Improper Advances (12 page)

Hinde sent her off in his carriage to Douglas, where she had the best chance of finding swift transport to England. Throughout her southward journey she fingered the piece of quartz she carried in her reticule.

Of the two dozen sparkling stones Dare had given her, she’d kept only one as a memento of her visit to the mine.

In nine months’ time, she thought ruefully, she might have another keepsake. But this week her breasts felt tender, and her temper grew shorter by the day. On several occasions she’d snapped at Mr. Aickin, manager of the Theatre Royal. With the onset of these symptoms, her fear of pregnancy subsided.

Turning her back upon the docks, she retraced her steps. By the time she reached Castle Street, the tower bells of St. George’s pealed the opening notes of a hymn, followed by two long booms to mark the hour.

She was late for her rehearsal.

Frantically, she searched the broad and busy thoroughfare for a hackney coach. There was none to be had, and she was a long way from Williamson Square. If she walked too quickly, she’d have no breath to sing with.

While fighting her way through the crowd of clerks, servants, and wives belonging to the city’s prosperous merchants, she carried on a familiar debate with herself over the wisdom of writing to Dare.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d treated him unkindly. In her last days on the island, he’d proved himself her friend. At another time, under different circumstances, he might have become much more. His ship was in Liverpool-surely she could prevail upon a mariner to deliver a letter for her. Or should she wait till she was safely back in London?

Flushed and footsore, she arrived at the theater, and humbly begged the assembled musicians to forgive her. “The time slipped away from me,” she told them apologetically. “I shall sing as well as I can, so you can all go home early and have a long rest before tonight’s performance.” To her relief, none of the men appeared to be vexed—they returned her smile and bobbed their heads.

The manager could fine her for tardiness, but wouldn’t. She was Ana St. Albans.

Tossing her cloak onto a chair, she took her position at the front of the stage, careful to avoid the worst of the warped and uneven floorboards. This theater, she reflected, must be the shabbiest and most ill managed in all England, and she found her best friend’s enthusiasm for performing here incomprehensible. The empty seats of the pit, boxes, and gallery were tattered, faded, and stained. The air was foul, and there was a pervasive atmosphere of decay and gloom. But Harriot’s career had begun in provincial playhouses, in far worse conditions. She, on the other hand, had toured the elegant European opera houses, where crystal chandeliers illuminated gold painted panels and velvet hangings and satin upholstery. The ladies’ heads and gowns had glistened with jewels, and sparkling buttons and badges had encrusted their escorts’ dress coats.

“Shall we start?” ask the harpsichordist, his hands poised above the keyboard.

With sprightliness and verve, she sang,
“No
nymph that trips the verdant plains, with Sally can
compare, she wins the hearts of all the swains, and rivals ladies fair . .
.”

One of the first tunes she’d learned, a tribute to her mother’s charms. Her father had never tired of it, and it was a great favorite with her Vauxhall audiences.

She ran through her carefully selected repertoire of English ballads and Italian arias and French
chansons.

Francis Aickin didn’t care what she sang, or in which languages, so long as she filled his auditorium for the two nights he had engaged her. The absence of Drury Lane performers, Harriot Mellon among them, had inconvenienced him. Mr. Sheridan’s new play
Pizarro
was the greatest theatrical success in living memory, and he could spare none of his players until it ended its unprecedented run.

While singing the melancholy verses of “The Disappointed Lover,” she thought about Dare Corlett.

“Most affecting,” the harpsichordist commented when she finished. ” Ton my life, Madame St. Albans, you’ll have all the ladies sighing.”

Oriana raced through a snippet from an opera, full of trills and vocal flourishes, the showy sort of song her audience would expect of a London performer. She was determined to give them their money’s worth.

Nearly done. The musician brought forth the mournful notes he’d devised as a prelude to her final offering.

Her lips parted, and she sang the words that Ned Crowe had taught her.

“Te traa goll thie, as goll dy lhie

Ta ‘n stoyllfoym greinnagh mee roym

Shen cowrey dooid dy ghleashagh

Te tayrn dys traa ny liabbagh.

My Ghuillyn vie, shegin dooin goll thie

Ta ‘n dooie cheet er y chiollagh

Te gignagh shin dy goll dy lhie

Te bunnys tra dy ghraa, Oie vie.”

