Angel in Scarlet (44 page)

“It's going to run forever,” Jamie said.

“You've read these?”

“Most of them. The party paid off. Our friends did us proud. The critics don't matter. Never have. What do they know? Those who want intellectual fare will go see Garrick do
Lear
. Those who want a good time will come see
My Charming Nellie.
”

I could tell that he was hurt by the reviews. He always was. It hurt even more that they invariably praised me while damning his skills as a dramatist. I had to tread very cautiously, male pride, male ego being what they were. I gave a sigh and pushed the papers aside and told him we were bound to make a bleeding fortune.

“Bound to,” he agreed, “even if it isn't a masterpiece.”

“You weren't
try
ing to write a masterpiece,” I told him. “You were trying to write a thundering good entertainment. You did. Sod the critics.”

“Sod 'em,” he said.

“If you wanted to write a masterpiece, I'm sure you could.”

“Sure I could.”

“And we'd promptly go bankrupt,” I added.

Hurt, pride wounded, he had been prepared to sulk, but his fundamental good humor got the best of him and he had to grin at my remark. He shoved the papers out of his lap and took hold of my hand and pulled me close beside him and slung an arm around my shoulders. He told me I was a rather terrific lady and a good little actress even if I
had
flubbed the fight scene last night.

“Flubbed the fight scene! I was marvelous! So was Megan!”

“It looked false, looked staged. I told you a hundred times during rehearsals that I wanted the audience to
feel
those punches,
feel
that hair tearing at the roots. It's supposed to be a brawl, and the two of you were cavorting about like a couple of giggling schoolgirls on a picnic. We're going to have to
work
on it, love.”

He was absolutely impossible! But, as usual, he was right. We did work on the fight scene, putting in hours every afternoon before the performance, and it was much better, much more convincing, bringing spontaneous applause from a wildly enthusiastic audience. Megan and I both had a nice collection of bruises and scratches before we got it right but, as she wearily pointed out, it was all for our art.
My Charming Nellie
played to packed houses throughout September, October and November, and the usual Christmas slump didn't affect us at all. It was the most successful drama in London that winter, and by January production costs had been more than covered and Jamie and I were both earning tremendous profits. He was already researching the life of Mary, Queen of Scots and mulling over the dramatic possibilities therein. I was less than enthusiastic about playing that particular lady, whom I felt was a cold-hearted schemer and not at all sympathetic, even though she was beheaded, but he paid no heed to my protests and forged ahead with his researches.

He found an unexpected ally in Mrs. Perry who, born in Edinburgh and raised in that city, had been to Edinburgh Castle and seen Mary's apartment and considered herself an authority on the subject. Mrs. Perry saw Mary as a tragic heroine, as did Jamie, and recommended a number of books about her which he promptly found and read. Dumped by the Duke of Ambrose in early November, she had had to sell her diamonds in order to pay her debts and finance new living quarters, and she had ample time to discuss their favorite subject with Jamie. Thirty-five if a day, Perry frankly admitted to twenty-seven, had dark red-gold hair, deep blue eyes and a figure that was undeniably opulent. A foolish, affected woman heartily disliked by cast and crew, she was nevertheless a very competent actress who gave a commendable performance as Castlemaine. Though Megan warned me I had better watch out, the slut was after my man, I knew I had nothing to worry about on that score. They spent an inordinate amount of time together in the Green Room, true, but I knew they were discussing Mary and knew Jamie found Mrs. Perry tire-some and transparent, although he wasn't averse to picking her brains. Apparently she really did know a great deal about the Queen of Scots and had given him a number of good ideas for the play. Megan wasn't at all convinced.

“I still wouldn't trust her,” she said.

“I don't,” I replied, “but I do trust him, and I know how he is when he's researching a new play. He thinks of nothing else. Helen of Troy could wander in stark naked and he wouldn't give her a glance.”

“If you say so, luv.”

“Jamie doesn't even like the woman, he's merely using her. When he's finished researching he won't give her the time of day.”

“I hope you're right.”

“I know I am. I know Jamie.”

