Angel in Scarlet (47 page)

“You told him what to do with the stockings.”

“In very explicit language.”

“And then you mended them,” I said.

“Not until after I finished making breakfast, luv.”

Both of us smiled and Megan shook her head as though in dismay at her own gullibility. Though she was loath to admit it, she was very much in love with the lethargic, good-natured, handsome blond actor, and it showed. There was a new radiance about her, a glow to her creamy complexion, a sparkle in her vivid blue eyes. Her abundant auburn hair tumbling about her shoulders and glistening with dark red-gold highlights, she looked absolutely stunning in a gown of royal blue taffeta with narrow gold, silver and turquoise stripes. Snug at the waist, low at the bodice, with puffed sleeves worn off the shoulder, it admirably displayed her superb figure.

“It really wasn't all that much trouble,” she confessed, “and he looked so pathetic and helpless, gazing at the stockings. Lord, luv, I'm absolutely hopeless. I suppose I'll
never
learn.”

“Charles is very good to you,” I pointed out.

“That's what worries me, luv.” She sank into one of the chairs. “By the way, he's borrowing a carriage and we're driving out to the country on Sunday, taking a picnic hamper. We want you to come along.”

“We'll see,” I said.

“You'll enjoy it, Angel, and you know how lonely you always are when Lambert's away.”

“If it weren't for this bloody play I'd go with him. I'm bored to tears being cheeky and winsome six nights a week, even if it does mean more money in the bank.”

“Maybe we'll be in a failure next time,” Megan said.

“We very likely will, if he persists with this Mary, Queen of Scots play. She's going to be impossibly noble, impossibly virtuous—I can tell from his notes.”

“Lord, we'll have to wear heavy velvets and those cursed starched ruffs,” she said. “I look dreadful in ruffs. You can imagine what those velvets will feel like under the heat of the footlights. I suppose Mrs. Perry will be happy, though—she's been so supportive I assume he'll write a part for her.”

“Undoubtedly,” I said.

“You look less than enchanted with the idea.”

I told her what had happened that afternoon and what I had overheard when I was standing in the foyer, and Megan was, of course, fascinated. Furious as well, for she was the most loyal of friends and detested Mrs. Perry with a passion. She told me what she would do if the actress dared try her wiles on
her
man and added that it was a bloody wonder they hadn't already killed each other, sharing a dressing room as they had all these months. Both of us fell silent as the subject of our conversation strolled into the Green Room, lush and seductive in a cinnamon colored satin gown spangled in gold, her dark red gold hair pulled back sleekly and worn in a twist on back of her head, a glittering gold wire spray affixed to one side.

“I
thought
I might find you here,” she announced.

“Why hello, Mrs. Perry,” I said.

“I knew you and Mrs. Sloan make a habit of coming here to chat while some of us meditate and try to get into character for the play. I wanted to speak to you, Mrs. Howard.”

“You're doing just that, Mrs. Perry.”

“I—” She smiled her tight smile and reached up to pat the gold spray on the side of her coiffure. “I just wanted to explain the—uh—the little incident this afternoon. I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea.”

“How kind of you.”

“I knew James needed the books and I wanted to make sure he got them, and so I took them over, fully expecting you to be there as well. We weren't having a
tête-à-tête
, darling, we were just discussing the play.”

“I'm so glad you clarified that.”

“We
have
spent a lot of time together, it's true, but I assure you we've done nothing unseemly. James is the kind of man who needs a woman to inspire him, and in this instance I've been able to be of service as you're so terribly negative about the play. You might say I've been his muse.”

“You might,” I replied.

“But nothing more, darling. I just wanted you to know that.”

My smile was as tight as her own. Mrs. Perry gave me a gracious nod and left the room in a swirl of bespangled cinnamon satin. Megan and I exchanged looks. My smile tightened even more.

“I may shoot her,” I said.

“Better drive a stake through her heart, luv. One can't be too careful these days.”

