”

  “Nonsense,” said Margaret, quickly rebutting her. “Just because I don't frequent playhouses doesn't mean I've no literary taste. And I feel, despite my youth, that I know people.”

  “Indeed you do,” agreed Arden, taking another sip of ale. “So which way do you think I should finish?”

  “I think there's more than enough death and sorrow in all of our everyday lives,” the Quaker stated. “Why not offer thine audience diversion, happiness, and hope to comfort them in their trials?”

  “You make a good argument. But if I make it a happy ending, with the heroine and the hero marrying, Lord Robert will see it―or at least hear of it―and think I want him to take me back!”

  “But thou dost want that, dost thou not?” asked Margaret, gently. “Not that it would be in thy best interest,” she added quickly.

  “No, it would not,” said Arden. She realized she had not answered her friend's question. She did not feel she knew the answer. She did know that she did not want Lord Robert to believe she still wanted him, in any case.

  “And from what I know of thee,” said Margaret, “I'm sure thou dost not wish to write the ending of Brian's play based on a possible audience of one.”

  That was certainly true, Arden admitted to herself. She nodded for Margaret’s benefit. “You are wise beyond your years,” she said.

  “I'm about as old as thee,” Margaret returned. “Besides, dost thou not think Brian would have wanted it this way? Wanted to make people happy?”

  Part of Arden wanted to tell Margaret that Brian himself had been even more indecisive, but another part of her felt neither she nor her friend were ready for that conversation. “It's hard to say,” she said finally. “On the one hand, I think he would agree with your sentiments. On the other, the plays he used to work on for Sir William were mostly tragedy. Still, I think I shall take your advice.” She finished her ale and smiled at Margaret. She took Helena and the oil of clove, and started for home.

  Chapter Forty

  When next she opened Brian's folio, Arden hurriedly scribbled the last scene. She forced herself to ignore the inner voice that scoffed as she tried to make the lover's reunion as sweet and tender as possible. “Let him think what he likes,” she whispered. “I'll not write for an audience of one, nor will Brian!”

  Then, on successive evenings after performances― performances for which she wore gloves to cover her ink-stained fingers―Arden went through what first Brian, then she, had written. She polished dialogue, tightened scenes, and smoothed the progression of the plot. La
te one night, she reached the point where she felt as if it could not possibly be tinkered with any more―at least not by her hand. She had put away the pen and ink, and gone to her room. Though weary, she collapsed into her rocking chair rather than her bed.

  “Well done, my love.”

  The voice startled Arden, and any thought of sleep she held vanished. She turned and saw him sitting on the bed, like he used to at the Malley farm, except for the glow. His apparition seemed not as brilliant as usual, as if the effort of speaking used some of the light of which he appeared to be made.

  “Now you talk to me? Now?” Arden's reproach held no real harshness, but expressed more of a tired, exasperated wonder. “Do you know how much I've missed your voice?”

  A fleeting smile played upon his lips. “I'm sorry,” he sighed. “I wanted to guide you while you were finishing it, but I wanted you to have some free will as well. It seemed best not to say too much.”

  “Oh, Brian, there are so many things I've been wanting to ask you, so many things I want to know—”

  “And that's the other reason I didn't dare talk much,” he told her. “There's only so much you're allowed to know.”

  Arden laughed. “So what is so important that you've decided to risk breaking your silence?”

  “A few things,” replied Brian. “Mostly, something I want.”

  A chill went through Arden. What will he ask? Brian had never seemed to mind that she had returned to Courtenay’s embrace, but perhaps he would forbid it now. And what would it matter now, anyway? That she had immediately hoped Brian would not ask such a thing shamed her.

  “I want you to sign it, 'A Play by B. and A. Malley.'”

  “Oh, Brian, that's too much―it's yours, really.” Arden felt even more ashamed at what she'd been thinking.

  “No, dearest, it's at least half yours.”

  “Brian, I never expected to take any credit, but if it's truly what you wish, I'm proud to do it.”

  “Then you don't mind being linked in this way, for all eternity?” His tone light, Arden could nevertheless hear his love for her in the question.

  “No, of course I don't mind,” she told him, smiling. Then she countered with a question of her own. “Have you any thought for what we should call the bloody thing?”

  He laughed. She actually heard him laugh, and more of the wonder she'd felt at his first post-death appearance returned to her. “What do you think of Love and Life?” he finally asked.

  “I think it's accurate,” she giggled. “If that's what you want, I've no objection. To be honest, I've no idea what else to call it, so I'm just relieved you've given me something to use!” Arden moved back to the desk, inscribing the title and the byline as Brian's apparition stood looking over her shoulder.

  “Now, Arden,” said Brian, when she had finished. “Listen carefully, because I can only say so much.

  “First, don't be concerned if our play isn't a great popular success. Don't feel as though you've disappointed me. I think we're a little ahead of our time, love. The play will do what it is supposed to do, and it may be judged more kindly by future audiences.”

  “All right. I won't worry about it if you won't.” Arden smiled at him.

  “Most important,” he continued, “you are headed into some harsh trials. You probably won't see me again, but I'll be there, watching over you. Be strong, hold to your faith, and do what you have to do. No matter how dark things appear, it can all come right in the end.”

