Love Plays a Part (9 page)

At last the final curtain fell, and the players began to prepare for the afterpiece. Samantha wiped hastily at her wet face and returned the handkerchief. “How did you know what he would do before he did it?” she asked, as much from a real desire to know as from a wish to avoid discussion of her tears.

But Roxbury was not so easily fooled. “It’s perfectly permissible to weep at Kean’s Othello,” he observed. “Even grown men have been known to do so. You need not feel embarrassed.” He smiled at her. “Now to your question. Kean takes his craft quite seriously. Usually, once he has decided how a part should go, he adheres strictly to that design. But occasionally, if he observes something from life, he may change a bit of business, though only after due consideration. In any case, if he can stand up and speak, he will perform quite credibly.”

Samantha frowned. “I do not understand. If he were too ill to stand or speak, he would naturally not go on.”

Roxbury gave her the languid smile of a rake. “The man is a great artist, a genius. No doubt about it. But, like many geniuses, he has his weakness.”

Still Samantha did not understand.

“Kean’s principal form of relaxation,” continued his lordship, “is guzzling blue ruin with the most disreputable denizens of the city.”

“Blue ruin?”

“Gin. Strip-me-naked, the natives call it. And in many cases it does.”

Samantha shook her head. “Such a great man. I cannot believe it.”

“You needn’t take my word for it,” said his lordship. “It’s the commonest sort of knowledge.” He moved a step closer, and she almost backed away. There was something in his eyes, something dark and unfathomable, that frightened her. “How do you reach home after the performance?” he asked suddenly.

“I - Someone comes for me,” Samantha stammered, thankful that she need not lie. Something told her that it would be quite difficult to lie to his lordship. “In fact, he will be coming soon. I must go and get my things.”

Again he forestalled her. “I have seen this farce too many times before. I shall just keep you company until your escort arrives.”

Samantha felt her dislike for this man returning. He was so sure of himself, so exasperatingly confident. “That is not at all necessary,” she replied icily.

If his lordship noticed her change of tone, he chose not to respond to it. “Not necessary,” he said pleasantly. “But let us hope enjoyable.”

Samantha shrugged. By now she was quite aware that his lordship did as he pleased. Expostulating with him would clearly be a waste of effort.

As the seamstress Nancy came to take her place, she moved toward the room where her cloak hung - and his lordship moved beside her. “The theatre is quite an interesting avocation,” he observed pleasantly. “And it’s always a pleasure to see Kean. He brings new life to the boards.”

“I have not had the opportunity to see anyone else play,” Samantha replied; the memory of that stolen kiss burned suddenly in her consciousness, and she hoped to keep the conversation on impersonal matters.

“Ah, you must see Kemble,” said his lordship. “Where with Kean you have Nature, with Kemble you have Art.”

“I do not quite comprehend the difference,” said Samantha.

“You saw how Kean acted tonight,” his lordship said. Samantha nodded. “Kemble is more studied, more dignified. You will never see from him the agony that suffused Kean’s Othello. Kemble simply cannot do it like that.”

Samantha nodded again. “I believe I understand.”

“It is perhaps unfair to compare the two now. Kemble is past his prime, Kean just reaching his.” He paused. “You really should see Kemble perform.”

“Perhaps I shall.” Samantha had reached the door of the work room and turned to him. “Good night, milord.” She was suddenly aware that the corridor was empty.

“I should really enjoy taking you home,” he said rather abruptly.

Samantha shook her head. “No, thank you, milord. I don’t need an escort.”

His mouth curved in that languid, self-assured smile that she was beginning to hate, a smile that somehow did not reach those dark, shrouded eyes. “You do not fool me, Miss Everett. You may say that you have no use for the passion of love, but just remember, I saw you weep at Othello’s loss.”

“That was - different,” insisted Samantha. “Surely I may feel with someone else’s emotion without conceding that the emotion is one I wish to harbor myself.”

The earl raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Your defenses are useless with me, Samantha.”

She bristled at his free use of her given name, but he continued smoothly. “You are young, beautiful, and a woman.” The way he said the words they were a caress in themselves. “I see your nature in your eyes. There is passion in your soul.” His gloved finger reached out to trace the curve of her lips, and a shiver sped down her back. “And in the warm, full lines of your mouth, a mouth made for kissing.”

