Restoration

by Deborah Chester

  Noel looked up, and Darcy laughed.

  “The devil with it,” he said with an idle wave of his slim hand. “To play privately for His Majesty’s pleasure is the chance of a lifetime none of us will surrender. You persuaded our pudding-heart director to let us perform, and I for one won’t tip your hand.”

  Noel swallowed, the taste of dust strong in his mouth, and said nothing.

  Darcy leaned forward, and his green eyes grew fierce. “In return for my silence, I must ask you a favor.”

  “Such as?”

  “Give me the truth first. Is Will right? Is it a dare, some silly wager you’re playing with your friends? Do you mean to flounce out in the middle of our play and ruin it?”

  “I—”

  “Because I warn you, sir”—Darcy’s rippling voice grew thin and brittle—“our art is not something we take lightly. You see us as drunkards and clowns, lolling here on our elbows, mouthing doggerel, but when we go on we—”

  “I’m not playing a game,” said Noel quietly. “I won’t let you down.”

  Darcy glared at him a moment longer, then the intensity faded from his gaze and he resumed his cynical smile. “Well, then, that’s a relief. I’ll say no more about it. Only…”

  “Yes?”

  “Only I hope you’ve taken what I said to heart.”

  Noel rolled his eyes. “You have my word that I mean no harm. How long is everyone going to doubt me? Till the play is over tonight? Why are you all so suspicious?”

  “Things you say,” said Darcy. His eyes met Noel’s. “Questions you ask.”

  “I don’t ask as many questions as I hear,” said Noel tartly.

  That evoked a laugh from Darcy. He gave Noel a tiny salute. “A wit, sir. I proclaim you a wit. We are cautious because old habits die hard. The Cromwell years were not kind ones. Had you experienced them as we did, you would not sit there with your eyes full of innocent puzzlement.”

  Noel lowered his eyes hastily.

  Darcy laughed again. “Oh, that modest pose will bring Hal panting for you of a certainty.”

  “The hell he will.”

  Darcy grinned. “So let me continue to indulge my curiosity. If you are no courtier, are you a French spy?”

  Noel laughed in spite of himself. “What on earth gives you that idea?”

  “Your name is French.”

  “So?”

  “You’ve a cursed peculiar accent. Not from the ’shires, are you?”

  “Colonies,” said Noel curtly, willing to say anything to shut up this line of questioning.

  A strange look came over Darcy’s face, and Noel felt a sudden qualm. He wasn’t sure England even had colonies in America at this date.

  “Virginia?” asked Darcy.

  Noel sighed. “Chicago.”

  “Odd. I haven’t heard of the place. Jack!” he called out. “Have you heard of Chicago?”

  To Noel’s consternation Jack broke off his conversation with the others and raised his brows at Noel. “Is that where he hails from?”

  “Aye.”

  Jack shrugged. “North of here. I’ll wager.”

  Darcy turned his back on the redheaded actor with a grimace. “That’s Jack, full of his own importance, pretending an education he hasn’t got. So tell me of this Chicago. Has it prospered as a colony?”

  “Most of the time.”

  “Are you heir to a tobacco fortune?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Chicago,” said Darcy thoughtfully. “There are such odd names in America, the Indian influence, I’ll be bound. Does the East India Company advertise this colony?”

  “Probably not.”

  “And what brought you back to England?”

  “Family trouble.”

  “Ah.” Darcy nodded. “My father disowned me when I ran away to become an actor. He thought I should stay at home, marry a girl of good yeoman stock, and spend my life counting harvests.”

  Noel leaned back against the wooden sides of the wagon. There was no escaping Darcy’s relentless questions. “My father wanted me to go into physics and mathematics.”

  “Like Newton?”

  “Er, yes.”

  “I hear he’s invented a new kind of mathematics. Something called calculus. The king’s very intrigued by these scientists. But who knows what they will devise next. All this talk of chemistry and gravity; they sound like alchemists to me. New words for the same old devilment. Some think they’re tinkering too much against the laws of nature. Bringing the plague down upon us and such—”

  “Never mind talk of the plague,” interjected a sallow-faced actor sharply. “Our luck of late has been ill enough without tempting Providence.”

