Shades of Neverland (14 page)

CHAPTER 15

The Girl in the Park

Peter stepped out of dimly-lit Victoria Station into the bright, busy street. This was London. Peter was sure he was in London, but to tell the truth the surroundings looked more like New York. He couldn’t be in America still—he had to get home! Wendy needed him.

He started to run down the unfamiliar street, turning right or left by instinct at unrecognizable corners until he was quite lost. In desperation, he approached a passing stranger, a fine lady.

“Excuse me Miss, do you know the way to
Highbuy
Street?”

“Peter,” the lady replied. “Do you not know me?”

He had met so many young ladies since taking the stage that he, indeed, could not remember them all, at least not well. With annoyance, he regarded the lovely stranger. “I’m sorry, Miss—” He was about to explain that he could not recall their acquaintance, when she somewhat impatiently interrupted him.

“I’m Wendy,” she said agitatedly.

Peter gasped, looking at her and straining until there was the tiniest glimmer of recognition. “I’m very sorry, Wendy. I say,” he whispered to her, “always if you see me forgetting you, just keep on saying ‘I’m Wendy,’ and then I’ll remember.”

For the rest of the dream as he kept passing her on unfamiliar streets, she would say ‘I’m Wendy,’ and he would remember. Each time he was bitterly sorry and silently vowed never to forget again, but the moment they parted, her memory faded. She was forgotten.

When Griffin suggested they take a walk through Kensington Gardens, Peter heartily agreed on account of the fine weather. Peter had always loved this particular park. It was one of the few things he missed while overseas. He was grateful for such a fine day to enjoy Kensington one last time.

Since his hasty return to London, his dreams had taken on a life of their own, a dark and troubling menace that clung to the edges of his reality. Although his brother was more the type to take stock in the subconscious, Peter did believe that these particular dreams carried a message. And with the message came action.

So without preamble he said, “I am returning to America, Griffin.”

His brother frowned. “Without speaking to Miss Darling?”

“I have to let her go. She has a love—worships him, the undeserving sod—and she’s blissfully happy. That’s all matters.”

“But Peter—”

“No.” Peter interjected quite decidedly. “I must forget about her for my own sake, and especially for hers.”

Griffin chuckled, “Aye, Peter. If you were able to accomplish that you wouldn’t have dropped everything and spent the last fortnight crossing an ocean to get home.”

“I can at least try,” Peter insisted. “Maybe with enough distance and distraction, I could accomplish it.”

“So you are going to return to America, then? Find some measure of happiness in the embrace of an American lass?”

“Never, Griffin!” Peter cried passionately. “I gave my heart away to Wendy long ago. How should I every marry another without a heart?”

“Aye, that would pose a problem.”

“Tell me then, what should I do?” His troubled eyes probed the other’s in earnest for some advice, some respite to his hopeless predicament.

“Well,” began his brother, “It seems to me that if you came all this way for her, you should at least see her.”

“And then what?”

“Talk to her.”

“And say what? Don’t marry your fiancé, Miss Darling. Run away, instead, with me.” He raked his hand through his hair in frustration.

Ignoring his brother’s self-deprecating tone, Griffin nodded thoughtfully. “That would serve as an opening.”

Peter continued his lament. “Run away from respectability to live the life of a vagabond. Forego the quiet joy of a banker’s wife by wedding a socially inferior actor. No. I could never abuse her so.”

“Socially inferior? Are not the best parlors of London open to Peter Neverland?”

“All the money in the world cannot afford one ounce of propriety.” As this was said sharply, Griffin was taken aback by the cynicism evidenced in his brother’s grave words and rendered momentarily speechless.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut and raked his fingers through his unruly hair. “For all I have heard, James
Whitby
III is the love of Wendy’s life.”

“James
Whitby
III,” Griffin asked not altogether unamused.
 
“You know your competition by name, then?”

Shuddering, Peter’s hollow eyes turned inward. “He haunts my dreams, Griffin. I have never met this luckiest of men, but in my dreams he is—
sinister
. He is a villain with the blackest of hearts and an iron claw for a hand. It is this loathsome blackguard to whom Wendy is betrothed. Even if he were the opposite of the personage that I have created him to be in my mind, he still could not deserve her. And yet, as she ardently loves him, he must be the most worthy of men.”

Griffin could see that his brother was deeply troubled so he did not find fault. Instead, he looked off into the distance. “Maybe there is truth in dreams. While Mr.
Whitby
may not appear to be wicked, we cannot know the condition of his heart. Perhaps you are
meant
to save her.”

“If only… Would it be very wrong of me to ask the heavens for a sign?”

“It could not hurt,” The elder boy answered slyly. “Do it now Peter,” he urged.

As Peter bowed his head in silent petition, his brother and confidant focused on the fine figure of an approaching lady. Although Peter had been too distracted to notice, Griffin had lived with his brother’s obsession long enough to recognize Miss Wendy Moira Angela Darling by the merest of glances.

The day was fine. The air scented with blossoms and the breeze warm, hinting that summer was on its way. To Wendy the day was perfect, sunny and fragrant and oozing with—
freedom
!