February was cold and gray and dreary, and I was in low spirits, although I tried my best not to show it. Jamie was immersed in his research and completely preoccupied, reading constantly and making endless notes as he always did during this particular stage of creation. Megan was preoccupied too—with Charles Hart. The man was impossibly persistent and bold as brass. In early January he had simply brought all his clothes over and moved into the flat above Brinkley's Wig Shop and she couldn't get
rid
of him. He wanted to
domes
ticate her, wanted her to settle
down
and, really, wasn't at all like any of the other actors she'd ever known. He was phenomenal in bed and quite engaging in his calm, lethargic way, but he wasn't that much
fun
, luv. She had no idea what she was going to do with him, but she threatened to scratch his eyes out if he so much as glanced at one of those simpering supers who still fluttered around him. I saw very little of her outside the theater. This was one of Dottie's busiest periods, preparing costumes for the new spring productions, and I saw even less of her.

I was feeling particularly low when I arrived at the theater on the evening of my birthday. Twenty-five years old, and no one remembered. Perhaps it was just as well. Twenty-five years old, a quarter of a century! I didn't
expect
a fuss to be made, of course, but it would have been rather nice if someone had remembered and given me flowers, maybe, or maybe a box of candy. Jamie was so immersed in Mary he rarely remembered I was in the house except when he climbed into bed at night, and Dottie and Megan and everyone else had their own affairs to think about. I tried my best to give a vivacious performance, but as I returned to my dressing room after the first act I knew I had been less than inspired. I was surprised when Peg, my dresser, greeted me with an engraved calling card and a look of intense excitement.

“A lady wants to see you after the show,” she exclaimed, “a
real
lady! A duchess! Her footman knocked on the door and gave me this card and said he'd be back to see if it was all right. Wearin' powder blue satin, he was, laces, too, and one of them fancy white wigs! Plumb intimidated me, he did, so cool and proper.”

I took the card from her. It was a rich, creamy white, rimmed with silver, with
The Duchess of Alden
in elaborate silver script. Nothing else. The Duchess of Alden? Although the name seemed vaguely familiar, I was certain I didn't know the lady and wondered what she could possibly want with me. I told Peg to inform the footman I would see her, and then I promptly forgot all about it until after the curtain calls when I was returning to my dressing room in the silver and violet gown. Peg opened the door for me, jittery as could be, her plain face flushed with nervous excitement.

“The Duchess of Alden!” she announced.

The Duchess had been sitting in the large white velvet chair. She stood up and nodded at me. Her hair was powdered a silvery-white and worn in the French style with high pompadour in front and three long ringlets in back. A pale gold and two soft white plumes were affixed to one side of her coiffure with a flashing diamond clasp. Her face was exquisitely made-up, lids shaded a subtle blue-gray, lips a soft shell-pink, cheeks delicately tinted with a heart-shaped black satin beauty patch on the left cheekbone. Her gown was magnificent, creamy pale gold satin with tight elbow-length sleeves and a low heart-shaped bodice. Delicate golden-white lace adorned the bodice and edged the sleeves, and the spreading, puffed skirt parted in front to reveal an underskirt of row upon row of the same delicate lace. More diamonds sparkled at her ears and throat, and she carried a gorgeous gold and white lace fan. I hadn't seen her in almost five years, and I actually didn't recognize her at first.

“Happy birthday,” she said.

Alden? Alden. Of course, Solonge had been kept by the Duke of Alden, that was why I remembered the name, but … I frowned.

“Solonge?”

“Surprised to see me?”

“It—it really
is
you!”

The greenish hazel eyes sparkled and the lovely mouth curled with a suggestion of the old pixie smile, but this elegant, dignified creature bore little resemblance to the piquant, vivacious girl I remembered. She was the very epitome of aristocratic poise, beautiful and refined. Peg was gaping openly, and I dismissed her. She left reluctantly, shutting the door behind her. I stared at my stepsister, scarcely able to believe the transformation. Solonge seemed to read my mind.

“I know it's hard to believe,” she said, “but you've undergone some rather startling changes yourself. Who would have thought gawky little Angie would be painted by Gainsborough and become The Great Beauty of our day?”

