by Jade Lee
Scher scanned the crowd, memorizing the faces as she did every night. She saw men she genuinely liked, including Mr. Frazier, who stood in the corner playing with Annette’s dog. He had a way with animals, and that made him a favorite. He glanced up when she passed and flashed her a warm smile, which she returned. But she couldn’t tarry to chat, especially since a hand abruptly grasped hers in a sweaty clasp. She tried not to cringe. Even she, the “lady” of the tavern, had to suffer through being grabbed at every turn.
“Lady Scher! Lady Scher! Tell her she must give me a kiss!” It was Mr. Babbott, his thin features looking almost gaunt this evening.
“A ribbon!” called another young man, Mr. Phipps she believed. “I demand a ribbon that has penetrated her most precious hair!”
Ribald laughter followed that rather sad double entendre.
“Poor Mr. Phipps,” Delilah trilled. “Have you been working on that all day?”
“All last night,” he returned with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows.
More laughter greeted his words. Scher smiled with a vague kind of aloofness. As the “Lady” Scher, she was not meant to understand these things. So she gently extricated her hand from Mr. Babbott and gestured for tea. Mr. Babbott, she knew, did not like ale. And their brandy was too expensive for him.
“Oh, no,” Mr. Babbott whispered as he shook his head at Nell the barmaid. “I am a little in arrears, these days, and cannot afford even tea.”
How well she knew that, but he had other services to offer. “It shall be free, Mr. Babbott,” she whispered into his ear. “If you can encourage your young friends to depart early. I believe Delilah has the headache.”
His eyes grew misty for a moment as he looked at Scher’s lead actress. “Of course,” he said. “Of course I will, if you will but tell her of the service I do on her behalf.”
Scher repressed an inward sigh. He had no hope with Delilah. Surely he knew that. But of course, he didn’t, so with a rare show of generosity, she called for a bun as well. “A gift from me,” she said when the food arrived. “So that you know you are valued.”
Again, his eyes misted, but this time they were trained on her. “You are a true lady,” he said as he quickly took the bun. He didn’t even secret it away into a pocket but bit into it right there. It must have been quite a long time since he’d last eaten.
Scher patted his hand and moved away, her desperation growing. She was not a true lady, no matter what anyone here pretended. She was not a true chaperone nor an actress nor anything but a hanger-on in this gray life of the theater. She’d been born here. Twenty-five years ago, her mother had stood where Delilah now reigned. Over the years, Scheherazade had played the part of the baby Jesus, had toddled through the crowd pulling on wigs and pocketing coins, and then later tried her hand at acting. She had sung and danced and played the lute, searching for a place in the only home she had ever known.
But she didn’t have the talent. She would never be a lead actress, could never become more than another singer/ whore in the troupe. She had tried desperately to be the star, especially after her golden sister Cleopatra died. She had tried to fill the role, but she was not the beautiful nightingale that Delilah was. That Cleo had been. So Scher found a different way to be useful. She ran the tavern, she supervised the costumes, and most of all, she cared for the money. That gave her a role here, a function at the Tavern Playhouse, but it did not make her one of them any more than it made her a lady.
Meanwhile, Mr. Babbott finished his bun and tea, then began sniffing the air quite conspicuously. “Dear, dear,” he drawled loudly. “I believe the air has gone stale.” As he spoke, his eyes turned to Mr. George Hale who was cursed with frequent bouts of gas.
The man flushed red and began to protest his innocence, but it was too late. The damage had been done and he was forced to endure a great deal of mockery. That, in turn, gave Delilah just the opportunity she required to claim illness and escape. And with the lead attraction gone, others soon departed.
Scher continued to play the gracious hostess. She made polite, semiflirtatious banter with the clientele, and soon, she was rewarded with a quiet nod from Seth who had slipped in within moments of Delilah’s disappearance. He would watch over the remaining girls. Most had already made their night’s selection and would soon disappear upstairs or to the boarding house next door.
All was at it should be, and so Scher was free to tend to her more solitary duties. She turned to go but knew she would never make it. Kit was still here, chatting amicably with Annette, waiting until that moment when Scher was free. He truly was a sweet man, smart and charming with his sandy hair and freckled face. And now that the crowd had thinned, he crossed to her side.
“Mr. Frazier, how wonderful to see you tonight.” It wasn’t a full lie. She genuinely liked the man. He was a paying customer—one of their best in both pocketbook and lineage—and so she set aside her fatigue to chat with him. “Did you like the new act with the dog?”
“Kit,” he said earnestly, completely ignoring her question. “I have asked you to call me Kit.”
“Ah,” she said, as she patted his arm, “but you know how very inappropriate it is.”
He glanced around. “Please, Scheherazade, is there somewhere private we could go to talk?”
She thought of the hallway between the stage and the Green Room. She thought of the shadows and how in the entire theater, the most privacy could be had in those short minutes when Seth’s boys were busy on the stage and the actresses were busy in the Green Room. But those minutes were gone. There was nowhere private anymore tonight.
“Mr. Frazier—”
“Aie, blimey!” interrupted Annette from the opposite side of the room. “I’ve forgotten me wig again. Come along, dears, and help me with the powder.”
