Love on a Midsummer Night (Shakespeare in Love #2) (16 page)

Arabella laughed at that. She caught Pembroke’s eye across the green and she felt her face flush with pleasure. Just the touch of his gaze took her breath away.

Titania noticed the exchange and the pink that had risen in Arabella’s cheeks. Her smile took on a new light, and she lowered her voice, which was filled with the kindness of an elder sister.

“Your Grace,” Titania said. “It seems Lord Pembroke can’t keep his eyes off you, especially when you are not looking.”

Arabella felt the blush in her cheeks flood her neck and chest, heating her skin all the way into the bodice of her new gown. “You must be mistaken.”

“I am not. And it seems you feel the same way about him.”

Arabella did not answer but kept her eyes downcast, her hand on her mug of cider.

“It is not my place to interfere, and you certainly need no advice from the likes of me. But there are times when men don’t know their own minds. Sometimes they need to be told what to think. That’s why they have us.”

“But he is yours,” Arabella said.

The actress smiled, and for a moment Arabella thought she saw some fragment of pain there, but it was gone in a moment, so she doubted herself.

“As I told Cassie, Pembroke belongs to himself.”

Arabella felt a moment of sudden longing, that she might go back in time and make Pembroke truly hers. But that was impossible. The best she could hope for was to reclaim some small part of their friendship, to tell him the whole truth so that they could both get on with their lives.

Titania did not say anything more on the subject but rose to her feet. “Since his lordship has asked you to sit among us for the rehearsal, I wonder if you might assist me. I need a prompter, and my usual girl is sick in bed.”

Arabella felt a new kind of pleasure rise at the thought that she might be of use. She had never been of use to anyone in her life, save to her father when he married her off. “What is a prompter?” she asked.

“When an actor can’t remember his line, you read it to him. Other than that, you read along as we work and watch the play.”

Arabella felt nerves rise along the nape of her neck. She had never drawn attention to herself in her life and did not know how she would feel with the actors’ eyes on her.

But the thought of helping to put her favorite play onstage, even in this small way, made her smile. It would feel good to be useful.

She followed Titania to the front of the stage, where a chair had been placed for her with a cushion. A girl from the inn came by with more cider, and Arabella felt almost at home. She was sure that she would be self-conscious as the rehearsal began, but everyone seemed to know their place and hers and moved about accordingly. Even Pembroke blended well with the troupe despite his rank.

The first time an actor asked for his line, she gave it to him without hesitation, her voice loud enough to be heard, but not so loud as to draw focus away from the stage. Titania, standing on the makeshift platform in the guise of her namesake, nodded her approval, and Arabella felt a surge of pride.

For the first time in her life, Arabella felt as if she were part of something larger than herself. Though she kept her eyes on the printed pages in her hands, her attention was drawn again and again into the scene as the actors played it out over and over. Each time they brought out different nuances in the words, some treasure buried in Shakespeare’s poetry. Arabella was enthralled.

The afternoon flew by on a sparrow’s wing. She had taken off her gloves and slipped them into her basket to protect them from the ink of the pages. When she gave the script back to Titania, her fingertips were coated in black. Titania clicked her tongue when she saw it, but Arabella only smiled.

“A small price to pay to be able to sit through such a wonderful rehearsal.”

The afternoon had made her wish that she might stay and see the final production, and dance with the villagers on Midsummer night. But Arabella knew that she could not.

Pembroke waved to the actors as they turned from the stage and headed to their rooms before taking their dinner on the green. They had been invited to dine with the troupe again, but she heard Pembroke decline.

Cassie flirted shamelessly with Pembroke, batting her long lashes that had been blackened with kohl. Arabella felt a touch of fear as she watched Pembroke with the woman who had threatened to reveal her whereabouts only a few hours before.

Her throat was suddenly dry again, and she felt a prickling on her neck that made her want to look behind her. She refrained out of force of will. She would not be bullied by a two-bit actress, nor would she give in to fanciful fear. She was going to leave on the morrow, and no one would know where to find her. She would be safe from Hawthorne if she ran. She was sure of it.