The stringed instruments came in softly, adding texture to the accompaniment as she continued with the English version.

“It’s time to go home and go to rest

My stool is making me want to rise

This is a sign that we should move

Drawing us nearer to bedtime.

Come, my good lads, for we must away

Darkness draws in upon the hearth

Telling us all that we must go to rest

The time for saying good night.”

Her accompanist beamed at her.

Wouldn’t young Ned be amazed if he knew she would conclude her concert with his song? She had repeatedly sung it to the harpsichord player, who had recorded each note and composed an arrangement for the full orchestra. During their collaboration, he had admitted that she had defied the musicians’ expectation that the visiting vocalist would be a termagant and difficult to work with. The local performers resented the annual invasion of London players—all but Miss Mellon, who was universally adored. Their friendship, Oriana guessed, was responsible for her warm reception here. Hardly a day passed without someone sharing with her an amusing anecdote or fond reminiscence about Harriot.

“Madame St. Albans.” Francis Aickin stood in the wings, beckoning. “I beg a moment or two—meet me in the box-keeper’s office.”

She gathered up her cloak, wondering if he was going to fine her after all. Should she protest the punishment, or accept it?

He invited her to take the only chair that could be crammed into the tiny space he’d chosen for this interview. “I was a little acquainted with Sally Vernon years ago,” he told her in his smooth, Irish-flavored voice, “when I performed at Covent Garden and Drury Lane.

And during my brief career as a hosier in York Street, I was fortunate enough to secure the patronage of your father, the Duke of St. Albans.”

Familiar with his manipulations, she perceived that he wanted something from her.

“And now his lovely daughter graces the theatrical firmament. Our brief association has proved most pleasant—and promises to be profitable. This season finds my company sadly depleted. Mr. Sheridan’s great success with his new play—a masterpiece, I’m sure—has deprived me of dear Miss Mellon and other leading players from Drury Lane. The people of Liverpool tell me, ‘London actors, or none!’ and I must oblige them.”

“Your company includes Mrs. Chapman from Covent Garden,” Oriana reminded him. “And Mr.

Young. And the comedian, Mr. Knight.”

“Nevertheless, I am in need of reinforcements. For that reason, I plead with you to remain in Liverpool.”

“For how long?”

“Until August.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot stay. At the end of the month I begin my annual summer engagement at Vauxhall. I have a prior commitment to Mr. Simpson and Mr. Barrett to sing once every fortnight.”

“Could you not stay with us for another week? I’ll make it worth your while.”

She very nearly advised him to spend his money improving this ramshackle theater, but she held her tongue. “I’ll consider it,” she replied, knowing perfectly well that she must reject his invitation.

On her way back to her lodging, she composed a letter to Dare Corlett.

To Sir Darius Corlett, Ramsey, Isle of Man. Sir, I trust this letter finds you in good health and
spirits …

Too formal.

Dear Sir Darius, I apologize for my hasty departure, and hope you can forgive me for…

Renting his cottage in the glen? Encouraging him to make love to her at Skyhill House? Running away from him?

My dearest Dare, You are constantly in my thoughts, day and night. My life seems dull and
dreary without you. If only you were here to talk with me, and make me laugh, and hold me in
your arms, kissing me until I’m witless, just as you did when we…

Realizing that she’d walked past Mrs. Woodell’s house, Oriana turned back.

Reaching into her cloak for the door key, her fingers brushed the quartz Dare had given her. She let herself in and climbed the staircase. On the landing she paused to look at the stone, a new habit of hers, and held it so the light would strike the facets.

From above, a high-pitched voice called, “Here at last! I’ve been waiting forever!”

Startled, she dropped the quartz. “Harri! You’re supposed to be in London!”

The actress bounded down the steps to embrace her, laughing all the while. “We arrived today, on the mail coach. Mother was thoroughly rattled, but she’s sleeping now.”

“I want all the news from town. But first I must find my treasure.” Kneeling down to search, she found it by the wainscoting.

“Oh, how pretty! What is it?”

“Quartz crystal. It came from Sir Darius Corlett’s lead mine.”

Harriot noted the softening of her friend’s voice, the yearning in the fine hazel eyes, and drew the only possible conclusion about her relationship with the mine owner.