Samantha shook her head. “You are quite beyond the bounds, milord,” she said stiffly. “You imagine what you wish to see.”

“Au contraire,”
he replied lazily. “I am an expert in these matters. It is true that your passion has not yet been awakened, and perhaps you are yourself unaware of it. But I am not. I know.”

To this Samantha could make no reply. She wanted to say something sharp and cutting, but the right words would not come. She reached behind her for the doorknob, and then it happened. He swept her into his arms with a swiftness that left no time for protest. The hand that held the sewing basket was pinned between them, and the other was entirely ineffective in helping her escape. He held her only a moment, his kiss fleeting, soft, persuasive, stirring something deep inside her, and then he put her away from him.

“I’ll reach that depth of passion,” he said with a cheerfulness that made her long to strike him. “Yes, I shall be the one to awaken you.” And he turned on his heel and strode off before she could force her quivering lips into any kind of retort.

As her trembling hand closed around the doorknob, Samantha pushed away the memory of that stirring deep within her. He was a conceited braggart, the earl was. That and nothing more. There was no passion waiting to be wakened from the depths of her soul. There couldn’t be.

Chapter 5

The next morning Samantha wakened early. She was not yet used to the hours that players kept. Back in Dover they had all risen with the sun, but here it was different. Here it was often quite late by the time Jake had guided her the short distance through the darkened streets to home. And though she had not yet grown accustomed to going directly to sleep at that late hour, exhilarated as she was by the memory of what she had seen, she still woke at the accustomed time.

She stretched slightly and regarded a ray of sunlight that had crept through the window. Last night had been quite an experience; seeing Kean as Othello had been far more marvelous than she could even have imagined. So moving, so full of the deepest and most tragic human emotions. She sighed. Such love as Othello felt for his Desdemona was awe-inspiring. Color flooded her face suddenly as she recalled Roxbury’s annoying words about the passion buried in the depths of her soul. Samantha rolled over and punched the pillow. What a lot of poppycock the earl could talk. And what an interesting companion he could be - when he chose to speak sensibly about the theatre rather than in that languid, lazy, affected manner of the affirmed rake in pursuit.

She rolled over again onto her back. Well, he could pursue all he pleased. Samantha Everett had no intentions of becoming any man’s incognita. Eventually Roxbury would have to recognize that fact.

The door opened to admit a silent Hester, carrying a pitcher of warm water. “How did you know that I was awake?” Samantha asked.

“That there bed creaks,” said Hester crisply. “Ever time you move I can hear it.”

“Oh.” There seemed little else to say, so Samantha rose from the bed and began to wash. “Oh, Hester,” she said, sending a smile at her maid. “If you could only have seen him last night. Kean was just wonderful. Such pathos, such beauty. It was more than a person can imagine.”

Hester snorted. “I wish you’d get this thing worked out of your system so’s we could go back to Dover. Or at least set up in decent lodgings so’s you could receive gentlemen callers.”

Samantha glanced at her maidservant. “Why, Hester,” she said jokingly, “I didn’t suppose that you had anything good to say about gentlemen.”

“Well, they ain’t the best sort and that’s God’s truth,” said Hester with a frown, “but there ain’t nothing else for a young lady like yourself to marry.”

“Marry? Hester, why should I want to be leg-shackled to any man?”

The old maidservant’s frown deepened. “You needs someone to take care of you. I ain’t always going to be around, you know. And the city’s a real wicked place.”

“Why, Hester, are you ill?” Samantha regarded her friend seriously.

“Course I ain’t ill. I’m healthier than a horse. But everybody dies sometime, an’ I don’t want you should be left alone in this terrible place.”

“Thank you, Hester,” Samantha said. “I appreciate your concern for me, but truly now, do you think I could be happy with some high-in-the-instep lord who was always chasing light-skirts?”

“Ain’t talkin ‘bout happy,” said Hester dourly. “I’m talking ‘bout having someone to look out for you in this den of iniquity.”

