Angel in Scarlet (55 page)

Shafts of dark red-gold sunlight slanted through the windows, making blurry pools on the carpet. It faded even as I watched, red-gold to pink-gold to pale silvery-gray. I went outside and put Matilda in the barn. The sun was gone now and the sky was slate gray, growing darker, a purple-gray haze settling over the countryside. Crickets rasped in the cracks between the flagstones leading to the back door. Shadows spread. Oak leaves rustled quietly. I went inside and made myself a light meal and forced myself to eat, and I waited. I knew it would be better, far better, if Hugh didn't return, if he never came back, if I never saw him again, yet as the clock ticked solemnly in the parlor I grew tenser and tenser, desperately afraid he wouldn't return, desperately afraid something had happened to him. The clock struck nine, nine-thirty, ten, and the sadness and pain inside were almost impossible to bear.

I heard his footsteps on the lane. I leaped to my feet, relief flooding my soul. It was only through the greatest exercise of will that I prevented myself from rushing out to meet him. The gate opened, closed. Somehow, I know not how, I managed to compose myself, and when he came into the parlor I greeted him casually, as though he had just come in from the barn. I had put the newspaper away. I did not mention the article to him, nor did I question him about his trip to London. I knew that I loved him. I knew that this love for him was my obsession, as Greystone Hall was his, and I knew I would continue to hold him to me for as long as possible. Those things unspoken must remain unsaid, for I hadn't the strength nor the character to confront him and send him away.

July ended and August began warm and sultry. We bathed naked in the stream and lay on the bank and let the sun dry our bodies. We took long walks together and picked wildflowers and Hugh helped me with the chores and it was serene and peaceful and wonderful, having him there, loving him, his body next to mine when I awoke in the mornings, his presence bringing joy even when we were sitting together in silence, reading in the parlor. It was a fool's paradise, yes, I was fully aware of that, and I was aware that it must inevitably end, but I intended to savor each joy as it came and cling to what happiness I could until the inevitable happened. And so the days passed, one melting pleasantly into the next, a fool's paradise better than none at all.

I received a long, chatty letter from Megan. Lambert would soon be starting rehearsals of the new play, she informed me, and Charles Hart would be playing Bothwell to Mrs. Perry's Mary. Megan herself had been offered a strong supporting part, but she had flatly refused to take it. Hell would freeze over before she'd go onstage with that woman in the lead. La Perry had been intolerable before with her airs and affectations, but now she was downright impossible, convinced she was the greatest actress who ever trod the boards and making everyone around her miserable. Megan wasn't sure just
what
she'd be doing in the new season, but something was bound to turn up. Now that I was no longer with him, she had no desire to work for Mr. James Lambert.

The letter I received from Dottie a few days later was both astonishing and delightful.
She
was going back on the boards, after all these years. Goldsmith had popped into the shop to talk to her about costumes for the revival. He told her he remembered her well as Mrs. Malaprop and said he wished there were someone like her around to play Mrs. Hardcastle, Kate's mother. He paused, blinked his large owl eyes, tilted his head to one side and started to nod, growing more enthusiastic by the moment. Why settle for someone
like
Dottie? Why not Dottie herself? She had been dumbfounded, had informed him that she had long since retired, but Goldy persisted. Once the idea occurred to him, nothing else would do but that she take the role. It was a lively, exuberant comic part for an older actress, and he simply couldn't see anyone else in the role. Wore her down, he did, finally got her to accept, and although she pretended to be blase about it, I could tell that Dottie was excited about returning to the theater in such a splashy, flamboyant role. It had been years since she'd donned greasepaint and wig, but it might be a lark, she confided. Goldy was such a dear, and they were certain to have a rollicking good time even if she
was
a disaster.

“Do you miss the theater?” Hugh inquired when I told him about the letter. “I detect a rather wistful note in your voice.”

“I don't miss it at all,” I replied.

I didn't. Not at all. Did I? Of course not. All that tension, all that noise, all that confusion and strain, the constant pressure, the constant crises night after night. Of course I didn't miss it. The peace and serenity of these past two and a half months gave me a wonderful perspective, made me see just how frantic the past four years had been. They had been exciting, yes, and challenging, glamorous, too, but who needed all the stress and temperament? The life I was leading now was much more appealing, and with all the money I had made I didn't
need
to work.