She followed Oriana to her chamber, the nicest one in the house. The singer never had to economize, or share her bed. She could afford to travel by post chaise instead of the mail coach, without counting the cost.

Her interest in Oriana’s latest romance went unsatisfied, and she was forced to answer questions about recent events at Drury Lane theater.
“Pizarro
is all the rage,” she reported. “Kemble is better suited to his role than his sister Mrs. Siddons. She plays a camp follower, in a most majestic fashion.

Sheridan is once again the most celebrated playwright in the realm. It’s his greatest achievement in twenty years, and the theater is packed to the heavens every night. But I worried that I’d be stuck in town forever, with nothing much to do—another actress understudies Mrs. Jordan. When I reminded old Sherry that I was wanted at Theatre Royal in Liverpool, he let me come.”

“Mr. Aickin will be glad. He’d rather have you than me. An actress is more useful to him than a singer.”

It pleased Harriot to hear that she was appreciated here in Liverpool, after listening to her mother’s bitter comparisons of herself and her more famous friend. She needed no reminders of Oriana’s superior talents, or her beauty, or her aristocratic Beauclerk cousins. According to her mother, Oriana was sluttish and immoral, and therefore didn’t deserve her successes. Harriot knew that she’d strayed from the path of virtue only because she’d believed in Mr. Teversal’s promise to wed her. And she’d seen that a brilliant career and having a duke for a cousin couldn’t mend a broken heart or restore a sullied reputation.

Studying the lovely, solemn face, Harriot tried to think of a rallying quip to make Oriana smile. “How lucky tha other and I arrived in time to witness your Liverpool debut.”

“And I’m fortunate to have you here. I’m more nervous than I should be.”

“You, nervous? Absurd!”

“It’s my first time here. Expectations are very high.”

That a singer so gifted and renowned could doubt her ability to please a Liverpool audience was incomprehensible to Harriot. She wondered if that mine owner was responsible for Oriana’s dispiritedness.

“Aren’t you going to tell me about your Manxman?” she asked.

Her question brought a sudden flush to Oriana’s pale cheeks. “I already did—in my letter.”

Actress that she was, Harriot could distinguish between feigned indifference and the real thing. “You said he was arrogant and disagreeable. Did he make an indecent proposal?”

The auburn head drooped. “He got what he wanted without ever asking.”

Harriot couldn’t think of a reply that wouldn’t sound critical or judgmental—like her mother.

“I wanted so much to earn his esteem,” Oriana continued. “And I did. I wasn’t burdened by my fame, or my notoriety. I was a prim and proper widow, leading a quiet life in the country with her fowls and her cow and her goat. We became friends. He confided his darkest secret and shared his highest ambitions.

He is a brilliant man, with a very sharp wit. But we spent too many hours alone together,” she said wretchedly. “A sort of madness came over me. Afterward, I couldn’t bear to see him again, so I took the next packet boat for Liverpool.”

“Oriana, if you’d stayed, he might have proposed!”

“How could I accept him, after concealing my identity for four weeks? I had a concert to prepare here, and must return to London and rehearse at Vauxhall. All this work was supposed to help me forget.

Only I haven’t.”

“Perhaps you don’t really want to,” said Harriot, feeling very wise, and terribly sad.

“Here we have a set of mahogany chairs in the highest style, for the dining room. To be covered in whatever material you desire.”

Dare ran one hand across the carved back of one chair.
Damned uncomfortable against the spine,
he reckoned. “Not quite what I had in mind.”

Directly behind him, Wingate gave a faint hum of concern. The butler carried a long list of necessities, and after nearly an hour in the furniture warehouse, very few items had been crossed off.

“Your new house, does it have a library?” the salesman inquired.

“Certainly.” And Dare would never again enter it without remembering Oriana Julian.

“We offer an extensive selection of map tables and folding steps.”

“I’ve seen enough. For today,” he added, so the man wouldn’t feel slighted.

A tedious and uninspiring business, stocking his villa with chairs, tables, carpets, and everything else it lacked. He should be enthusiastic about the task, but Oriana’s disappearance had stolen the luster from his project. In his daily wanderings along Liverpool’s crowded streets, he’d paid closer attention to the female passersby than the goods on show in the shop windows, seeking an oval face of surpassing beauty, framed with auburn curls, and a pair of clear hazel eyes set beneath exquisitely arched brows.