Christy English - [Shakespeare in Love 02]

by Love on a Midsummer Night

  She sat in the hallway for only half an hour before Codington emerged as if by magic and opened the door for his master.

  “My lord, the duchess has waited up for you.”

  Pembroke turned to her, his blue eyes cold. “So I see.”

  Codington melted into shadow, leaving them alone.

  “What do you want, Arabella?”

  She felt her tears rising then, knowing that she would leave his house on the morrow, knowing that she would never see him again. She could not leave him without telling him what had happened, some short version of events, whether he ever believed her or not.

  “My father forced me to marry the duke. I did not know about his plans until the night before the wedding, when I was supposed to come to you. I tried to escape my father’s house, I tried to send word, but I failed. I am sorry.”

  The last three words were torn from her throat, leaving her bleeding. But some small light came over her heart for a moment as the words were spoken. She saw from his shuttered look that he had not truly forgiven her, that he did not believe her. But she had told him the truth. Now she could go.

  Save for one thing more.

  She stepped forward, drawing the gold chain from around her neck. His mother’s ring was still warm from the touch of her breasts. She held it in the palm of one hand, clutching it reflexively, knowing it was the last piece of him that she would ever have.

  She looked up into the shuttered blue of his eyes, the one errant lock of hair falling across his forehead as it always did. She did not reach up to brush it aside, for she had lost that right long ago. Instead, she opened her hand.

  “This is yours,” she said. “I hope that whoever you give it to will make you happy.”

  ***

  Pembroke stared down at the ruby ring in her hand.

  The light in the hallway was gentle, cast by a pair of candelabra beside the door. He could not tell himself that his eyes were playing tricks for he could see that they were not. His mother’s ring gleamed in the light of those candles, as bright and untarnished as the day he had first given it to Arabella.

  He could not speak, so he did not. He simply took the ring from her palm and held it up to the light. The ruby flashed, and he remembered his mother laughing. He felt as if she were beside him in that moment, caressing his hair. But then she was gone, and all memory of her presence went with her. He was left alone with the woman he loved. She had lied to him for the second time that day. No doubt to spare his feelings, to assuage her guilt before she left him. The fact that he loved her had not stopped him from losing her twice.

  Arabella waited, but when he did not speak, she turned and walked up the stairs alone in the dark. The shadows swallowed her, and Pembroke sat heavily in one of the Queen Anne chairs beside the door, one of the chairs his mother had chosen when she decorated that house before he was born.

  The ring was heavy in his hand. It seemed too heavy for a slight woman like Arabella ever to have worn it.

  Codington was beside him. “Will you step into the sitting room, my lord?”

  “No,” Pembroke said.

  “Into the library?”

  “No, Codington. I am going to sit in the front hall until my legs work again.”

  There was a long silence, and Codington did not leave. He stood like a sentinel beside him. Pembroke was not sure how much time had passed before he noticed the silver tray the butler offered him.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  Codington did not reply at once but lowered the tray for his inspection. Three yellowed letters lay on it, still sealed, their wax beginning to flake away.

  “These letters came long ago, my lord. Just before you left for the Continent. One came to your club, another to the London house, another here. I gathered them all and kept them from you.”

  Pembroke reached out with one finger. The bits of yellowed paper did not vanish but lay still on the silver tray, like bodies of the long dead.

  “I interfered in your life, my lord. I stood between you and that woman. I do not know what these letters say, nor do I care to know. She left you, and these were the only word she sent after she married His Grace, the Duke of Hawthorne.”

  Pembroke could not remember a time when Codington had spoken so much, not even when he was a child. He waited for his anger to rise, for outrage to overtake him at the high-handedness of the man who had been like a father to him all his life.

  But he felt only a sense of wonder as he touched the letters again, this time reaching down to pick them up. They were brittle in his palm, against the calloused pads of his fingers, as if they might flake away into nothingness the way their wax seals had begun to do.

  “You were trying to protect me,” Pembroke said.

  “I feared for your life, my lord. I feared what might come of more interaction with that woman. So I kept the letters from you.”

  “But you did not burn them, or return them, or throw them away.”

  “No, my lord. They are yours, after all.”

  Codington withdrew the tray and stood ready as if for a firing squad. “I have no defense for my actions, my lord. I will tender my resignation, effective immediately if you wish. Or, if you prefer, I will stay until a suitable replacement can be found.”

  Pembroke looked at the man who had loved him all his life, the man who had placed himself between the boy Pembroke had been and his father during the worst of the old earl’s drunken rages. He knew without a shadow of doubt that he would not have survived his childhood without Codington’s interference in his life.

  For some reason now, after all this time, he did not feel betrayed that Codington had kept such knowledge from him. Whatever those letters held, they would have hurt him then, all those years ago, as they were hurting him now. He knew that his old butler had hoped to keep him from yet more pain.

  Life is pain, and to run from it is only to prolong the worst of it. Pembroke could feel the worst of it rising from the letters in his hand. Still, he knew that he would read them.