Even her voice was aristocratic, cool and mellifluous. She must have taken lessons.

“You—you married the Duke,” I said. “You actually
are
a duchess.”

Solonge smiled again, a wry, worldly smile. “Not quite,” she replied. “I married Bartholomew—poor, dear, dull Bartholomew who pined for me all the time I was his father's mistress. I knew the Duke would never allow us to marry, but I knew the Duke couldn't last forever, so I bided my time. I educated myself in the ways of the aristocracy, took lessons in voice and deportment, developed cultivated tastes, and when the dear Duke drew his last breath, I was ready to step into my new role. Bart became the new Duke of Alden, and I became his bride.”

There was a light knock on the door. To my surprise, Solonge opened it, admitting the footman Peg had described. He bore a tray holding a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket and two gold-rimmed crystal glasses. He set it down on the low table beside the white chair, deftly uncorked the bottle and poured champagne into the glasses, handing one to each of us. Putting the bottle back into its nest of ice, he left, and Solonge closed the door, smiling again.

“One of the advantages of being extremely wealthy,” she said blithely. “I thought champagne might be nice on your birthday. There was quite a lot of talk when we married,” she continued. “The Duke had been very discreet, never introduced me to any of his friends, so no one actually
knew
I had been his mistress, but there were rumors. Bart and I faced them down. There are so many skeletons in aristocratic closets that no one quite dared rattle this one, for fear one of their own might be exhumed.”

“So Marie's dream came true,” I said. “One of her daughters actually married into the aristocracy.”

I sat down on the dressing stool, violet and silver skirts spreading. Solonge was silent for a moment, a thoughtful look in her eyes.

“I'm going to do right by Bart,” she told me. “We're moving to Italy next week. A very important diplomatic position is soon to be open in Naples—I intend to see that Bart gets it. I'm going to make something of him, and I'm going to be the most refined, most respectable Duchess who ever drew breath, which means I could never acknowledge any kind of kinship with a shockingly common actress.”

I smiled at that. Solonge sat down in the white chair and took another sip of champagne, relaxing, allowing some of the old warmth to shine through the elegant facade.

“I know we haven't been in touch, darling, but I've been following your career with a great deal of pride—and I simply had to see you before leaving for Italy.”

“I'm so glad you came, Solonge. I—I've thought of you often.”

“And I of you. You've made an enormous success of yourself, Angie. I saw the play. You deserve all the acclaim you've received.”

“I've worked very hard.”

“I know you have, darling. Your father would have been proud, too.”

She said the words quietly, sincerely, and I felt a terrible tugging inside and knew I mustn't give in to the feelings they stirred. Yes, Father would have been proud. I had achieved no great accomplishment, had made no great contribution, but I brought pleasure to thousands of people and, through my work, employment for dozens of others. He would rather see me playing Ophelia to Garrick's Hamlet, of course, but I sensed he would appreciate my Nell Gwynn and smile when I pranced in my tights and pulled pranks on Moll and Castlemaine.

“Oh,” Solonge said, suddenly remembering something, “I brought presents, too. Your dresser put them over there behind the screen.”

“Presents?”

“It is your birthday, darling, though how you could be twenty-five when I'm only twenty-six defies logic.”

“You don't look a
day
over twenty-six,” I assured her.

“You always were a wretched liar. Get them, darling. Open them. I was in a terrible quandary—I had no idea what to get you. I do hope you're not disappointed.”

I fetched the presents from behind the screen, all beautifully wrapped with gold paper and cloth-of-silver ribbon. I opened them to discover a seven volume set of the works of Aphra Behn, a gorgeous amethyst lace shawl ashimmer with silver thread and a glossy light blue box of chocolates exactly like the box Janine had had in the parlor that day years ago when I came home from my first encounter with Hugh Bradford in the gardens at Greystone Hall. I stared at it in amazement, remembering that day—Janine in sky blue, lolling on the sofa and popping bon bons into her mouth, Solonge in pink, at the window, so full of life and devilment.