Outrageous Fortune

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘Ophelia!’

  Charlotte became desperate. ‘Let m e go.’ But the more she struggled, the tighter James held her.

  ‘Have I ever done anything the least bit offensive to you? Have I?’ He looked so unlike himself in the false beard and long coat, yet so dignified, and still devastatingly attractive, that she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  ‘N-no.’

  ‘I’ll speak with you later on this matter.’ James released her at last and she fled to the wings, making a much more precipitate entry on stage than was strictly necessary.

  James watched her performance with a thoughtful frown. She was as graceful and professional as ever, but this time it afforded him little pleasure, for there was a cold ache about his heart which he found hard to eradicate. Charlotte was angry with him and, since he had admittedly behaved in an uncouth manner, was it any wonder? To steal a kiss was

  one thing; to steal it from a young girl in her bedroom was quite another. He had grown too used to Lady Susanna and her less than sensitive ways. But Charlotte was not Susanna. No wonder she had thought he was taking advantage of her simply because she was an actress. It was a notoriously popular pastime in some quarters. All the same, he had not expected her to be quite so upset by it. The question now was, how to convince her of his good will?

  Throughout the rest of the performance James found it hard to concentrate and was heartily glad when Act Three came at last and he could relax. The character of Polonius having been done to death in typical Shakespearean fashion, James was only too glad to quickly divest himself of the heavy padded coat and beard, which were exceedingly hot and uncomfortable.

  After supper he again sought out Charlotte where she sat quietly reading her lines in the green room, prettily dressed in the pink and mauve striped gown she had worn when she’d first run from home. He wished with a fervour that astonished him that she would give up this wandering life, stop chasing her dreams, and abandon her quest to dig into the shadows of the past. But what could he offer in return?

  She looked startled for a moment when he took the book from her hand and sat down beside her. ‘Listen to me, Charlotte. I realise that I have upset you and I am sorry for it. You may as well know that apologies do not come easily to my lips.’ He smiled at her and she only just resisted the impulse to smile back, for it was such a very human comment upon himself. ‘Nevertheless, I do so now for I wish you to know that I would never demean your dignity to such an extent as to proposition you in the manner you describe. I am not, nor ever will be, a stage door Johnny or whatever they call themselves.’

  ‘I did not suggest that you were,’ she said, trying not to weaken, though he looked so very woebegone that she found it difficult. Divested of the bulky costume, he was himself again, except that Sir James Caraddon would not normally have been dressed in such a bright red waistcoat or such a full sleeved shirt lightly trimmed above the wrists with braiding to match.

  ‘When this week is over I do intend to take you to my home.’ He put a hand to her lips as she would have protested. ‘No arguments. I shall have my way. I usually do, you know. You are tired, and have been under considerable strain since this whole business blew up on that dratted birthday of yours. If you insist on attempting to find your mother you must at least be fit enough to face the ordeal. The way you are at present you have not the stamina. A week or two’s proper care will make all the difference. And you need not fear your reputation will be compromised, for I have staff at my home who will take good care of you.’

  How would they treat her, she wondered? As a strolling player looking for a bed for a night or two in someone’s freezing garret? Or as mistress in James’s bed? She dared not consider which she’d prefer. And even if his offer was made out of genuine friendship, how could she endure to sleep beneath his roof when he would be paying court to another lady, one he intended to marry? She pushed aside his hand. ‘I cannot. I cannot.’

  ‘Yes, you can,’ he insisted, giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze, his chin against her hair. And were it not for the fact that he held her against his broad chest, facing away from him, he would have seen the look of tender sorrow upon her face.

  * * * *

  The week continued to be successful. Fosdyke excused Fanny’s absence on the grounds of her needing to visit relatives, which no one quite believed or questioned. Young Peter thrived in the part of Horatio despite his youth and proved a hit with the audience. James coped well enough with his own part but grew increasingly anxious for the week to end. He’d had enough of the strolling players and had a sudden longing to return to his own civilised world, with a decent bed to sleep in and good food upon his table. But his anxieties over Charlotte were growing greater.