Although I told myself I couldn't care less what happened, I was human, and I couldn't help but be curious about Jamie's new production. Much of my bitterness was gone now, and … and I really couldn't blame Jamie for what had happened. Men were notoriously weak when under the influence of a conniving female like Mrs. Perry, the male ego no match for the feminine wile. I couldn't bring myself to wish him ill. I never wanted to see him again, true, but I wished him luck. I hoped his play was the success he wanted it to be, although its chances were slim indeed. He was a complex, volatile, brilliantly gifted man who needed constant assurance of his genius. Perhaps Mrs. Perry would provide it. They deserved each other, I thought ruefully, and then I smiled at my own lack of charity. No one deserved Mrs. Perry, but Jamie, it seemed, was stuck with her. It served him right, poor sod.

It rained during the last week of August, a heavy deluge pouring from a sky the color of pewter, and afterwards it was much cooler, the air fresh and clean, the countryside vivid, trees a newly washed green, fields gold and tan and misty gray. I came downstairs early one morning wearing a pale blue cotton frock with narrow pink and lavender stripes, my hair brushed and gleaming, feeling at peace with myself, with life, content with my fool's paradise. The study was littered and I decided to tidy it up before cooking breakfast—Hugh was still in bed upstairs, fast asleep. I put away the books I had taken down and put away the stationery I had used and fluffed the cushions on the old pink sofa and stacked the cups and saucers and picked up the London paper Hugh had been reading last night with such concentration. It was folded open to an article he must have read at least two or three times and, idly, my eyes began to scan the lines of print. I felt the color leave my cheeks.

It was a society item, the kind relished by humble folk who thrived on gossipy news of their betters. The Duke of Herron and his lovely Duchess had gone to the opera last week, the Duke in powder-blue satin and lace and diamond studded shoe buckles, the Duchess in a stunning confection of pink taffeta and silver lace, dazzling one and all with her newly acquired diamonds. The tiered diamond necklace with seventeen grape-sized diamond pendants suspended had been designed especially for Maria Theresa, Empress of Austria, but, in a rare burst of economy, that lady had decided it was far too costly for the state coffers and it had been placed on the market, snapped up at once by the extravagant Duke of Herron. Although they would soon be leaving for the castle in Scotland, the Duke and his Duchess were currently snugly ensconced at Herron House, their elegant town house on Leicester Square. I put the paper down. I carried the cups and saucers into the kitchen. When Hugh came downstairs half an hour later, breakfast was ready. He looked at the mound of fluffy eggs scrambled with cheese and cream, the buttered rolls, pot of honey and jar of plum preserves, the plate of ham and crisp bacon and informed me that I was much too good to him. He ate with gusto. I sipped a cup of black coffee, watching him eat, knowing full well what he planned to do, knowing I could no longer keep silent.

“By the way,” he said casually, “I'll be going up to London sometime this afternoon. Business matters. I probably won't be back until tomorrow morning. Early,” he added.

“Don't go, Hugh,” I said.

My voice was flat. He gave me a surprised look.

“Whyever not?” he inquired.

“For one thing, it's too risky. Herron House is certain to be well guarded with footmen everywhere, perhaps even dogs. If you're caught, you'll hang. And it's wrong, Hugh. It's wrong. I—I can't countenance it. I can't let you go, knowing—knowing you'll be deliberately committing a crime.”

“How did—” He paused, frowning. “You saw the newspaper.”

“I saw it. I knew at once. It's wrong, Hugh,” I repeated.

“It's something I have to do,” he said.

I began to clear the table, stacking the dishes on the drainboard. “You'd risk being hanged?”

“I'd risk anything.”

“It means that much to you?”

“It means more than anything.”

“More than me,” I said.

Hugh didn't answer. Sitting there at the table in his fine white shirt open at the throat, a wave of sleek raven hair slanting across his forehead, he looked pained, dark brown eyes full of indecision. We couldn't go back now. Both of us knew that. Those things unspoken had been brought into the open, and we couldn't ignore them any longer. I took the pot of honey and jar of jam off the table and set them in the cabinet, my manner cool, icily composed. Hugh sighed and brushed the wave from his brow.