  “Can all come right?” Arden echoed, her heart suddenly oppressed. “And what do you mean, I probably won't see you again? That's worse to me than your dire predictions!”

  “There are no set outcomes in this instance,” explained Brian. “And now the play is done, no real need remains for you to see me. This is goodbye once more, love. But we'll meet again, when it's time.”

  “You mean when I'm dead, don't you?”

  “Yes, though I wouldn't put it quite so baldly.”

  “How long?” She had to ask, even if she feared to know.

  “I honestly don't know―no one who breathes is yet fixed in fate.”

  “Brian?”

  “Yes, Arden?”

  “What—what would happen if I tried to touch you?”

  “Why don't we find out?” He stood, glowing softly before her, white arms outstretched for embrace. Arden moved towards him, but when she tried to put her arms around him, she met no resistance, nothing to stop the progress of her limbs. Though she did not intend it, she found herself coming into him, enveloped by the light of him. Arden had always heard that encountering a spirit involved a cold feeling, a frightening chill, but occupying the same space as her late husband left her skin pleasantly warm and her spirit indescribably touched.

  “Goodbye, love,” he whispered. “Be well. Be happy.”

  Then Arden stood in her room alone, and began sobbing. Not from sorrow or fear, but from the intensity of their last contact.

  When she took the play to Davenant at the theater the next day, he approved it for production with no alterations.

  Chapter Forty-One

  “Arden, what the bloody hell is wrong with you!” Davenant screamed from the pit. “You're like a bleeding angel during Andy's death scene, but you're worse than a lumpy boulder during the rest of the damn play. In the parts with Terence, you reek like fortnight-old ling in the sun!”

  “I'm sorry, Sir William.”

  “I know it's just rehearsal, but you're frightening me,” the company owner complained. “I know you're capable―that one scene with Andy, to say nothing of your past performances. I hate to give the part to Mary, she hasn't even rehearsed—”

  As Davenant rambled on, Arden stood looking down, not wanting to meet his eyes or those of Betterton, who had the role of Terence. She knew the problem. That Betterton didn't look a thing like Lord Robert should be enough. After all, the actor playing Andy didn't look a thing like Brian―aside from a boyish innocence completely necessary to the part. This allowed her to act convincingly without dissolving into a wet, hysterical heap in recreating the stage version of losing her best friend. But despite Betterton's lack of resemblance, Arden still feared opening herself up to the emotions Lord Robert provoked in her. What would happen if she let herself remember, let herself feel enough to recreate even a semblance of her desire? She could not let herself want him again.

  “I think I know what you're guarding against,” said Davenant, interrupting her thoughts.

  “I don't blame you. I don't know why you ended the thing this way if you don't want to act it. But now that you have, do you think Brian would want you to display his only gift to posterity shoddily? Or worse yet, have it not displayed by you at all, but by Mary Betterton?” Arden noticed he did not include Helena as one of Brian's gifts to posterity.

  “You're right,” she sighed, “of course you're right.” Privately she thought revisiting her love for Lord Robert for Brian's sake would be the strangest logic she'd ever encountered. Yet she could not argue with Davenant, even if he weren't her employer.

  “Besides,” Davenant added, “Lord Robert's been no-where near the playhouse of late. He probably won't even see it.”

  Arden couldn't decide whether his remark relieved or hurt her. In either case, she knew there was really nothing for it but to open herself up again and bleed. Whether anyone would care enough to staunch the flow, only time would tell. Courtenay couldn't possibly miss the broadsheets and sign-boards proclaiming the coming “theatrical event.” In the largest letters Davenant felt he could afford, these advertisements urged the London populace: “See the famed Mistress Arden Malley, bringing to life her tragically departed husband's magnificent last gift to the stage.” Somewhere in the fine print, he'd credited Love and Life to both “B. and A. Malley,” but Davenant had deliberately not drawn attention to the fact the play had been partially written by a woman. Love and Life made enough of a departure from standard theatrical fare without emphasizing that radical innovati
on.

  But would the play, the great bone of contention between them, draw Courtenay in through unbearable curiosity? Or would it turn him even more stubbornly from performances of the Duke's Company? Sam had recently confided to Bonnie that when Lord Robert did feel inclined towards an evening of theater (which was much rarer than previously), he patronized the King's Company exclusively. Pride in Brian's work and in her own made Arden hope Courtenay could be lured back for opening night. At least, she told herself that was the reason.

  So when Davenant asked his actors and actresses to run through the entire new play one more time, Arden tried for him, and for Brian. Maybe, this is all Brian meant when he said I'd face a great trial, and I'd have to do what was necessary, she thought.

  When she arrived again at the seduction scene, however, Betterton stopped her after the kiss. “Whoa, there, Arden!” he cried. “Not that you aren't a beautiful lady and a delight to kiss, but Mary's right over there and she's bound to object!” The actor chuckled to prove his good will and lighten the im-plied criticism.

  Arden blushed fiercely. She had virtually attacked the man. The remembered longing felt so fierce she had not been able to control it once she had set it free.

  “I understand,” Betterton continued. “Davenant's after you for not feeling enough, and now I'm telling you not to feel so much. But I want to tell you something, Arden. Together you and Brian have written some beautiful words, some incredibly lovely dialogue.”