  She had given up all pretence of attempting to be friendly with him, barely glancing his way, and rarely speaking if she could avoid it. Even Sally had noticed and pulled a wry face at him from time to time. Tactfully she had not enquired the reason, for which James was grateful. His guilt was great enough, though it irritated him to admit it, for he felt it so unnecessary. He’d apologised to Charlotte for his crass behaviour so what else could he do?

  Charlotte performed her part with skill and sensitivity but her heart was no longer in it. The pleasure she had previously found in the theatre had somehow withered and died. Her one thought was to get through the week as quickly as possible; then she would be on her way to start her real quest of searching for her mother.

  When the last night of Hamlet came she told Fosdyke of her intention to leave the group the following day. He looked at her for a long moment before answering, then, to her utter surprise, informed her that she could not do so. ‘Our tour does not end until we are in London, and you have agreed to accompany us there. I will not permit you to leave before that.’

  ‘But we are less than a day’s journey away,’ she protested. ‘All I am saying is that tonight will be my last performance with the Fosdyke Players. And when we arrive in London tomorrow and you pay the wages due to us, I intend to find a place to stay and then give full attention to the matter which brought me here.’ She felt a reluctance to say more, for she did not feel up to answering probing questions.

  ‘There’ll be time enough to decide on that tomorrow,’ he told her.

  ‘I shan’t change my mind.’

  Fosdyke beamed at her, but Charlotte did not notice that his blue eyes were cold as glass, her gaze being too abstracted and her mind on other things. ‘If that is your wish, my dear, so be it. But we shall be sorry to lose you and I shall do my utmost to change your mind, I promise you.’

  Finding herself swamped by a sudden, overwhelming weariness, Charlotte made her way to the dressing room to prepare for the final performance. Fosdyke followed her.

  ‘You seem mightily troubled, dear Lottie, and it grieves me to see you so. Will you not tell me what it is that makes you cry?’ Fosdyke tipped her chin upwards with one blunt finger. ‘You know I would do anything to help you.’

  She looked up at him with brimming eyes. ‘It is kind of you to say so, but you have done enough for me already. It is simply that there is someone - someone whom I must find in London. But you’ve no need to worry. I shall be perfectly all right.’

  ‘Is Sir James to accompany you on this expedition?’

  Charlotte hesitated again. If she let Fosdyke think she was wandering the streets alone he would protest, she knew it, for he was surely a kindly man to have cared for her thus far. ‘Sir James has offered me the use of his home.’

  ‘Oh, my dear, is that wise?’ Fosdyke frowned, and, lifting one of Charlotte’s small hands between his own square bony ones, spoke to her in coaxing tones. ‘You must not think that I shall cease to care or think about you simply because our tour is almost over. It is more important to me than you can possibly imagine that you should be well and happy. It would be most unsuitable for you to stay at the house of an unmarried gentleman, and he of the gentry and all. Nor necessary when Fanny and I will be only
too pleased to have you stay with us.’

  ‘Oh, but…’

  ‘No buts. I will hear no more argument on the subject. We always rest up a bit before setting out on the road again come summer. Carry out your family business by all means, but stay among friends while you do it. Why, Sal herself will be no more than a step away in the next road where she lives with her mother and young Peter. We’ll be your family in the future, dear little Lottie. You have a great future ahead of you.’ He squeezed her hand with renewed enthusiasm. ‘Now that I have the funds, I intend to start my own theatre, and I shall be looking for just such a talent as your own to help me launch it.’ His eyes glowed with the obsessive glint of the fanatic. ‘You could be famous, Lottie. More famous than in your wildest dreams.’

  Charlotte looked up to meet his gaze, and for a crazy moment she was tempted. To be a famous actress... Wasn’t that what she’d always wanted? A feeling of uncertainty was taking root. She had always appreciated Fosdyke’s generosity in taking her on and allowing her to travel with the players. Apart from it having been much safer than travelling alone to London on the pittance she’d thought to bring with her, she had enjoyed every minute of it. It had been fun, and Fosdyke had taught her a great deal.