Pembroke smiled absently at Cassie, but his eyes shifted away almost at once to meet Arabella’s gaze. He nodded to Cassie politely before he left the stage, coming down from his perch to stand at Arabella’s side.

The actress shot another venomous glare at Arabella and flounced away. It was safe to assume that if Pembroke did have an assignation later that night, it was not with the frazzled blond.

Pembroke stood close beside her without speaking. He took up her hands and made an effort to rub the ink of the script away. His attempt was fruitless, but he did keep her hands in his.

“I will leave you two to your evening’s revels,” Titania said. “Until tomorrow.”

She bowed to both of them and turned to the public house, the prompting script in her hand. Arabella found Pembroke staring down at her, her fingers cradled gently in one large hand.

“We need to talk,” he said.

“Are you finally willing to listen?”

“Yes.”

He stared at her, his blue eyes heating like dark flame. He leaned closer and her heart leaped in her throat. For one moment she thought that he might actually kiss her there in front of all those people, but he did not. He only took in a deep breath of the scent of her skin, as if she were a flower that had just opened.

He did not speak again but took up her basket and led her to his waiting carriage, which stood open to the evening air, its top down. The sun had begun its slow descent beyond the forest, and the moon was already rising. The coachman lowered the steps, taking her basket from Pembroke. But it was Pembroke who lifted her into the carriage before he took his place beside her.

Pembroke sat close to her, his thigh pressed against her own. Arabella felt his body heat radiating from him as if he were his own sun. But she was not repulsed by his closeness, as she had once been repulsed by her husband. On the contrary, Pembroke’s heat made her want to draw closer, as to a fire in winter. Pembroke took her hand in his. He did not speak of the past, as she thought he might.

“I am sorry that the ink stained your skin.”

Arabella smiled. “It will wash, my lord.”

“My lord, is it? I thought we established that with you, I am Pembroke.”

Arabella kept her eyes down, savoring the touch of his hand over hers. She relaxed a little, realizing that he did not want to air their old differences with his coachman listening. They sat in silence for a moment, the dusk rising from the grasses and the wildflowers along the roadside. Pembroke did not let go of her hand.

“How did you like the play?”

“I loved it.”

Pembroke cocked an eyebrow, looking up at her from under the errant lock of hair that had once again fallen over his eye. “Love is a strong word, Arabella.”

“It was wonderful,” she said. “There is something truly beautiful about a play. The beauty of such a performance lies in the fact that it will last for only one night. It is insubstantial, a phantom that with our next breath is gone, just as one day we will be.”

Pembroke stared at her as if he had found another reason to admire her. But this time she did not feel the need to blush or look away. She had always told him her thoughts when they were younger, no matter how outlandish, no matter how odd. And he had always listened. He had never mocked her but had considered her words and answered them. She felt as if she had gone back in time as he answered her now.

“Shakespeare said something of that in
The
Tempest
,” Pembroke said.

“‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep,’” Arabella said.

“I never knew you loved Shakespeare.”

“Yes, you did,” she said.

Their Forest of Arden rose between them, and all the walks they had taken together in it. They had read
A
Midsummer
Night’s Dream
to each other over the course of a week, each reading different parts, skipping over the bits with the young lovers, the bits that made her blush. Arabella found that she was not blushing now.

He did not answer her, but she saw on his face that he remembered, too.

In a futile attempt to keep the past at bay, she kept talking about Shakespeare. “I’ve been alone a long time,” she said. “There was little left to me in the last few years but to read.”

She had never spoken of the dark vistas of her married life to anyone, not even Angelique. But she needed to tell him how it had begun. She needed to tell him why she had abandoned him.

“I would like to speak with you alone,” she said.

“I know,” he said. “There are things I must tell you, too.”

She straightened her shoulders. “At dinner then?”

He took her hand in his as he helped her down from the carriage. “At dinner. I’ll see you in an hour.”