  “I do not accept your resignation, Codington.” Pembroke rose so that he and his butler stood eye to eye. Codington’s blue eyes met his own, and Pembroke was not surprised to see that there were tears in them. “Thank you for protecting me. I have to pay the reckoning for loving her, but I may not have had the strength to do it then. I have the strength to do it now. Thank you for bringing these to me.”

  Codington swallowed hard, his tears running down his expressionless face in two rivers of salt.

  “Will that be all, my lord?”

  “For tonight. Go to bed, Codington. I will see you in the morning.”

  “And the letters?”

  “I will read them now.”

  Seventeen

  Pembroke was gone when she came downstairs in the morning. She had her bag packed and on her arm, intent on leaving for the inn in the village, where she might catch the mail coach heading away from there. But when she stepped into the hallway with her satchel in one hand and a bag containing her golden guineas in the other, she found the letter he had left for her on a silver tray outside her borrowed bedroom door. It said almost nothing.

  It said only, “Please stay.”

  She set her heavy case down on the cream carpet and read the note again. She turned it over as if it were a cipher, searching for something more, some clue as to what it meant, as to what he wanted from her now.

  She found none.

  But she placed her still-packed bag on its stand in her room and went downstairs. She did not turn to the breakfast room, and Codington did not emerge to confront her. She opened the front door herself and stepped out into the warm air of summer.

  The morning light was like a caress on her skin. She took in a deep breath of the rising breeze, the scent of wisteria tickling her as she walked down the long drive away from the house, toward
the village. She had almost no clothing. Before she moved on, perhaps she might find something in the village. Something that was not black.

  She pushed away the pain that rode her and waved to the people working in the fields. Some of them called to her by name and raised their caps to her. She remembered few of these people from her childhood, for she had never mixed in with the folk who worked the land. They had kept away from her, a slave trader’s daughter, as from a plague that was catching, and her father had kept a sharp eye on her, save for the one summer when he had arranged her marriage to the duke.

  Arabella pushed away all memory of her father, not wanting to poison the summer day with such filth. Instead, she thought of Pembroke.

  As she walked beside the hedgerow, her sturdy boots covered in mud, she wondered what her life to come would be like once she was gone from this place and from all who knew her, once she never saw Pembroke again. The thought of living without him was like a knife wound in her chest, one that made her fight for breath. She wondered what Pembroke had to say to her. Perhaps, finally, at the end, he was ready to listen.

  Mrs. Bonner, the village seamstress, greeted Arabella warmly as if she had never known who her father was. Arabella found a few well-made, pretty gowns of soft muslin for her day dresses and one sturdy gown of light blue worsted—simple gowns that a duchess never could have worn. She never wanted to wear black again.

  Out of nowhere, she felt a moment of searing guilt that she was flouting convention completely, leaving mourning for her husband behind only a month after his death.

  She took a deep breath to steady herself. She had lived too long under the shadow of others. Hawthorne had seen to it that she was ruined already. No one in decent society would receive her again. She might as well get on with her life and live and dress to please herself. When she had escaped to Bristol, when she was living under another name, no one would know her or care.

  There was one gown, though, that she should never have tried on. It was too beautiful for her life now or for the life to come. But she tried it on anyway.

  Arabella faced the mirror in a formal gown of blue watered silk, taking in the sight of her small, high breasts nestled beneath the scalloped, low-cut bodice. The high waist flattered her slender figure, accentuating what few assets she had. The blue silk matched almost exactly the color of her eyes, and the pink silk trim brought out the color in her cheeks.

  Arabella smiled at her reflection as Mrs. Bonner made adjustments to the gown. She knew that she would take this dress, along with the others. She would think of the future later, but she would wear this gown tonight.

  With pins between her teeth, Mrs. Bonner said, “You are a vision, Your Grace.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bonner.”

  “And shall I send the bill to Pembroke House?”

  Arabella colored at the implication that Pembroke would pay for her clothes. “No. I will pay for the dress myself.”

  The seamstress colored with pleasure when Arabella paid her at once and in gold. She gave Mrs. Bonner a little extra money to arrange delivery of a few of the gowns to Pembroke House that very afternoon.

  Arabella could not wait even a few hours to be rid of her borrowed bonnet. She bought a new one made of white straw trimmed with silk cornflowers and light blue ribbon. She donned at last a gown of sprigged muslin decorated with cornflowers that Mrs. Bonner had been able to adjust to her figure while she waited.

  Arabella had to make do with the leather boots she had brought with her into exile, but at Mrs. Bonner’s request, the cobbler came by to measure Arabella’s feet. So she had the pleasure of ordering new boots made, as well as new slippers. Arabella savored having ready money on hand, being able to pay her own bills without having to appeal to her husband for her meager quarterly allowance. She signed the bill of sale for her new wardrobe herself, savoring the taste of freedom her own money brought. The golden guineas in the bag at Pembroke House would pay for a modest life for the rest of her days. She was not sure yet if she would invest them in the City or simply bury them along with herself in an unknown town. She did not have to decide today. But her father’s gold, bought by the misery of others, would also buy her freedom.