The wedding was less than a week away. As her mother and Aunt Mildred argued about salmon and other reception delicacies, Wendy had escaped to the one place that held her eternal girlhood. She knew that Maimie would be at Kensington Gardens, along with her darling infant son and his red-cheeked nursemaid, taking in the fine spring weather. More than anything Wendy longed for one last innocent stroll with her most bosom friend.

The next time she walked these enchanting paths would she be Wendy Moira Angela
Whitby
, wife? And how long until she had her own nurse-maid in tow? She both longed and dreaded the day. In her mind’s eye she could only picture chestnut-haired babes with penetrating emerald eyes...

She shook her head vigorously to dispel the vision. It was perfectly normal, she supposed, to have some lapse of nerves this close to the nuptial day. It did not, despite what Maimie had insinuated, have to do with the return of a certain actor, who no longer mattered to her in the slightest.

Wendy was steeling herself to argue with her friend that very point, when she rounded a bend and collided, bodily, with the very subject of said point. Before she could draw a breath, she found herself in the steadying arms of Peter Neverland. Gasping, she reflexively stepped back, shrinking from what would certainly be misconstrued as an embrace. In her haste, she stumbled causing Peter to spring forward and embrace her anew.

The fine weather had tempted most of London to pass the afternoon out of doors and the commotion seemed to draw every eye and ear within hearing. Wendy colored, helpless as the blood pooled behind her pale cheeks. She could not help but imagine how the scene must appear to curious onlookers. To make matters worse, Peter’s own brother stood off to one side, a shrewd enigmatic smile on his face.

 
“Miss Darling!” Peter exclaimed looking shocked and still holding her about the waist. “Forgive me for the impropriety but I must speak with you. We met some time ago. My name is Peter Neverland.”

Blushing and flustered, Wendy kept her eyes on her shoes. “I know who you are, Sir.”

She could hear a crowd gathering around them now. How many of the spectators knew who she was? Surely some recognized her as the fiancée of James
Whitby
III. How many more must recognize Peter?

She couldn’t seem to take in enough air. Despite the layers of clothing, Peter’s hands burned where they rested upon her. Her face felt hot and she suspected she was about to faint.

If she fainted, Peter would have no choice but to scoop her into his arms and cradle her against his chest. How would she ever explain that? She would bring shame on her family, on James. The humiliation enhanced her lightheadedness. Tear stung her eyes, threatening to gush. She wrenched herself from Peter’s steadying hands. Blindly, Wendy turned to flee.

“Wait!” Heedless of propriety, Peter reached for her.

She felt him grasp her shawl. Without stopping, Wendy jerked forward, pleading, “Please, please leave me be!”

Painfully aware of the instant that Peter let her go, Wendy ran to the far end of the park, where there was an oft-overlooked path and a very private bench. It was there, on that out-of-the-way bench, that Maimie found her sobbing her eyes out.

“Dearest,” exclaimed her friend, coming to sit beside her. “I thought I might find you here. Are you all right? I heard you were accosted.”

The misinformation brought Wendy up short. “Accosted, dear Maimie? No.” She wiped at her eyes trying to make less of the encounter—surely in the retelling it would not seem like the cataclysmic event that Wendy had made it out to be. “Not accosted. I bumped into a gentleman is all. I lost my footing and he helped me regain it.”

“Who was the gentleman?”

Wendy ducked her head. “No one.”

Sagely, Maimie nodded. “Of course. When
I
bump into ‘no one,’ I often hide myself away and sob. That is perfectly understandable behavior.”

The sarcasm only served to start Wendy crying anew. Unable to stand by while her dearest friend wept, Maimie went to great lengths to make amends.
 
When she finally had Wendy calmed down, she gently asked, “What is it really? Is it wedding jitters—because that is perfectly normal. Remember my antics, like trying to join that convent?”

While Wendy appreciate her friends attempt to distract her, she was in no
humour
for levity. “It is not jitters, exactly. The ‘no one’ I ran into was the very
someone
I was seeking to avoid.”

Maimie’s sharp intake of breath, confirmed that the girl knew her better than anyone. “No! Peter was here?”

“Yes,” Wendy said miserably, “I bumped into him. Then stammered and staggered so that I drew a crowd. He tried to speak with me and I panicked. Why do I turn into a perfect disaster every time he comes near?”

“Love?”

Although her friend’s response was sympathetic, there was an underlying shrewdness that pierced Wendy. “After all this time, how could I still love him?”

Maimie shrugged prettily, adding, “Maybe he loves you too.”

“You are insane,” cried Wendy. “Quite mad if you are suggesting that Peter Neverland loves me.”

“Really?” The girl arched an artful brow. “What did Peter say to you exactly?”

“He said, ‘Miss Darling forgive the impropriety, but I have to speak to you.’”

“And then?”

Wendy knit her brows in consternation. “And then I thought I was going to faint—so—I ran away.”

With a most severe look, Maimie continued, “Nothing else was said between you?”