When Harry Met Molly

by Kieran Kramer

  He took a few seconds to remove the note from the envelope, and read:

  My Impossible Bachelors, you shall judge the ladies tonight on many things: beauty, comportment, originality, charm, and dramatic skills. But, above all, before you cast your last vote for this year’s Most Delectable Companion, you might ask yourself the following crucial question: Which lady, other than my own, is the most unforgettable, and why?

  Of course, at the start of this week, you might have wondered why your Prince Regent takes so much interest in your lives that I would arrange this extensive wager and command you to participate.

  Gentlemen, I write to you in confidence. The people claim the merry path I’ve chosen has exacted a great price not only on my country—but on my very soul. I am ceaselessly urged to bolster the health of both.

  Well, my friends, you must know serious endeavors bore me. But in a nod to my detractors—and with a devilish wish to irk them as well—I created this frivolous bet as a means to share with you, the next generation of English gentlemen, what paltry wisdom I may have accrued in this lifetime.

  You know as well as I how difficult it is to behave. A wastrel they may call me, but I’m not completely addled. And one thing I’ve learned in this wicked life of mine is that women don’t need us as much as we need them.

  Lowering, isn’t it, to find that your own best destinies may very well lie in the hearts of those women who deign to love you?

  My Impossible Bachelors, I leave you to ponder that possibility in your own brandy-soaked hearts. Good luck and Godspeed.

  His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent

  “Ye gads,” said Sir Richard.

  Harry folded the note and put it in his breast pocket. “I rather like Prinny better when he’s not so acute in his perceptions,” he drawled.

  “Those moments are brief, I assure you,” Maxwell commented dryly.

  Lumley scratched his head. “The woman he was with at the club probably dictated that in his ear.”

  “Must forget the letter ever happened,” Arrow muttered around his cheroot. He waved at Harry. “Let’s move on, as quickly as possible.”

  There was a chorus of affirmatives.

  Harry was glad to know he wasn’t the only bachelor discomfited by Prinny’s words. “Remember,” he said, “at the conclusion of the show, we shall tally the votes, add them to those accrued by the mistresses all week, and if all goes accordingly, present the title of Most Delectable Companion to one of these lovely ladies.”

  He went to the curtain and pulled it to the side. “Let the finale begin!”

  Chapter 36

  Molly was last in the lineup, her stomach in knots. Last night, when she’d let slip that crazy idea that Harry should marry her, and he’d soundly but kindly rejected the notion, she’d faced up to facts. She and Harry were best together as friends. Friends who occasionally removed each other’s clothes and kissed each other senseless.

  It sounded rather like an arrangement between a man and his mistress, didn’t it? A romp between the sheets, a good laugh, and…

  No commitment.

  If she won tonight, his inevitable fate—marrying Anne Riordan—would be delayed. But only for another year. Anne was bound to catch up with him sometime.

  And if Molly lost, he would help her find another man to marry.

  She released a shaky breath. Why was there no good solution? She was damned if she won and damned if she lost.

  Either way, she and Harry would be apart. Forever.

  But friends, she consoled herself, until one of them got married.

  Friends of a special nature.

  He didn’t know it, but that was what she was going to tell him after this week was over, that she would be his mistress. And just as he did last night when she’d suggested the same thing, he would balk, he would say no, and she would simply carry the day by kissing him and getting him to change his mind.

  It was as fine a solution as any to her constant emotional turmoil.

  Wasn’t it?

  From behind the makeshift dressing room’s curtain, Molly could see Bunny walk on stage in her extremely revealing gown. She curtsied to her male audience, all of whom clapped madly for her and whistled. The light from the torches flickered over her body, highlighting her curves, exposing flesh beneath the gaping holes in her gown, and leaving shadows in all the right places. The jewels she wore in her hair, on her neck, and on her wrists glinted and sparkled.

  She’d never appeared more beautiful, Molly thought.

  The men quieted for a moment, the mood expectant, as Bunny opened the book Tristram Shandy. But when she began to read a portion of the familiar and hilarious tale of the long-nosed stranger from Strasbourg, they chuckled.

  “‘I have made a vow to St. Nicholas this day, said the stranger, that my nose shall not be touched,’” read Bunny in a pompous voice, and as she continued the tale, the bachelors laughed—everyone but Sir Richard, that is. He sat with his arms crossed over his chest, and his lower lip stuck out.

  And no wonder. He could be the long-nosed stranger from Strasbourg!

  Molly wondered if that was Bunny’s intent all along.

  When she exited the stage with a bright smile on her face, Molly hugged her. “Were you doing what I think you were doing?”

  “Yes,” Bunny said, her voice catching, “and I’m never going to be alone with him again. Lord Harry’s promised me a footman to guard my bedchamber tonight, and he’s also informing Sir Richard he has the choice of sleeping in the stables or leaving this evening after the program. He assures me Sir Richard will stay far away from me from now on, and he’s teaching me how to shoot a pistol just in case he ever shows up again!”

  “Wonderful!” Molly hugged her again.

  Athena strode past them to the stage. “I need silence,” she hissed.

  “Sorry,” whispered Molly—too late—and looked at Bunny.