Her voice seemed to have deserted her, so she turned away and moved into the house. As she climbed the mahogany staircase, the soft carpet silencing each step, she felt almost as if she were running from him. It seemed that she could feel his gaze on her body even after she had closed the door to her bedroom behind her.

Mrs. Marks sent up a hip bath and warm water, and Arabella bathed by the fire. She took down her long hair, and washed away the grime of the last few days. She rubbed herself dry and sat at the vanity table while Rose, the upstairs maid, carefully dried her hair. She tied it at the nape of her neck in a simple blue ribbon, letting the honey-colored mass fall down her back, a few wisps soft against her cheeks and temples, framing her face.

She was ready early to greet Pembroke, but she did not go downstairs right away. She stood in front of the full-length glass in her borrowed room, considering the fact that she no longer looked as mousy as she had throughout her married life. The sun was still setting, and the windows were open, the warm summer breeze bringing in the scent of the roses below.

Arabella looked at herself in her new light blue gown. The cobbler had even managed to finish the matching slippers, so she was dressed from head to toe in new clothes, for her new beginning. She did not know where she might wear that dress in the future, but she was glad that she had it for this one night.

There was a knock on her door, and for some reason she did not call out to tell Mary to enter but went to open it herself. Pembroke was standing on the other side.

He held out the letters to her.

They were yellowed with age, their wax seals broken and all but flaked away. She saw those letters and took a step back, as if they were a disease that might be catching.

“You had them,” she said. “You had them all this time, and you called me a liar.”

She hit him then, her small fist a ball of pain. He did not dodge her blows but took them, pushing her back and into the room, closing the door behind him. She ripped the letters from his hands and tore them into bits, tossing them on the cream carpet at her feet, trampling them with her new slippers.

Pembroke drew her close then, and when she tried to strike him again, he caught her hands in both of his.

“I did not have them. Codington did. He gave them to me last night.”

Arabella shook as with a fever, one that would not burn away until it killed her. She sank down where she stood, her knees giving way. Pembroke picked her up and carried her to an armchair by the fire. The wingback surrounded them both, shutting out the rest of the world.

She did not lean against him, but she did not try to pull away. Her strength had gone. She let him hold her hands.

“I am sorry, Arabella. I am sorry I did not come for you.”

She was weeping then, deep, overwhelming sobs that rose from her gut and her spleen, carrying her fury and her pain with them. She did not hit him again, but let him draw her close. She leaned against his fine coat, her tears staining the dark green felt. His hand was in her hair, stroking and soothing her as nothing else could.

“Forgive me, Arabella. I should never have believed your father and his lies. I should never have believed my father. I should have come for you, no matter what seemed to be. I should have stolen you away from your husband’s house. I should not have left you alone.”

Arabella clung to him. She pulled her hands out of his grasp, but she did not hit him. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck as she had always longed to do, pulling him close, her tears watering the soft linen of his cravat. And still she sobbed. She was not certain that she would ever stop.

It was a long time before her pain began to fade. She saw the irony of this moment; the man she had hurt, the man whose life she had destroyed, was holding and comforting her. He had not known of her father’s betrayal. He still did not. She would tell him, finally, a burden that she could at last lay down.

“Raymond, I must tell you of my wedding day.”

He swallowed hard. She felt the movement of his Adam’s apple against her cheek as she clutched him close. His voice was rough with unshed tears. She knew that he did not want to hear it, just as she did not want to tell it. They had both had enough of pain. But he must know, so that he could choose finally to let her go.

***

Ten years before, the last day of her freedom, the last day of her youth, Arabella had spent with Raymond. On that fine day in midsummer, he kissed her beneath the king oak and gave her his mother’s ring. She wore that ruby on her left hand for the first and the last time.

On that day so long ago, she kept her hand closed in a fist, certain that if she was not careful, it would fall to the grass and she would lose it completely. In the light of the setting sun, the dark red stone gleamed like heart’s blood. She pressed her fist to her breast, as Raymond kissed her again.

“Meet me under the oak. I’ll have horses waiting.”

“I will.”