Scher looked up, feeling rather dazed as Annette shot a stern look at the other two remaining actresses. Within moments all of them had gathered their gentlemen and shuttled them out the door. One even picked up the dog. Seth held the door as all slipped out, then he turned back to her. With a slight nod of approval, he ducked away, pulling the door shut behind him. Faster than Scher thought possible, the Green Room was empty save for herself and Mr. Frazier.
“I don’t understand,” she murmured. And she didn’t, she truly didn’t. Mr. Frazier was the fourth son of a titled family. He was young, foolish even at times, but would eventually grow into a steady man. He was not one prone to taking mistresses, nor was he wealthy enough to have bribed the room to leave him alone with her. What could possibly be happening?
She turned back to her companion, only to gasp in shock at the sight of him on one knee before her.
“Oh, pray do not look so frightened!” he cried. “This is a joyous time, or rather I hope it will be.” He grasped her hand in his own.
“Mr. Frazier,” she whispered, her mind much too slow to follow.
“I wish to ask . . . That is, I want to beg, to plead with you. Please, sweet Scheherazade, will you do me the greatest honor of becoming my wife?”
Chapter 2
Scher’s heart beat painfully in her throat, and she realized with some dismay that she was sweating. How could this be happening? How could she not have known it was coming? The gray haze that had covered her thoughts this last month abruptly thickened until she could barely hear Mr. Frazier’s proposal of marriage. And in that near-suffocating silence, her mind brought forth impossible dreams.
She saw herself as a lady in a gown that did not have to be reinforced because of the many men who tugged on it. She saw her wedding in church with a congregation that didn’t speak in cant, and the women wore gowns that fully covered their breasts. She saw her home in a village with green grass and birds that were not pigeons. She saw her whole life as it could be, if only she were respectable. And best of all, she saw her children—healthy children—who were attended by a doctor. She had lost her mother, her sister, and countless friends because the surgeon put them last on the list
. The respectable patients always got treated first, got the best medicines, and always on time. She would never, ever have children until she could be assured that they would get the best care available. And that meant being respectable.
Meanwhile, Mr. Frazier tightened his grip on her hands. “Say something, Scher. Please.”
She opened her mouth to speak, not even knowing what she would say. But finally words spilled out. “Your mother will never allow it.”
Her eyes widened in shock. She never meant to say that! And as expected, his face flushed a ruddy red.
“I am a grown man!” he said with a note of defiance.
“Of course you are,” she immediately soothed. “You have just taken me so off guard. I don’t know what to say.”
“Just say yes.”
She closed her eyes. Her hand was still gripped in his, and she couldn’t stop wondering why she was sweating at this most inauspicious time. “I cannot think,” she whispered. It was a lie. She could think, but her thoughts would never come to pass. “It is beastly hot in here, don’t you think?”
“Let me get you a chair,” he said quickly enough. But he was down on one knee, so that necessitated him getting up. He jerked on her hand only a little as he popped up. In general he was very agile. Then quicker than she wanted, he was escorting her to an old wooden chair next to the wall. She followed him meekly enough, still trying to push through the heavy press of wishful dreams. But there wasn’t enough time, and soon she was sitting down again and he was back down on one knee before her.
“Scheherazade, I know you are a woman prone to logic, so perhaps I should begin there.”
“You are in love,” she said softly. She did not sneer the word, but he must have noticed her lack of enthusiasm because he brought up his other hand to sandwich hers.
“Yes, I absolutely am, my dear. I love you, Scheherazade.”
She shivered as he said her name. It sounded so odd. She was Lady Scher to everyone. Only Pappy called her by her full name, and he was gone these many years.
“I thought, I pray that you have some care for me.”
“Of course I do,” she responded automatically. “I have loved you since I first met you.” He had been like the puppies that Annette raised, tumbling about and chewing on things. Not that he chewed on things, but that same earnest exploration of the world was common to him and the little creatures. She vividly recalled meeting Kit some years ago. He literally fell at her feet when his legs were taking him to the bar while his eyes had just caught sight of Delilah. His upper body spun toward the actress and his feet had no hope of recovering. So down he had tumbled to everyone’s grand amusement, including his own. Indeed, he had thought it was so funny that he had called for ale for everyone such that he would not be the only one on the floor.
She remembered leaning down to him to chuck him under the chin, he was that adorable. Of course she loved him. Everybody loved him.
Meanwhile, Kit was continuing his ardent plea. “I can see that you require more than my love, don’t you? Very well, then. Let me say that I have thought about this a great deal and our union makes logical sense.”
She shook her head. “No, Kit, it doesn’t. You are a nobleman, I am only an actress. And I am so much older than you.”
He grinned. “You called me Kit. It means your heart knows the truth. Your heart wants you to say yes.”
She didn’t argue with him. She hadn’t the breath. Damn the boy for offering her a dream that could never be. Didn’t he understand how painful that was?
He must have taken her silence as encouragement because he started to enumerate his thinking. “First off, you are not older, my dear. We are the same age exactly.”