  “Our luck would do better if you wouldn’t botch your lines,” shot back Darcy.

  “Quiet, both of you,” said Jack sharply. “Save your breath for your work tonight. You’ve deviled Noel long enough, Darcy. Let him be.”

  Darcy widened his eyes innocently, and looked like a satyr. “’Twas just idle chatter to pass the time.”

  But the talk turned to general topics such as the recent hangings and the war against the Dutch. Noel tipped his hat lower over his face to discourage future conversation with Darcy.

  His mouth was dry, as though he’d been days without water. Despite the heat, all his sweat seemed to be centered in the palms of his hands. No matter how much he rubbed them against his legs, he could not get them dry. He’d lied to Darcy about having stage fright. No, his adrenaline surges came from the prospect of drawing closer to Leon with every plodding step of these horses. His LOC, hidden beneath his sleeve, now and then sent his wrist a warm pulse that indicated he was narrowing the distance between him and his duplicate.

  He was anxious to get this mission over with and be recalled home. He didn’t like the seventeenth century. His training specialities hadn’t prepared him adequately for this era. Besides, although his forced layoff from missions had seemed like purgatory, he’d found that this time his travel to the past had not been the joy it used to be. The almost constant cramps in his legs hurt too much; he was tired of eating and drinking without ever feeling satisfied. His mouth remained numb inside, so numb he could barely taste his food. And the unexpected heat seemed to sap his energy.

  He was more than ready to link with Leon, straighten out the rip in the time stream, and have things revert to normal. No more duplications of himself running amok, no more anomalies in history threatening the future, no more distortions, no more botched missions.

  The wagons stopped at the riverbank and everyone climbed out.

  Noel shoved back his hat and looked around. “What’s happening? Why are we getting out?”

  “We’re taking the ferry across,” said Darcy, jumping lightly to the ground. Dust fogged off his clothes when he landed. “Give a hand with the unloading.”

  Noel helped heave a trunk out and jumped down after it. “And then we load back up on the other side?”

  “Aye.”

  “That’s a lot of trouble,” said Noel, struggling to push the trunk onto a set of skids so it could be dragged to the landing. “Why not just go over a bridge?”

  Darcy rolled his eyes. “Zounds, but you’re a lazy fellow! The bridge, my good man, is halfway across the city. And in this heat, I, for one, prefer not to inhale the perfume of rotting heads which decorate the railings. Push!”

  They shoved another trunk onto the skids. The muscles in Noel’s left calf knotted abruptly. He stumbled and nearly fell. Darcy’s hand steadied him.

  “All right?” he asked in concern.

  Biting back the urge to yell, Noel managed to gasp, “Cramp.”

  “Charley-horse, eh? Better walk it out in yon shade.”

  Darcy pointed at the graceful willow trees shading the low bank of the gentle Thames. Wiping the clammy sweat from his face, Noel limped over there, feeling both embarrassed and exasperated at his weakness.

  At least it was cool under the trees. The water rippled b
y. Swans swam majestically a short distance away, ignoring the heavy river traffic farther out. There were barges laden with goods, little pleasure boats filled with giggling ladies and their swains, ferries, fishermen, and cargo off-loaded from the sailing ships of the East India Company and other merchants.

  Noel leaned against a tree trunk and tried to massage out the cramp in his leg. Inactivity seemed to make his symptoms worse, and the ride in the wagon had probably brought on this attack. It was as though he had to keep moving constantly in order for his body to function. But activity brought on hunger, and hunger right now was giving him a mild headache.

  He tried putting some weight on his leg, winced, and forced himself to stand on it. To take his mind off the agony, he pulled a hunk of cheese from his pocket and gnawed on it.

  “Hollow again?” asked Jack’s deep voice.

  Noel turned. The slight breeze off the river stirred the actor’s red hair off his shoulders. His blue eyes gazed intently at Noel, who swallowed the last bite of cheese and shrugged.

  “If it’s nerves that are making you peckish, ’tis a poor idea to eat. You’ll chuck it up ere long.”

  Noel glanced past him at the ferryboat. “Looks like we’re loaded,” he said.