Silently Samantha continued washing. There seemed no way she could convince Hester that everyone in the city wasn’t already clay in the hands of the devil.

“And that Jake,” continued Hester. “He’s just as balmy as you. Telling me how his friend the ticket taker give him a front row seat in the pit and I can go too. What do I want with seeing some little man pretend to be someone else?”

Samantha suppressed a smile. “He just wants to share something that he enjoys with you. Seeing Kean is a marvelous experience, beyond description.”

A strange expression crossed Hester’s face. “Well, I sure wish the man’d quit harping on the subject. Day and night he’s after me.”

“There’s one way you could get him to stop,” said Samantha with a little smile.

“And how might that be?” asked Hester crossly.

“You might go - just once - to prove to him that you have an open mind on the subject.”

Hester drew herself up with a majesty that would have done justice to any queen of tragedy, even Mrs. Siddons herself. “I ain’t about to do no such thing,” she proclaimed.

Samantha shrugged. “In that case I suppose you will just have to put up with Jake’s importunities. I’m sorry that his enthusiasm annoys you, but I really don’t know what I can do about it. We need Jake, you know.”

“I guess I’ll just have to put up with him.”

There was something about the tone in which Hester said this that caused Samantha to look at her in surprise, but by this time Hester had moved to the door. “I’ll have your breakfast ready in ten minutes.”

“I’ll be there,” said Samantha, moving to the wardrobe to pull out a gown. The first she saw was of dull blue muslin. She pulled it out and slipped it on. Her clothes, old and shabby as they were, seemed well suited to her occupation. She thought momentarily of the gown of blue velvet that she had taken in for Lily Porter. The girl was certainly beautiful. There was no denying that. But from what Samantha had seen of her she was sadly lacking in manners.

Samantha brushed her long chestnut hair and confined it in its usual severe chignon. Tonight Lily would be having a part in
Rule a Wife.
Samantha would be able to test for herself the validity of Maria’s judgment on Lily’s acting ability.

She wondered idly if Lily were making much progress with the earl. She hardly seemed the type with which to carry on critical discussions of the stage, but then, Samantha told herself charitably, perhaps Lily had a better side than the one she showed to dressers and seamstresses. Actually Samantha doubted this, but since she had to work in the same company of players, it was only sensible to deal with Lily with as little annoyance as possible.

It was this resolve that she had to bring rather forcibly to her memory that afternoon as she was entering the stage door. Miss Lily Porter was entering at the same time and clearly believed herself far above the common herd, for she brushed past Samantha with such rudeness that she was only rescued from falling by the supporting hand of a handsome, bright-looking man in clothes perhaps a little too foppishly elegant. Samantha recognized Robert Elliston. The man who had played Bolingbroke to Kean’s Richard III smiled down at her. “You are new, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Elliston.” As he helped her up the step, Samantha caught the smell of alcohol, and the statement Roxbury had made about “blue ruin” came back to her mind. Were all actors given to imbibing too much alcohol? she wondered.

The door closed behind them, and they entered the dimly lit corridor, but Elliston did not release his grip on her elbow. “What is your name?” he asked with another brilliant smile, far too brilliant to be wasted on a poor seamstress.

“I am Samantha Everett, Mr. Elliston. I’m a seamstress.”

“Ah, yes. I recall having seen you about backstage, and I wondered who the fresh-faced nymph from the country could be.”

Samantha found it difficult to reply to this bombast. She felt rather ridiculous having this man, who was almost old enough to be her father, treat her with such exaggerated courtesy. She attempted to extricate her arm from his grasp but was not successful. She was beginning to feel real distress, for now memories long buried were surfacing - certain sad looks that Papa had worn when Elliston’s name had appeared in a review. When she had pressed for a reason for this look, Papa had simply said, “The man has two major weaknesses: the bottle and women. By the first he injures only himself, but by the second he injures many a hapless female.” This memory, coming as it did while she stood alone in a dim corridor with the man, was distinctly unsettling. Fortunately, just as he was about to lean closer, the stage door opened again and Maria entered.

“Oh, Maria, there you are. I was wondering when you’d arrive. I need your advice on something.” She turned back to Elliston. “Excuse me, please, I must get to work.”