Jamie left the next morning, and I was light and bright and smiled radiantly and told him to take care of himself and not work too hard and remember to eat properly and added that he'd bloody well better write at least twice a week or he'd be sorry indeed when he got back. He endured all this patiently and gave me a quick, distracted kiss on the front steps, eager to be gone. I watched the carriage drive away and then went inside and told myself I wasn't going to be silly and feel sad, but I did. Without him the charming house on St. Martin's Lane felt curiously empty, as though the life force had gone out of it. I was going to miss him terribly, as I always did, not because I was so deeply in love with him, that wasn't it at all. I was … I was merely accustomed to him, used to his being there, and it was perfectly natural that I should feel this sense of emptiness and loss.

I did go with Megan and Charles on Sunday, and the countryside was beautiful with the hawthorn blooming pink and white and the rhododendrons red and purple and mauve. Lofty trees spread soft blue-gray shadows over the sun-silvered green grass, and there was a cool, clear brook that actually babbled as it flowed swiftly over its pebbled bed. We had our picnic beside the brook, and Megan took off her shoes and lifted her skirts and went wading, splashing merrily, and after much cajoling Charles took off his boots and stockings and joined her. It was lovely watching them together, his calm, lethargic manner the perfect foil for her vivacity and wit, but their closeness, their obvious joy in each other's company made me feel even lonelier.

The ebullient James Boswell came to call on me the following Tuesday afternoon and wittily recounted all the latest gossip about Dr. Johnson and his circle and expounded on his theories about Lord Blackie who, after lying low for several months, had made another spectacular foray the week before, relieving Countess Bessborough of her diamond and emerald necklace and, if the lady was to be believed, her honor as well. He had scampered nimbly over the rooftops and climbed in through a maid's open window, all in black, of course, a black silk hood over his head, moving so quietly the sleeping maid didn't even wake up. The rascal was quite obviously a nobleman himself, Boswell informed me, and he had been on the Continent for the past few months, which explained the lack of forays during that time. Boswell had definite ideas about Lord Blackie's true identity, had, using the process of elimination, drawn up a list of four names, and he assured me it was only a matter of time until one of these gentlemen was caught in the act.

We had tea and buttered scones and sliced tongue, and the red-haired Scot made the mandatory attempt to pinch my bottom and I did my usual sidestep and he chuckled and told me I was the great love of his life and I told him I was flattered and, that game over with, he was the entertaining, affable fellow I had come to enjoy so very much. He said he was looking forward to writing the greatest book of all time, a life of his friend Samuel Johnson, and I said it would be a great book indeed if his writing was as energetic and witty as his speech. Boswell gave me a hug and scampered off to visit Mrs. Piozzi who, he confided, was the silliest woman in London but a veritable storehouse of scandalous gossip, which he adored and always recorded in his journal.

I dined with the Gainsboroughs two nights later—we ate early so that I could get to the theater on time—and Mrs. G. fussed over me and fed me wonderful things and Mr. G. took me into the studio to show me his work in progress, a misty landscape with feathery trees and an ox cart crossing a dilapidated stone bridge, a painting he was doing for his own pleasure. We talked about the past and my posing for him and I said I often wondered where
An Angel in Scarlet
was hanging. Gainsborough looked rather uneasy. He straightened his wig, brushed the lapels of his light blue satin frock coat and tried to change the subject. I wouldn't let him.

“You
know
where it is,” I said. “I know you were sworn to secrecy, and I can understand why the buyer wouldn't want the world to know he owns so famous a painting, but surely it wouldn't hurt to tell
me
who he is.”

“Afraid I can't, Angel. I gave my word.”

“Does he think
I
'll try to steal it?”

“Wouldn't surprise me.”

“I know he's a nobleman with a country estate, and I assume he's wealthy or he couldn't have afforded to outbid everyone else. Is he famous as well? Would I recognize his name?”

“Not another word, wench.”

“You're positively infuriating, Mr. G.”

“But I
do
keep my word,” he told me.