  He headed that way, doing his best not to limp, but Jack blocked his path. “No hurry.”

  “I’m eager to get there,” said Noel truthfully. “I—”

  “Nay. Stand a moment. You still look whiter than Will when he waits in the wings. You have trod the boards before, haven’t you?”

  There was enough doubt in his voice to alert Noel. “Jack,” he said impatiently, “I don’t know how to convince you. Just believe me when I say I’ve done plenty of acting. I can think quickly on my feet, and I won’t freeze up.”

  “And this rumor of Will’s? I begin to wonder if he’s not right.”

  “What? That I’m a courtier or a spy?” retorted Noel. “Why not buffoon? Or gypsy? Or smuggler? Maybe I work the, uh, bridle-lay, whatever the hell that is. Maybe I come from the moon.”

  Jack shrugged, but Noel’s angry flippancy made his frown deepen. “We’re taking a big risk professionally with you. I hope you will remember that.”

  “Yeah, I already got the lecture from Darcy,” said Noel. “I read you loud and clear. Message received. I understand. All I want tonight is to see the play go on as planned. Okay? I’m not out to sabotage the performance. I give you my word.”

  Jack went on staring at him. “You talk as though you have a fever.”

  “No! I’m not sick. I’m not coming down with the plague, thank you very much. I had a cramp in my leg. I get them. It’s not a portent of disaster.”

  Before Jack could reply, Noel swept on. “Look, I’ll admit that I’m nervous. Sure. You are. Darcy is. It’s natural to be hyped up ahead of time. I need that adrenaline flow, that push, so I can go out there and knock ’em in the aisles.”

  Jack’s expression grew bewildered, and as he spoke Noel realized he was talking louder and faster, barely making sense even to himself. He forced himself to stop, and stood there breathing fast, his sweat clammy on his skin.

  “You voted to let me have the job,” he said, struggling to keep his words even and calm. “What’s the problem now? Why all the second thoughts?”

  “I do not think we can depend on you,” said Jack. “There are racehorses who have plenty of speed to win, but exhaust themselves before the meet with their own nerve and spirit. They finish last.”

  Jack’s voice had deepened with regret and something Noel could not identify. Alarmed, Noel stiffened in spite of himself. “Don’t fire me now. Not this close to the—”

  “Desperation is not becoming, sirrah,” said Jack sharply. “Steady yourself, or by God, we’ll do without you.”

  “I—”

  “I’m sure Darcy has warned you. We do not take this lightly.”

  “Yes, Darcy said plenty. And so did Will. Now you. I guess by the time we eventually get there, everyone will have dropped me a word of warning. You could save time and energy by delegating one spokesman and—”

  “Noel, you’re angry.”

  “Damn right! I told you how important this was to me, and everyone acts like I don’t care. I—”

  Jack lifted one hand in an imperious gesture that silenced Noel. “Soft, my man, soft. If you are not what you say, then you are a very fine actor indeed.”

  “Well, thanks,” said Noel, halfway mollified. “That’s—”

  “It’s just that I have a very bad temper,” said Jack as though Noel had not spoken. “It’s not something we intend to share with Will and the others unless necessary, but Darcy has never heard of you. Never. And Darcy has been everywhere there is a stage.”

  He looked into Noel’s eyes with a steadiness that made Noel’s temperature drop a notch. “All we know of you is that you possess a certain presence which has potential, you are a prodigious liar, and you are almost insanely desperate to enter the king’s presence.”

  “It’s not what you—”

  “If you do well in rehearsal and tonight’s play, we’ll forgive all. If you fail, and cause us to fail, then—”

  “Darcy already handed out the threats too,” said Noel, rolling his eyes.

  Jack seized Noel by the throat before Noel realized what he was about. The squeezing pressure of his fingers cut off Noel’s air and made little black spots dance in his vision. He knew a defense to break Jack’s grip, but before he could swing Jack released him.

  Noel staggered back a step, coughing and furious.

  As soon as he caught his breath, he looked up, but Jack spoke first.

  “My threats are the ones you had better fear,” he said. “Get in the boat now and go back to working on your lines. Lines which you swore to us you knew.”