He did not walk her home, for he was not allowed on her father’s land. She went alone, planning to pack her things, one small bag, just a few bits of her mother’s lace, a few gowns, a pair of slippers. All she needed to take into her new life with him, the life they would build together.

When she snuck in through the back door, her father was waiting.

“It’s about time you came home,” was all he said.

Arabella stared at him, his wide shoulders ramrod straight, his graying hair the color of polished pewter. His light blue eyes held her still, like a bug under a pin, impaled and dying. For a moment, Arabella was sure that she could not move, could not breathe. Only when he looked away could she take a breath.

She did not try to run then, when she might have gotten away. Instead, she followed her father into the house to the front parlor that had not been used since her mother died. An old man sat by the fire there though it was midsummer and warm.

The house as always was dark and cold, the fire meager, only three candles lit by the hearth. The old man did not seem to mind but stood as her father did, his cool gray eyes assessing her as she had once seen a horse assessed at the fair in the village.

“This is His Grace, the Duke of Hawthorne. Come and greet him, daughter.”

Arabella flinched. He only called her daughter when he thought to beat her. She felt the sting of old wounds on her shoulders as she stepped forward to take the old duke’s hand.

Hawthorne bowed as if they met in a ballroom, surrounded by bright lights and soft laughter, dancing and merriment. He kissed her fingertips, his lips leaving a trace of spittle on the back of her hand.

She felt her dread rising. Her father had never brought anyone home before. She curtsied, her eyes cast down to hide her fear. She knew her father could smell it on her, but she might escape a beating if he did not see it in her eyes.

“The duke has graciously condescended to marry you on the morrow. You may hold your tongue. I can only imagine how pleased you must be to become a peer of the realm, the wife of such a man. I have no doubt that you are grateful that we have arranged such a stellar match for the likes of you.”

Arabella stepped away from the two old men, her mind whirling. She had never seen this man before in her life. She would not marry him, tomorrow or ever.

She knew then that she would have no time to pack a bag. The fragments of her mother’s memory and of her old life would have to be left behind. If she could get to Pembroke, if she could reach him, she would be safe, no matter what her father said, no matter what bargains he had made.

She still wore her cloak of dark blue wool. She murmured something polite and curtsied again, drawing her cloak close about her. She stepped into the hall as if to go to her room, but her father must have seen some hint of defiance in her face. When she turned not toward the staircase, but to the back door of the house, her father caught her arm. He dragged her up the stairs himself, while the old butler stood looking on, silent and dour.

As always, the house was ill lit. Her father carried a lamp in one hand, gripping her thin arm in the other. She had never fought him in her life, but she fought him then, desperately trying to tear herself away, as she would have torn away from a bear trap if caught in the woods. She could not think of failure, only of escape.

“I know you’ve been sneaking around with the earl’s son,” her father said. “That’s all well and good for childish pleasures, but you will be a woman on the morrow and you will obey me every moment until then. You will marry the Duke of Hawthorne as I bid you. You will put a smile on your face tomorrow morning, and you will swear to obey him for the rest of your life.”

Arabella saw the key in his hand and knew that he meant to lock her in. Despite the years she had lived with him, in spite of the beatings she had received at his hands since her mother’s death, for the first time she stopped struggling and asked for mercy.

“Father, I love him.”

He did not hesitate. She wondered for a moment if he had even heard her speak. He pushed her into her bedroom, the cold hearth filled with ash.

Her father struck her once, raising a welt on her cheek. “Love is just a pretty word. You will marry where I bid you.”

He slammed the door to her room, locking it behind him. Arabella could not take those words as her epitaph. She hammered her hands bloody against that door, hoping some servant would hear, take pity, and set her free. But the entire household was as afraid of her father as she was, and no one came.

He heard her though, and he came back with a supple willow wand, a wand she had not seen since she was a girl, since he had taken to beating her with his riding crop.

“Take off your shoes,” he said.

“I will not.”