  She believed James’s warnings not to be too trusting and keep her personal affairs secret were unnecessary. How could anyone help her if they did not understand the problem? Her open nature could not subscribe to what amounted almost to duplicity. Besides, she thought, with a return of her old stubborn independence, she had no wish to be dictated to by Sir James Caraddon.

  Added to which there was a strong possibility that Fosdyke might have contacts in the theatre world who could help her to trace her mother.

  ‘What can I say?’ she said, with a helpless little shrug of her so delightful shoulders, which Fosdyke had difficulty in keeping his hands from fondling. ‘Perhaps I should explain the matter to you properly. I would be glad of any help.’

  Fosdyke almost purred with pleasure. ‘I shall be most delighted to do so. You were intending to remain in the theatre, were you not? Your talent is too great to waste.’

  Charlotte was struck momentarily speechless by this praise. Had James been free to love her openly she might well have been ready to subscribe her theatrical dreams to a period of fun and pleasure in her life that was now over and done with. But, since he was to marry another and did not care for her at all, there might be something to be said for forging a career for herself. Fresh tears spurted to her eyes even at the thought of James’s apparent betrayal, and she could bear it no longer.

  ‘I’ll think on it,’ she mumbled and, spinning on her heel, fled into the dressing-room and shut fast the door.

  Fosdyke stared at the blank panel of wood for some seconds before a slow smile spread across his square features. Matters were progressing very nicely. And once his plan had been put into action, she would be in the bag. A pretty little pheasant flushed out from her keeper’s hide.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lady Susanna Brimley sat in her boudoir on a cream brocade stool before her dressing-mirror as her maid powdered, brushed and curled her long golden hair.

  ‘Do hurry, Clara,’ complained Lady Susanna, wriggling irritably upon the small stool. ‘Lady Berrisford does not care to be kept waiting.’

  The young maid gave a barely perceptible sigh while struggling to hurry at her work. ‘You’ve no need to fear, milady, for I’m nearly done.’ Clara knew better than to dawdle. Her mistress was ever in a fret these days, a state of mind not unconnected with the long absence of Sir James. Not that Lady Susanna was one for sitting at home and moping. Oh, dear me, no.

  ‘Out every night she is,’ Clara frequently informed the cook when they met for one of their regular cups of tea and gossip. ‘Balls, soirees, card parties, operas. If it is deemed high enough in the social calendar then Lady Susanna will be present, you can count upon it. But that’s not to say that she don’t miss Sir James.’

  Cook would sniff and look down her long nose and say she thought it a wonder, for didn’t every young man in town come knocking on the mistress’s door? Though indeed Sir James was mighty handsome, well set up, and a step above the rest. ‘Too good for that madam, by far,’ was Cook’s opinion, and secretly Clara agreed with her, though she always loyally defended her volatile and unpredictable mistress, outwardly at least.

  ‘Mow my hat. Pray do not fumble, Clara. No, no, the emerald green with the feather, you dolthead! I swear you grow more clumsy every day. Are you thinking of a lover, is that it?’

  ‘No, madam,’ said Clara huffily. She had a long-standing betrothal with the first footman, which looked like staying that way unless he impressed his mistress sufficiently to deserve promotion. And Lady Susanna was not an easy lady to impress.

  Susanna fidgeted again upon the stool, and Clara dropped the brush. If only she wouldn’t nag so much, Clara thought, then she wouldn’t get half so flustered. ‘I thought you would wish to wear the cream with this canary yellow dress.’

  ‘Nonsense, girl. If one wishes to be noticed one should always wear striking colours. Now, reach me my new walking cane with the ribbons which exactly match this hat, and the gloves. There, is that not perfect?’ Lady Susanna strolled across the room, twirling about from time to time to show off her new gown.