Were they? She hadn’t thought so, but perhaps it was merely that he seemed so young to her.
“Secondly, I am the fourth son of a long and vastly ignored title. While you, my dear, have nobility on both sides of your family.”
“My mother was an actress, my father . . .” She flushed and looked away. “Well, I am a bastard, and you know it.”
“We’ll say you are the bastard of a duke and you’ll be all the rage. Much more interesting than—”
“One does not marry ‘interesting,’ Kit. That is not logical.”
He abruptly perked up. “That is the second time you have called me Kit. I vow by the time you say it a third time, we will be engaged.”
“Mr. Frazier—” she said tartly, but he shook his head.
“No, no, you have not heard the rest of my logic.” Then he grimaced. “Forgive me, but my knee is killing me.” He rolled to his side, then quickly got both feet under him as he grabbed a nearby bench and dragged it loudly forward. Within moments, he was seated before her, once again reaching for her hands. She did not fight him. She could tell he would insist, and she had no desire to play run and catch with her hand.
“Now where was I? Oh, yes, logic. I am not very good with it, you know, and there again is my next reason. Am I on four or five?”
“Three,” she said softly.
“Ah, yes. See, you are much better at numbers than I.”
She shook her head. “Really, there is no need—”
He grimaced, releasing the top of her hand to run a hand through his hair. It only made him look more dashing, of course. He really was an adorable boy. “I am botching this badly, but you see I am about to confess a great truth.”
She winced. Nothing intelligent ever came out when someone called it a great truth.
“I was only indifferent at school. I have a moderate head for numbers and no interest at all in Latin.”
“You are vastly intelligent, Mr. Frazier.”
“Ah, we are back to Mr. Frazier again. That is because you are lying. I am not vastly intelligent. I am only somewhat intelligent. Which means I shall not add anything to the sciences, I will not return to school, and I certainly have no desire to wander around some hellhole being shot at by Spaniards or Frenchies or whomever. So the military is out.”
She almost laughed. “So you want to wed an actress instead?”
His expression sobered, and his eyes grew serious. It was a sight indeed as he was rarely ever serious. “I am a fourth son with almost no means of support. No titled girl will want me.”
“You don’t know that—”
“And if they did, I don’t want them. They are stupider than I am, Scheherazade. And if that’s not a recipe for disaster, then I don’t know what is.”
She fell silent. She did not associate with the ladies of the ton, only the men. “You can still marry well, Mr. Frazier.”
“See. You called me mister again, so it is yet another lie. I must marry a woman of intelligence, and you are the smartest woman I know. I must find a woman who can help me sort through the financials. With my respectability and your skills, we will become nabobs in no time!”
She laughed. How could she not? His prediction was ridiculous, and yet few men knew her skill. Money was the one thing she managed extremely well.
“Laughter!” he cried with obvious delight. “I am making progress.”
“But that is hardly the basis for marriage, you know,” she said softly. “I will help you without a wedding ring.” She would charge him a fee for her advice, of course, but that was only fair.
“Ah, yes, but you have forgotten all the other things. Recall that a ring will give you the respectability you have never had. I will own all the wealth you already possess—”
“Hardly an inducement in your favor,” she lied.
“But you could live with me elsewhere. We could have children, you know. Charming boys and clever girls.” He leaned forward, his eyes no longer earnest. In fact, they held a note of warning in them. “You would be honest as my wife, would you not?”
She straightened. “Of course.”
He nodded. “I know of so many cuckolded before their first year. You would not do that to me. And I would be grateful every day for your financial savoir faire. You get a pe
rcentage of the take here, don’t you?”
She looked away. It was true, but she didn’t like admitting that. Her persona was as a lady, and ladies did not talk of money.
He drew her face back to his with a gentle touch. “Our marriage makes sense, Scheherazade. I need your stable intelligence. You need my respectability, and I think, my joy.” His thumb tapped her lips. “You are too serious, and I make you laugh.”
She felt her eyes widen in reaction, not to his words, but the sudden rush of wetness to her eyes. She was tearing? But why? He was wrong! She was not too serious. She was surrounded by actors, for goodness sake. If they did not deify levity, she did not know who did. And yet some emotion was gripping her belly tight. Something was feeding the malaise that she could not seem to shake. What was wrong with her that she could not simply be happy in the life she had built here as Lady Scher of the Tavern Troupe?
Her mind flashed to the dark shadows of the hallway, to the kiss that had burned through her until she thought her blood would boil. “What of your . . .” She stopped her words. She almost said cousin, but none knew about her man of the shadows. “Your family and friends? They will sneer—rightly so—that you are marrying beneath you.”
“Then they are not so good at logic, are they? I would be a good husband to you. I would never hurt you or our children. You would make sure our money is well spent, and there is one more thing.”
She swallowed, her mind centered on the cramping in her belly, on the rush of sound to her ears. This would never happen. In the world’s eyes, she was almost the lowest of the low. She wasn’t even a famous stage actress, but someone who wandered about the backstage. At best, they assumed she was a madam, and they weren’t far off. Kit would not be allowed to marry her. It was too far a step for him to take.
