Wicked and Wonderful (5 page)

Kelthorne choked his laughter. A lad of perhaps thirteen or fourteen emerged from the wings and set the limelight to blazing at the very front of the stage.

“You will enjoy the performance,” he whispered, elbowing him. “I have seen several of the actresses—quite pretty.”

“Well, there are always the actresses.” With such a thought, his blue-devils began to fade.

The curtain parted. “Ah,” Laurence murmured. “And so it begins.”

A smattering of applause ensued as a tall and rather fit man approached the center of the stage. He greeted the crowd in very warm, enthusiastic terms, gave a brief history of what would soon follow, flourished a low bow by doffing his hat. The next moment, the stage was alive with players engaged in a fierce swordfight, all staged, of course, but Kelthorne found himself quite impressed.

He was proficient at fencing and noted the form was excellent among the actors. But what made the entire display enjoyable were all the outrageous moves, the use of hats, gloves, and woolen scarves to thwart another’s weapon or to steal it away completely. All the while, the bantar was bawdy, comical, and so engaging that he forgot completely about his own disappointment in not having discovered his darling Judith among his neighbors.

*** *** ***

Judith sat quietly in a corner backstage, setting her stitches in the little boy’s shirt. She was almost finished with this task and thought that next she might do a girl’s gown and embroider a few bluebells along the bodice or perhaps the high waist.

As she plied her needle, she listened to the familiar commotion on stage and was not surprised when at the end of the swordfight, after Henry had tumbled dramatically off the front of the stage, that a round of applause filled the theater. She smiled, for the swordfight was always a favorite.

Another town, another engagement.

For eight years this had been her life. She knew how to prepare her songs and how to deliver them on stage. From her first faltering performances at the tender age of fourteen, she had accepted the troupe’s criticisms and had developed into, she supposed, a mature songstress, even though she was but two and twenty. That she could be sitting as she was, sewing without so much as a butterfly in her stomach was telling of just how long she had been with the troupe. There was only one circumstance that could possibly overset her equanimity—if Kelthorne actually attended a performance. Since he had been absent for the first two, she suspected he had little interest in the theater.

She was just weaving her needle into the sturdy cloth, when the ladies of the troupe, except Margaret, approached like a flock of geese after a morsel of bread.

“Ye must come see,” Kitty said.

“Indeed, ye must,” Betty exclaimed.

“He is here,” Angelique whispered excitedly.

“Who is here?” Judith asked, although she thought she already knew the answer.

“Kelthorne. Oh, he is that handsome,” Lydia said.

“Oy mean to work me wiles tonight,” Betty added. “But ye must come see.”

Angelique took the shirt from her, Kitty took strong hold of her arm and, before she could protest, she was fairly dragged to the curtain where a peephole had been constructed. Lydia lifted the flap of heavy velvet and through a discreet webbing of black lace fixed over a small hole in the curtain she was able to see the audience.

“He is to the right and sitting with a man with curly brown hair. To the right. The right.”

Judith was grateful that Bobby and Freddy spoke uncommonly loud while performing their juggling. When her gaze landed upon Kelthorne, she nearly swooned.

Oh, dear God, she thought. Was there never a man so dashing, so striking in face and figure. She had known he was handsome, the moonlight had told her as much three nights past. But in the glow of the stage his face was fully exposed. She now understood why the ladies had been so insistent. He possessed a strong nose, almost aquiline in appearance, his jaw firm, his smile infectious, his brows pronounced but not too much so. But it was his eyes that dominated his face, they were large, almost exotic in appearance and very blue.

“La, but don’t she seem ready to faint,” Betty hissed, her onion breath quite bringing Judith back to her senses.

“Did we not tell ye he was that splendid? I think ‘tis his blond hair, wavy and sitting on his shoulders, that gives him the look of a rogue,” Angelique said.

“He is quite uncommon,” Judith murmured, striving to feel her feet as she turned to make her way back to her stool.

The ladies followed after her. Lydia whispered, “I would keep my tent door untied for such a man.”

“As would I,” Kitty agreed on a heavy sigh.