“You don't understand, Angie.”

“I understand perfectly,” I said. “We could be happy, Hugh. We could buy a place in the country. We could—we could have what we've had this summer for the rest of our lives. We don't need anything more.
I
don't.”

“You'd soon be miserable,” he told me.

“No, Hugh.”

“You'd soon grow to hate me.”

“I'm asking you not to go, Hugh.”

“I must.”

I hesitated a moment, and then I took off the apron I'd tied around my waist earlier. I hung it up and turned to look at him, a tremulous feeling inside as I contemplated what I had to do, what I had to say.

“If—if you go, Hugh, I don't want you to come back. I want you to pack up your things and take them with you. If you leave, if you—if you do what you're planning to do, I don't want to see you again. Ever.”

He stood up, eyes full of alarm. “You don't mean that, Angie,” he said in a tight voice.

“I mean every word.”

“I love you. You know I love you.”

“Apparently not enough,” I said.

I went outside and took Matilda out of the barn and took her out to pasture, stroking her velvety tan forehead and trying hard not to cry as we stood there in the grassy tan-green field under a pure pale blue sky. She nuzzled my arm, looking at me with large, mournful eyes, as though she sensed my grief. I patted her flank and moved away, leaving her to graze, and then I fed the squawking chickens and filled their water trough. Slipping on a pair of old white gloves and a wide brimmed white straw hat, I weeded the kitchen garden, heedless of the dirt stains I was getting on my skirt. An hour passed, another, and it was nearing noon when I finally went back inside.

The house was still, silent. I sat down at the kitchen table and snapped a bowl full of crisp green beans, killing time, not strong enough yet to face up to the truth. I must keep busy every moment, and maybe the pain wouldn't sweep over me in searing waves. Maybe I would stay numb, unfeeling. Maybe I could endure it if I just kept busy. He was gone. I knew that. I hadn't heard a sound since I had come back inside. He was gone, and I would never see him again, and it was best, I would survive, somehow I would survive. It was only in novels that people died of love. The clock struck twelve, and almost at the same moment I heard the sound of horse hooves and wheels on the lane.

I went into the foyer. His bags were by the door. He had gone to the village for the horse and rig, and now he had come back to pick up his bags. I saw him stop out front, saw him climb down and open the gate and come up the walk toward the open door, and it seemed to be happening in a dream, everything slightly blurred, seen through a fine haze. He was wearing black breeches and frock coat and a deep wine-colored vest, a frothy lace jabot at his throat. His raven hair was pulled back sleekly and tied at his nape with a thin black ribbon. His deeply tanned face was drawn, skin stretched taut across those sharp cheekbones. His mouth was held in a tight line, and his dark brown eyes were expressionless as he stepped inside and took up the bags. He looked at me for a long moment, and then he turned to go.

I followed him out to the porch. He hesitated, gripping the handles of the bags so tightly his knuckles showed white. Neither of us spoke. Sunlight slanting through the oak boughs caused shadows to dance all around us on the porch. I wanted to beg him to give it up, give it up, but I couldn't. Pride and self-respect were all I had left now. He frowned and his eyes grew pained again, and at that moment the mature, splendidly attired gentleman resembled the moody, unhappy youth I had first loved so many years ago.

“You're sure this is what you want?” he asked.

“You've made your decision, Hugh,” I said. My voice was surprisingly calm. “I hope you realize your dreams. Mine have just been demolished.”

“I'm sorry, Angie.”

“Good-bye, Hugh.”

He left. I stood on the porch and watched him drive away, and it seemed my heart would break. It didn't. It never does, not for love. I got through the day and through the night with stubborn determination, refusing to give in to the anguish, refusing to cry, and I got through the next day and the next after that. I knew I would continue to go on. I would survive. One does. Time would help. Time wouldn't heal, it never does, but time would help. I kept very, very busy. I worked in the gardens and worked in the house, purposely exhausting myself, ignoring the anguish, refusing to acknowledge it. It was not easy. It was not at all easy, but determination saw me through.