  They both had to bite their lips to keep from laughing. Athena, much as they’d come to appreciate her, was always…Athena.

  She positioned herself center stage, her shoulders thrown back. And with a twist of her lips, an arch of her brow, and an unholy glint in her eye—transformed herself into Lady Macbeth.

  “Come, you spirits

  That tend on mortal thoughts! unsex me here,

  And fill me from the crown to the toe top full

  Of direst cruelty; make thick my blood…”

  Of course, Molly noted with envy, Athena had refused to read her passage. She’d memorized it, as all good actresses do. And at the moment she was living and breathing it, as all great actresses do.

  She’d positioned herself so the torchlight cast shadows under her face, making her appear even more evil and demented than she sounded. The tattered, gaping dress added to the effect, especially when she swung her arms madly as she stalked about the stage.

  “She appears possessed by a demon,” Bunny whispered, and grabbed Molly’s arm, which had gotten goose bumps as soon as Athena had begun speaking.

  “Look at the men,” Molly whispered back.

  The bachelors sat in stunned silence. Sir Richard loosened his cravat. Lumley cringed as Athena swept by him, and even Lord Maxwell’s stoic expression faltered. He blinked several times and drank from his flask when she demanded:

  “Come to my woman’s breasts,

  And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers…!”

  At one point, she made a face so frightening that Hildur announced quite loudly, “She is a hound from hell!” into a void of silence. For at that exact moment, Athena ceased her performance.

  She stood there, trembling, and for a few seconds, no one spoke or moved. But Lord Maxwell began a slow clapping. And all the other bachelors joined in until they were all applauding madly—with admiration and possibly a little relief, Molly surmised.

  She couldn’t help being glad the performance was over herself. When a moment later, a depleted Athena rejoined the mistresses, Molly swallowed and
tried to say, “Well done,” but she only got as far as “Well—” before her throat tightened.

  “Yes, very—” Bunny began, but her voice trembled so much, she shut her mouth.

  “Oh, it’s just me now, you ninnies,” Athena said. “Not Lady Macbeth.”

  But her lips curved in a self-satisfied smile. Apparently, she was well pleased to have frightened them so.

  The whole mood changed when Joan walked onto the crude stage next.

  “She’s so different now, isn’t she?” Molly asked Bunny. “She’s no longer bitter and angry. She seems…at peace.”

  “Tonight, especially,” Bunny replied. “And she looks glorious.”

  Yes, she did, thought Molly. Joan’s gown was slit every which way, a chaotic golden backdrop in deep contrast to her stark beauty.

  “I shall read ‘Lullaby of an Infant Chief,’” she said in a clear, strong voice, and smiled serenely at her audience. “Composed by Sir Walter Scott.”

  Molly drew in a sharp breath of recognition. She suspected Joan had chosen the poem in honor of her own son. No wonder she wouldn’t share any information with the ladies about what she was to read! Up until a few days ago, hers had been a private pain.

  Joan knelt on the ground, bowed her head, and closed her eyes, as if preparing herself. When she opened her eyes a few seconds later, she made a curve of her left arm and gazed at the empty space there, as if she were cradling a baby.

  “Oh!” said Bunny, and looked at Molly, little tears in her eyes.

  Molly immediately welled up, too.

  Joan began to rock slowly back and forth. And from a paper held in her right hand, she read:

  “O hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight,

  Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright.

  The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see,

  They are all belonging, dear babie, to thee…”

  The men were silent, but Molly could tell by their respectful faces they enjoyed Joan’s solemn but heartfelt reading. Lumley even surreptitiously wiped at his cheek with a handkerchief.

  When she was done, the men again clapped madly. She curtsied, threw them kisses, and left the stage.

  “You were wonderful!” Bunny told her.

  Molly hugged Joan. “We’re so proud of you.”

  “Thank you both,” she said with a sniffle.

  Athena came running up. “Where’s Hildur? She goes on next! We can’t have a delay.”

  But she’d disappeared. Molly’s heart skittered. She’d worked so hard with Hildur on her poem! What could have happened to her? Where could she be?

  Thirty seconds passed, which was an age in the theater, according to Athena. With the aplomb of a seasoned actress, she walked onto the stage area, folded her hands, and said, “We shall have a brief intermission as it seems that Hildur is missing—”

  “Wait!” Hildur cried from somewhere in the shadows. “I am here!”

  And she entered stage left, a large scroll in one hand, as well as a stripped tree branch in the other.

  Before Athena exited stage right, she threw a brief, concerned glance at the other mistresses.

  “What’s Hildur about?” Molly said. “The scroll is her poem, but why the branch?”

  “And the sly smile?” Joan added.

  “I’ve no idea,” Bunny replied, “but I’m worried.”

  Athena shuddered. “Up close, she had a fierce Icelandic look in her eye that almost struck fear in my bold English heart. I believe it was the same look her ancestors had when they invaded other countries.”

  “Everything all right, Hildur?” Captain Arrow called out to her from the audience.

  Hildur’s brow was smooth, like an ice queen’s, but then it furrowed. She stamped the butt of the tree branch on the ground and said, “No! It’s not all right!” And she threw the branch to the ground.