  “I—”

  Jack swept his hand toward the boat.

  In silence, Noel walked out to it and got in.

  Clarendon House proved to be a monstrous H-shaped edifice a full three stories high. Surrounded by an ornate wrought-iron fence and a stately park of young trees, it possessed only two neighboring houses in an otherwise empty field north of Piccadilly. That is, if you could call any of them houses. They were enormous palaces, their classical, stately lines looking startlingly fresh and different in comparison to the rambling Tudor and dingy medieval architecture crammed into the rest of London. One of the three houses was still under construction, skirted by stone rubble and wrapped in scaffolding. It was going to be pretty impressive once it was completed, but neither it nor the other neighboring palace came close to the size or overwhelming grandeur of the lord chancellor’s house.

  Its tall windows glittered in the hot sunshine of late afternoon, and as the wagons bearing dust-coated actors, trunks, and stage props rolled ponderously through elaborate entrance gates Noel stared with amazement at the building towering beyond a vast courtyard. The whole Time Institute could have fit in a third of this building, which had to rank among the most stately, beautiful examples of architecture he’d ever seen. The little domed tower in the center of the roof spoke of Palladian influence; a classical stone balustrade bordered the entire roofline. The front steps seemed to rise forever to the door itself.

  Noel imagined stepping through that door into an entry hall filled with fabulous artwork and treasures, with bowing servants to welcome them with cool drinks. Instead the wagons rolled around to the side tradesman’s entrance, where an irate servant in livery scolded them for getting in the way of the delivery carts still unloading provisions for the evening’s banquet.

  From there it was all chaos. The king had not yet arrived, but courtiers and their ladies pulled up in their carriages in a steady stream. Each arrival was marked by a flurry of servants, barking lapdogs, conflicting orders, shrill voices, and a hastening of silk and petticoats upstairs. In the multitude of guest chambers they would change into their finery for the evening. The upstairs servants were kept hopping to receive the guests and accommodat
e their constant requests; the downstairs servants worked furiously to finish preparations for the evening’s lavish entertainment.

  “But we’re expected,” said Will to the pockmarked footman blocking their way. “Tuptree and Osborne Company of Players. We were hired for this evening’s entertainment.”

  The servant raised his brows and looked unimpressed. “Wait here,” he said sternly. “I shall inquire.”

  There was stuffy coolness in the basement, where innumerable servants of both sexes came and went hurriedly. The actors huddled in a sort of antechamber just inside the tradesmen’s entrance and watched sturdy men in breeches and leather aprons carry in casks of wine, sacks of flour, great haunches of meat, baskets of fish, barrels of candles, and bundles of fresh vegetables. Dapper individuals dropped off clothing straight from the hands of the tailor. A tobacco shop delivered freshly ground snuff, mixed and scented to His Lordship’s order. The musicians arrived at the same time as the cut flowers. A barber and his assistants appeared and were whisked away by a valet. Hairdressers laden with boxes of accoutrements, their flunkies carrying elaborately curled wigs on wooden stands, passed through babbling in French.

  The footman returned. “According to His Lordship’s secretary, you are to perform outdoors on the terrace tonight.”

  The actors shifted and exchanged unhappy looks. Noel wondered what was wrong, but he didn’t ask. No one had spoken to him since Jack had throttled him in front of everyone, and he wasn’t in the mood to mingle. While Will tried to argue with the footman, saying that their voices would project better indoors, Noel edged across the small room and peered down the corridor beyond.

  The disguised LOC on his wrist had been pulsing with increasing force since they crossed the Thames and now it was a constant circle of warmth against his skin. Leon was here, somewhere in this massive palace. Like the divining rod of a water witch, Noel could feel a curious tuning within himself. It was magnetic in force as though nature—or time—were itself pushing them toward each other. He had to find Leon now.

  He took a step forward.

  “Noel,” said Jack. “Come on this way.”

  Startled back to an awareness of his surroundings, Noel looked around and saw the actors following the footman away like a flock of sheep. He fell into step, although it was difficult to make himself stay with them. His concentration kept unraveling at the edges of his mind, and he had to force himself to remember he had other business besides Leon.