I got a short, unsatisfying letter from Jamie the next day that informed me he had arrived and was working hard and had forgotten to pack his favorite old black leather slippers and missed them sorely. The sod didn't say a word about missing me. His next letter, which arrived on Monday, informed me that he had come down with a cold and was miserable and needed his slippers, never felt comfortable writing without them, would I send them by the next post? I was tempted to send a bomb instead. He got his bloody slippers and a snippy letter from me letting him know I was having a marvelous time and seeing dozens of people and enjoying the peace and quiet that prevailed on St. Martin's Lane.

I missed him dreadfully. The days were not so bad, for I had the house to keep tidy and shopping to do and friends to see, but the evenings, after I returned from the theater, were bad indeed. I climbed into bed and read till dawn every night, going through book after book, reading omnivorously, obsessively while candlelight flickered and books piled beside the bed. I had to go to Miller's to replenish my stock, and it was there that I stumbled upon Oliver Goldsmith, almost literally, for he was hunched on the floor in one of the dusty aisles, peering at titles on the lower shelf. That affable, absentminded charmer with his blinking owl eyes and gentle, lopsided smile and his shabby, oversized coat with pockets stuffed full of notes to himself told me he was looking for Virgil, as though Virgil were a lost dog. I helped him search and we eventually located a copy of the
Georgics
, and Goldy thanked me effusively if somewhat absentmindedly, gazing over my shoulder at the volumes on the shelf behind me.

The most lovable of men and one of the most eccentric, Goldsmith was always in debt and always being evicted from his quarters, despite the huge popularity of
The Vicar of Wakefield
, one of my favorite novels, and the tremendous success of
She Stoops to Conquer
in '73, hailed by one and all as the comic masterpiece of the English stage. Goldy was forgetful, fanciful, improvident, an incurable optimist who refused to take himself or life too seriously. Clutching his Virgil, he cheerfully informed me that he had been evicted again and was staying with friends and had faith that next November's revival of
She Stoops to Conquer
would make his fortune.

“Particularly if you'll be my Kate, Angel,” he added in that soft, fuzzy voice his friends found so endearing. “Everyone agrees you're the only one to play the part.”

“I'd love to play Kate, Goldy,” I told him. “It's probably the most delightful part ever written for a woman, and
She Stoops to Conquer
is sheer enchantment, but—I have other commitments.”

“But no contract,” he said blithely, “that's encouraging. I'm the most honorable of men, ask anyone, but if I could steal you away from Jamie Lambert I'd do so in a minute.”

“So would Garrick,” I replied.

“Oh, Davy's much too stuffy. You don't want to go over to Drury Lane and do Shakespeare and such. Playing Kate would be
fun.
”

“It would indeed,” I agreed.

Goldy prowled around the dusty aisles with me while I selected some books to read, and I took him home with me and gave him a generous tea complete with buttered bread, cheese, sliced ham, grapes and some delicious honey cakes Mrs. G. had sent over by the irascible Jenkins. All of his friends had a protective feeling toward Goldy who was so sweet, so inept, so befuddled and incompetent, scribbling away in his dusty rented rooms, producing reams of hack articles for Fleet Street and an occasional masterpiece. He was an utterly endearing man, and I enjoyed his company immensely. After our tea his eyes began to blink and his voice grew drowsier and drowsier and he finally gave me a sleepy smile and nodded off on the sofa. I let him nap and cleared up and eventually it was time for me to dress for the theater and he was still dozing happily, a contented expression on his mellow, aged face. I lighted a lamp, spread a rug over him and left, feeling quite maternal.

Goldy was gone when I got back, but there was a note pinned to the sofa:
Thank you, Dear Angel
in handwriting as gentle and hazy as he. I smiled to myself, folding the rug. Goldy would continue to scribble his wry, amusing articles and move from room to room and write notes to himself and stuff them into the pockets of that oversized brown coat and he would find himself penniless and be evicted and one of his friends would take him in and feed him and care for him and feel pleased to be of service to the brilliant, bewildered genius who had given the world so much pleasure through his pen. The revival was sure to restore his fortune and the money would undoubtedly slip through his fingers like water and he would be living in another dusty rented room before many months passed.