John appeared and ushered them back to their positions since the four ladies performed a farce next.

Judith resumed her stool, severely shaken.

Now, as she plied her needle with trembling fingers, she struggled to compose her mind and heart. How was she ever going to be able to bring sufficient air to her lungs to swell her song? She did not know.

And so the minutes rattled on, the audience obviously enjoying the various performances. Her fingers trembled more and more and her throat grew tight. Kelthorne would know her at once, then she would be in the basket, indeed.

Finally, she ceased sewing and stared unseeing and unhearing in the direction of the stage. When Margaret approached and laid a hand on her shoulder, she jumped. “Wat be the matter?” she asked.

She could hardly speak

“So ye have seen him?” Margaret queried, guessing at the truth.

“Aye,” she whispered in return. “Margaret I am having a fit of the nerves. I have never felt so frightened in my entire life. Perhaps I ought not to sing tonight.”

Margaret chuckled. “Well, that would make Charlie quite happy.”

“That it would.”

“So ye must perform.”

“Of course I must, only my mouth is so dry, my throat hurts and I am having trouble breathing.”

“All this because of a man. But why? Is he not like all the others?”

Judith shook her head. “That night, I saw him only in the deepest shadows. Now, to have really seen him. Margaret, is he not the handsomest creature you have ever seen?”

Margaret smiled and answered in a soft voice. “Not especially. I like John’s looks a great deal better, his long interesting chin, his crooked nose and a smile that, though his teeth be somewhat twisted-like, makes me think of spring.” She sighed warmly.

At these words, revealing so eloquently her love for her husband, Judith began to relax. “I have always envied you, Margaret. You cannot know how very much.”

Margaret laughed, but tears filled her eyes. “That you should envy me... Ye must be mad as Bedlam.”

“But you have John and Shelly. What more could a woman truly desire than the affection and company of those she loves?”

“Well, when ye speak of it like that, maybe you ought to envy me, a little. But as fer his lordship, remember he is just a man. Handsome or not, he stumbles to the chamberpot in the middle of the night, and no doubt stubs his toe in the process, like all the rest of ‘em.”

This bit of plain-speaking, which held the weight of truth, eased her nerves perhaps more than anything else might have. She even hid a smile behind her fingers.

“Of course you are right,” she said at last. “Thank you. I shall do better now. At least, I hope I shall.”

“Try not to look at him, and instead, think of yer cottage fer ye know there be a lot of gentry in the hall tonight and ye will probably be asked to perform at a party or two.”

From the beginning, Judith had been invited to give private concerts in the homes of the local aristocracy and gentry. She knew the invitations came to her in large part because there was nothing in even the smallest degree offensive about her songs, demeanor or gowns. Having come from their world, she knew how to dress and behave properly for them. Even now, she wore a typical halfrobe of apple green satin over an underdress she had embroidered with little red cherries. Pearls—not real, of course—adorned her earlobes and were draped several times about her neck. Her hair, however, she wore hanging to her waist in heavy waves and caught up by a single green ribbon which matched her gown. She had learned quite early on that her appearance of innocence and youth somehow affected the audience as much as her voice and choice of song.

“I see the pianoforte is being moved onto the stage. Are ye ready, Judy?”

Judith took a deep breath, put the shirt, needle, and thread into her workbox stationed beside her stool, and rose from her seat. Margaret slipped her arm about hers and together they made their way forward, waiting in the wings until John completed the introduction.

Margaret crossed the stage first, taking up her seat at the pianoforte. When John spoke her name and flourished his arm in her direction, Judith found her confidence had returned in full measure. She walked to center stage and took up her place. The initial response to just her presence tended to unnerve her, for there was always a strange gasping sound that came from the audience as though she gave them a shock, and then silence would ensue.

However, since this was very familiar to her, her confidence increased. She nodded to Margaret and the first notes from the pianoforte drifted into the expansive theater. From the corner of her eye she could see that Lord Kelthorne’s mouth was agape and somehow his shock sufficed to relieve her of the rest of her fears and thus she began to sing one of her favorite songs, ‘My Mother Bids Me Bind My Hair.’