  Stepping back to admire this display, Clara had to confess that Lady Susanna could wear bold colours exceeding well. Perhaps it was due to her fair colouring. And indeed the gown was a particularly fine one, carefully copied from an engraving in The Lady’s Magazine. Of stiff yellow silk its hemline positively bristled with frills and ruching which were repeated on the tightly fitting elbow length sleeves. The wide décolletage was unencumbered by lace or net, a style Lady Susanna much favoured. And now, with the addition of the tall, crowned, emerald silk hat with the most sweeping of ostrich feathers together with the other aforementioned accessories, there was no denying that here was a lady of quality.

  ‘You look very nice, madam,’ said Clara inadequately, and received a minor explosion in response. ‘Tell John to bring the carriage round at once.’ Susanna called all her grooms ‘John’. It was considerably easier than trying to remember their real names. ‘I do hope he has cleaned it, for I noticed a spot of mud on the wheel hub yesterday and was obliged to point it out to him. Tell him I shall be leaving within the quarter hour.’

  ‘Very good, madam’ Clara moved to the door to do her mistress’s bidding, adroitly concealing her irritation at having been so rushed and then informed that her ladyship was not leaving immediately after all. No doubt Jeremy was equally irritated at being called ‘John’ all the time, or blamed for the fact that there was mud on the road.

  ‘Now while I’m away this afternoon you can clean my - Oh, no, who can that be? I supposed you’d best go and see.’

  The sound of the doorbell interrupted Susanna in her favourite task of allotting duties. She very much believed the dictum that the devil found work for idle hands to do, particularly in the lower classes, and so she deemed it her duty to ensure that no such danger lurked for her own servants. ‘And bring me a light cordial. I’ve developed quite a thirst after all this fussing and shall need some sustenance before I face Lucinda’s barrage of conversation.’

  Left alone in her room while Clara hastened away to carry out these myriad duties before any further were added, Susanna paced restlessly back and forth. She dared not sit down for fear of creasing the silk. Besides which, she felt restless. It had been a long day, an even longer week, and Christmas the dullest she could remember. All the best people had abandoned town and gone off into some sort of rural bliss. Really, the King had a lot to answer for. George III’s passion for farming seemed to have created a new fashion among those lesser mortals, in Susanna’s opinion, who could think of nothing but to ape their betters.

  Even James had deserted her, yet again, for Cornwall. She had hoped for an invitation herself this time, to meet his grandmother, who wa
s said to be quite a character. and view the family home in Truro. They had others of course, not least a sprawling mansion in North Devon which was the family seat, but Lady Caraddon was individual enough to despise it, preferring the more civilised, warmer surroundings of her spacious, comfortable town house in Truro. Susanna ached to go there, not simply to view the renowned collection of furniture and porcelain which was said to be priceless, but to gain a foothold in the family. She was sure that if she could be allowed sufficient time in James’s presence she could bring him round to the subject of a firm agreement of marriage between them which to date he had skilfully avoided.

  Susanna tapped her walking-cane thoughtfully upon the Persian rug. She bore him no real grudge over this reluctance he exhibited. It was the way of men. And the way of women was to overcome it with any means at their disposal. If she could but pin him down in one place long enough, thought Susanna with fresh exasperation, she would have him.

  ‘There’s a lady to see you, madam,’ said Clara, bobbing a curtsy as she was expected to do every time she entered her mistress’s room.

  Susanna clicked her tongue with impatience. The girl was a noddle-head. Why ever did she keep her? ‘Have I not just informed you that I am going out to tea with Lady Berrisford?’ Susanna said with strained patience.

  Clara only smiled. ‘She’s a foreign looking lady, madam, and says as how she thinks you’ll be glad enough to see her. She has news of Sir James.’

  Susanna stopped her pacing and became very still. ‘Show her into the green drawing-room.’ Perhaps fate had played into her hands. She very much hoped so.

  * * * *

  Fanny had experienced no difficulty in locating Courtly Place. It turned out to be a five-storey, brand spanking new Georgian house with balconies and pillars set in a parade of similar properties, overlooking a green where nannies strolled with white bonneted children.