  She stepped out in her new muslin gown and pelisse, the sun warming her as she turned her face to the light. It was already noon, and she had begun to get hungry, for she had avoided Pembroke’s table. He would be in rehearsal until the evening and not free to speak with her until then. She decided to savor the last few hours alone in her home village with a stroll to the pub. It was a different place with her father dead and her freedom close at hand.

  The day was warm and bright, with no evidence of the frequent rains she remembered from her childhood in Derbyshire. Perhaps even the weather had come under an enchantment, bringing sunlight and warmth, deep greens and fragrant flowers to the village commons without the price of rain. Arabella knew that all things must be paid for, but not that day.

  She walked down the high street of the village, greeting shopkeepers as she passed. The baker pressed a roll into her basket, wrapping it in brown paper to keep it fresh. It was warm from the oven, and Arabella could feel the heat of it through her kid gloves.

  Along one side street, she noticed a little stone cottage set back from the lane. She turned down the street to look at it, but the high wall in front of the house blocked any view of the garden. The wall was not forbidding the way the garden wall seemed at Swanson House, but instead seemed to offer shelter, a sanctuary behind its stone. Arabella had never had sanctuary in her life, save for the last few days with Pembroke.

  The bright, cheerful blue of the wooden gate stood out from the gray stone of the wall. She pressed her hand against the latch, and it opened without a squeak of protest.

  Beyond the gate lay a tiny cottage set back in its own garden. The flowers had not been tended in quite a while, but Arabella saw columbine and thyme, rosemary and goldenrod. A profusion of blooms welcomed the kiss of the sun as flowers mixed with herbs along the neat path that led to the cottage’s front door. The roof was of gray slate, and when she peered inside a front window, she saw that the interior walls were whitewashed. It seemed like a house from another time, an enchanted place where one might live in quiet, where one might be happy.

  The scent of roses reached her and she breathed in their languorous perfume. Red roses climbed the western wall, entwined with yellow pease blossoms. Both flowers would get the best of the afternoon sun. Arabella stood for a long time, drinking in the sights and smells of that cottage. She knew that she could not stay. Hawthorne was on her heels or soon would be. And she needed to be away from Pembroke before he crushed what was left of her heart. But she wanted a home like this. She longed for it, for a place to belong, with almost a physical pain. Perhaps in Bristol she would find one, a little house that looked out over the sea.

  Arabella turned her back on the white cottage with the sharp click of the gate closing behind her and made her way back to the high street and to the public house that faced out onto Pembroke village green. She saw the actors eating under the trees at the same tables where they had all taken dinner the night before. Pembroke and Titania were among them.

  She froze, like a coney in a snare, her only thought to turn back. But Titania rose from her place among her players and waved to her with one lazy sweep of her arm. “Your Grace,” Titania called to her. “You must come and sit between us, if you have no objection to taking your luncheon with actors and riffraff.”

  As she spoke the last word, Titania looked not to her company but at Pembroke. The lead actress was once again in full possession of her power. She sat enthroned like a queen surrounded by her court. Caught in the gaze of Pembroke’s mistress, Arabella lost her voice.

  “You must join us, Your Grace,” Pembroke said.

  His blue gaze held hers, running first over the new muslin dress she wore, as if he were thirsty on a
hot day and the sight of her was cool water. He drank her down in one long draft. Arabella was caught in the fire in his eyes as Pembroke crossed the green to her and took her arm. He escorted her carefully across the close cropped grass and drew out a chair for her beside Titania. She sat before her knees gave way.

  She felt the warmth of his arm on the table beside her as he reached for a flagon of ale. He poured her a cup of cider and served her a meat pasty off the tray in the center of the board. All the while, Pembroke kept his eyes away from her and his ears on the conversation at the other end of the table. Though he did not look at her again, she knew that he was aware of her as she was of him. A thread of heat ran between them, and Arabella felt a frisson of hope. Perhaps they might finally talk when they were alone again. Perhaps they might both put the past behind them and begin to heal.

  Two actors were talking about the rustic scene toward the end of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, when they acted a play within a play. Arabella had read this masterpiece of Shakespeare’s over and over again, though she’d never seen one of his plays performed. She tried to take her mind off Pembroke and listened avidly as the actors spoke, wondering how it would be to see one of her favorite scenes acted out before her.

  Titania smiled wryly, catching Arabella’s eye. She looked at Pembroke, who still did not spare a glance for Arabella but who kept her plate and cup full. Titania raised one elegantly curved eyebrow, and Arabella found herself wondering if the actress minded seeing her lover sit so close to another. She felt a spike of jealousy in her own spleen and swallowed a sip of ale to cool it.

  As luncheon finished and the stage manager called for rehearsal to begin, Pembroke turned to her for the first time since the meal began.

  “I wish you would stay and watch.” His lips quirked in a smile. “I need you to tell me if I’m making a fool of myself up there.”