*** *** ***

Kelthorne stared and listened and stared a little more. Good God, the young woman he had kissed three nights past was now standing on the stage before him. And her voice. How completely such sounds could charm any ear. Such purity, such feeling, such ease of delivery, such gentleness of gesture. Her gaze swept over the audience, back and forth like the gentle rocking of a boat. The effect was mesmerizing. The audience around him sighed and sighed again.

Was this truly the young woman he had kissed? Of course, he recognized her, but the darkness of the night had not done her the smallest justice. She was absolute perfection, the lovely oval of her face, the cream of her complexion, the magnificent cascade of chestnut waves, and the soulful gaze of her warm brown eyes. How his heart hammered in his chest as he gazed upon her. Was this truly the creature he had held in his arms? Was she truly a songstress, an actress, traveling with the troupe?

Suddenly, he realized he had been duped. She had denied being with the troupe and he had believed her. Did she know, therefore, that he had spent three days searching the West Country for her? Undoubtedly.

So she was essentially an actress, a lady of the stage. Better and better. Well, he had known a number in his career and they were all relatively the same, talented, lovely, scintillating to kiss, but as avaricious as a child before a sweet shop. Oh, yes, he had known a few but never had he been so tricked.

Judith Lovington’s accent had been perfection when he had caught her in the orchard and heard her speaking to Rufus. He had never considered for a moment that she was anything but a gentlewoman out for a lark.

Now, however, his blood began to burn within him. All that he could see presently was the absolute necessity of taking another kiss, and hopefully much more, from the lady now singing with every effort to create a portrait of complete innocence.

When Judith—for she would never be
Miss Lovington
to him—had sung the last note, a silence held the air for several remarkable seconds followed by a pounding of applause that rose to the rafters.

He and Laurence were both on their feet at once.

“Extraordinary,” he said, nudging Kelthorne.

“She is the one.”

“What?” Laurence said, the applause in the hall still deafening. He leaned close to listen.

“She is the one,” Kelthorne repeated.

“The one what?”

Kelthorne just looked at him with a cocked brow.

“Good God. Do you mean the one in the orchard?”

Kelthorne nodded.

“Well, don’t you have the devil’s own luck.”

Chapter Three

“I must see her,” Kelthorne said, the moment the entire troupe took their final bows.

Laurence clapped him on the shoulder. “I would have supposed no less of you, my good man.”

Kelthorne made his way to the stage entrance and found a throng in high gig milling about.

Finally, he reached the front of the crowd intending to do what he usually did in such situations—slip a sovereign into the hand of whatever burly fellow had been assigned the task of keeping undesirables from the premises.

Instead, however, he found two of the actors, standing shoulder to shoulder, refusing admittance even to the most exalted of persons. He was told that the ladies of the troupe could only be seen by permission of the requested lady.

Kelthorne smiled and proffered his card with a practiced flip of his wrist. The taller of the two eyed him in some hostility while the shorter snatched his card and said hastily, “We are that grateful fer the use of yer pasture, m’lord. Isn’t that right, Henry?”

“Fer use of the pasture, aye,” Henry said, but he breathed fire through his nostrils.

“I will return forthwith,” the shorter fellow said cheerfully, flourishing a grand bow.

Judith was standing near her stool and workbox, untangling a long piece of thread when she saw Freddy hurrying in her direction.

She turned toward him. “What is it?” she asked.

“Kelthorne,” he said dramatically, waving in the air what she could clearly see was a calling card.

Judith had been expecting something of this nature but seeing his name printed on the white card set her fingers to trembling again. She spoke the words she had been rehearsing from the moment her performance on stage ended. “I beg you will offer my apologies, but I do not wish to see Lord Kelthorne. You may tell him, if you like, that I have the headache.”

“He seemed quite anxious to see ye, Judy,” he said, frowning. “And we are staying on his lands. Maybe ye ought not to refuse him.”

John was quickly beside her. “Treat him as we do all the gentlemen,” he stated firmly. “Judy has said, no. ‘Tis enough.”