  Chapter 37

  The mistresses inhaled a collective breath.

  “Oh, dear,” murmured Molly. “I believe all my tutoring has been for naught.”

  Hildur gave a small roar, held up the scroll, and ripped it down the middle. And then she ripped those pieces again—and again—and stomped on the pieces until they were a pulpy mess.

  Why?

  Molly had carefully copied the poem in large letters on the scroll, for easier reading. “Let’s go, ladies,” she said. “I sense she’ll need many handlers.”

  Onstage Hildur was holding her branch again.

  “Hildur,” Molly whispered, and beckoned her offstage. “What will you do now? Do you remember the poem?”

  “No,” Hildur said, a sheen of tears in her eyes. “I don’t want Byron’s poem. He’s no good. He loves too many women. So Cook tells me this very morning.”

  Athena sighed. “Joan tried to tell you the same thing. Days ago!”

  Hildur shrugged. “Captain Arrow is much better than Byron. Captain Arrow likes Icelandic girls.” She smiled. “I have a better plan for tonight.”

  “Tell us,” said Athena.

  “A story. From my country.” And before any of the mistresses could counsel her further, she approached center stage.

  Molly crossed her fingers and hoped for the best as Hildur told the tale in her beautiful, exotic language.

  Which no one understood.

  Nevertheless, there were highlights. First, her voice carried well, especially when she shrieked. And she was adept at walking like an old woman. And sucking her thumb like a baby. And then somehow she was the old woman spanking the baby, all at the same time.

  “She’s, um, quite a versatile actress,” Bunny murmured.

  “Either that, or she’s crazy,” Joan said.

  Hildur raised her tree branch in the air and roared.

  “Crazy,” said Athena, her brow puckering. “Definitely crazy.”

  Molly couldn’t help but chuckle. Hildur was her own woman, as the men were discovering.

  And while no one understood her story, she certainly deserved points for trying her best.

  She said something exuberant in Icelandic, beamed, and threw her arms in the air.

  And the men clapped—politely at first, but then they began clapping in time, whistling, and yelling, “Brava! Brava!”

  Athena came forward and addressed the audience. “We beg your patience as we take a moment to rest before we begin the last performance of the night—Delilah’s.”

  Molly’s relieved and happy mood changed in an instant. Her heart seemed to fall to her feet, and she couldn’t feel her hands or legs anymore, from sheer terror.

  She must do her own dramatic reading! Somehow she’d forgotten all about her own performance. She pretended that all was well as the mistresses returned to the dressing area and she told herself she’d practiced her poem several times. And she’d have the book right in front of her, wouldn’t she? She’d simply read the words, read them the way Harry had taught her. And she’d sway as she walked—the way an alluring mistress would.

  She’d forget about the long-ago Christmas incident, where she’d read a heartfelt poem and been severely punished as a consequence.

  “Where’s my book?” she said, but the excited chatter of the ladies was too loud for anyone to notice what she’d asked.

  She tossed aside some of the gowns. “Where is my book?” The other mistresses were finally paying attention. “I left it right here. I’m reading ‘Kubla Khan.’”

  “I know,” said Bunny. “It was right here. I saw it before we went to counsel Hildur.”

  Everyone looked, but no one found it.

  Joan’s eyes widened. “You don’t think Sir Richard—”

  “He couldn’t have done it,” Athena said. “He was in the audience.”

  “The whole time?” Bunny asked.

  “I’ve no idea,” said Molly. “And it got rather prickly there when Hildur, um, expressed her feelings before her performance. Perhaps he slipped away then.”

  “And did what with the book?” Bunny’s eyes w
ere wide with worry.

  “Most likely destroyed it,” Athena said.

  Hildur narrowed her eyes. “I go get him. I find that book! And then I kill him!”

  Joan laid a hand on her arm. “I’m sure it’s too late. He probably dumped it in the lake.”

  “It’s the only logical conclusion.” Athena sighed.

  Bunny shook her head. “I’m so sorry, Delilah.”

  “Let’s tell the men,” Joan said. “At the very least, they’ll pummel him. And perhaps there’s a slight chance he still has it on his person.”

  Molly looked out over the lake, which shimmered in the moonlight. She heard the murmur of the men’s voices, an occasional chuckle, and swung back around to face the other mistresses. “Sir Richard’s not that stupid. He would have gotten rid of it right away. Joan’s right—he’d have thrown it out there.” She gestured at the lake. “All he had to do was swing his arm, and it would have sailed out far enough that no one would ever know for sure whether he did it.”

  All the mistresses sighed.

  “What will you do, Delilah?” Bunny laid a hand on her arm.

  “I’ll employ the same strategy we used with the gown debacle.” Molly gave her a weak smile. “I’ll outsmart him.”

  “How?” Hildur asked, her sky-blue eyes wide with concern.

  “I’m not sure yet,” said Molly. She tapped her index finger to her mouth. “The poem was too long—I didn’t even attempt to memorize it.”

  “You can read from Tristram Shandy,” offered Bunny.

  “Thank you.” Molly smiled. “But that was your reading. I wouldn’t feel right doing the same thing.”