So he called in his valet to hold her down and he took her shoes off himself and beat the soles of her feet as his man kept her pressed into the threadbare carpet. It was not a bad beating as some of them went. He stopped after ten strokes. She knew then that he was serious about making her marry on the morrow. There would be no time to escape.

Arabella sat up all night, alone in the dark. Just before dawn an upstairs maid came to dress her hair and to help her into her wedding gown, a blue silk gown of her mother’s that now fit.

She slipped a letter to Raymond into the basket that had held the remains of her breakfast bread, asking the girl to hand the letter to the cook. Mrs. Fielding would see that Pembroke received it.

In an hour, Arabella’s father came to take her downstairs to be wed. He drew out the letter she had written, telling Pembroke why she had not come to him.

“You cannot defy me, Arabella. I am your father, and I hold your life, such as it is, in my hands. You will obey me as God has ordained. You will come downstairs now and take an oath to obey your husband for the rest of your life. Forget this boy. He is dead to you, or I will make him so.”

Arabella could not be certain he truly meant that he would kill him, but in that moment, she believed him. She watched as he burned her letter to Pembroke. He drew a flint from his pocket and struck a spark that ignited the small blaze. When it was gone, with all her hope, he took up the fire tongs and scattered the ashes before he led her down to the drawing room to marry the Duke of Hawthorne.

***

Pembroke pressed his hand to hers. He felt his mind wheeling in circles like a great bird, looking down on that long-ago day. He saw her father as he had once seen him, a huge, imposing man whose ambition burned like a brand, raising blisters on all it touched. He saw her face as he had seen it on her wedding day, thin, pale, and drawn, her eyes downcast except when she had looked at him.

That day he had been so filled with pain, so overcome by anger and despair that he had not truly seen her, not really. He had seen only a woman who had betrayed him, an avaricious woman who had played him for a fool, lying to him one night only to marry another man the next day. He had been a boy of eighteen, unable to see past his own wounded pride and his own pain. But now Pembroke looked back down the corridor of years and saw Arabella as she truly had been. A seventeen-year-old girl, lost and alone, with no man to defend her, not even him.

Pembroke wept, pressing his hands to his face. He knelt beside her chair and laid his head in her lap, his tears staining the linen of her napkin. Arabella pressed her fingers into the softness of his hair. He felt her soothing touch like a balm on his soul. He raised his head and wiped away the last of his tears.

“I have always loved you,” he said. “I never stopped, not for one moment, from that day to this.”

The silence stretched between them as he looked into her light blue eyes that matched the room around them, the room he had designed just for her, when he had been certain that she would never see it.

Arabella pressed her lips to his forehead. Pembroke felt the last of the open wound on his heart heal.

“I love you, Raymond. I always loved you, even when it was no longer my right.”

She stood as if to run from him, and he rose to his feet with her, still not letting go of her hand. Pembroke pulled her to him, holding her within the prison of his arms. He did not tighten his grip, he did not try to distract her with desire, with the press of his lips on hers. He wrapped his arms around her but gave her room to move, room to breathe. He would not smother her, but he also knew that he would never let her go.

Arabella stopped fighting him and leaned against his chest. She rested her head just above his heart. He could feel her breath and her heartbeat, like the wings of a tiny bird, frantic to be free. Finally, her heart slowed and her breathing became even. He wondered for a moment if she had fallen asleep, she was so quiet as she leaned against him.

“Marry me, Arabella.”

She shook in his arms, and when he looked down at her face, he saw that she was not weeping but laughing, the light of joy on her face.

“I cannot marry you,” she said. “I will never belong to a man again. And Hawthorne is coming. I cannot be here when he arrives. But thank you for asking me.”

“I will protect you from Hawthorne.”

“And who will protect you? From a duke of the realm? From a friend of the Prince Regent?”

“I’ll call him out. I’ll kill him for touching you.”

“He would kill you.”

“No, he won’t.”

Arabella knew Hawthorne too well to believe that. No matter how mad he might be, he was a crack shot. Hawthorne had killed at least one man in cold blood on the dueling field, and she knew it would not trouble him to shoot one more. It might even give him pleasure.