Shades of Neverland (4 page)

“Peter,” he reasoned. “She is your senior.”

“True love cares nothing of age, Griffin.”

“Wendy Darling is of good family. She will be a gentleman’s wife.”

“Don’t you think that is for her to decide?”

“Peter, you know girls do not make such decisions, their families choose for them. Besides she does not even know you exist!”

“She may not know of me yet, Griffin, but she can feel me.” Peter smiled his most dazzling and cocky smile. “Relax, dear brother, I have a plan.”

“What plan? You can barely function in her presence!”

“Griffin, what does my Wendy love above all else?”

“How should I know? I—we—you barely know her!”

“She loves theatre above all else.”

“So?”

“So—I shall just have to become a part of what she loves best.”

“Peter,” exclaimed his brother. “You already have accomplished every job possible at the theatre and she remains completely ignorant of your existence. What else is to be done?”

“Every job, save one,” Peter replied. “Griffin, I mean to become an actor!”

Since his discovery of Wendy, Peter had waited patiently for an opportunity to take center stage at the theatre and in his beloved’s heart. Little did he suspect, as he and Griffin hurried through the early morning streets to the Duke of York’s Theatre, that fate was about to give him his chance.

CHAPTER 5

D'Artagnon Takes Center Stage

For those unfamiliar with the nature of the stage, the theatre is always a mass of energy prior to performances, and on the morning of a new production its frantic pace seems to accelerate to a maddening speed. The Duke of York’s Theatre was no exception. Therefore, Peter and Griffin were greatly surprised to be greeted backstage with frustrated inactivity. From the condition of the stage, sets and costumes asunder, it seemed that preparations had come to a screeching halt. Rather than making ready, cast and crew gathered in tight knots as if awaiting inspiration or guidance.

“Poole,” Griffin inquired in a hushed tone. “Why is everyone standing about? Has something happened?”
 

“Oh tragedy! Ruin!” replied the assistant, with all the dramatic emphasis befitting his occupation. “The play cannot open! It is a sad day for the Duke of York’s Theatre.” As if to emphasize the point, Poole blew his nose loudly.

“But what prevents
The Three Musketeers
from opening today? Yesterday everything seemed in perfect readiness.”

“It is our D’Artagnon. Granville injured his arm practicing the great swordfight in Act Five. See, he cannot even hold his weapon! We cannot present
The Three Musketeers
without a D’Artagnon!”

The boys looked at Granville, who made a stoic, although unsuccessful, effort to raise his sword. The director, Dion Boucicault (pronounced Boo-see-
kO
), thundered about, pausing now and then to scowl at the injured actor. “What good is it if you can hold the thing? If you cannot wield
D’Artagnon’s
sword, then we shall be forced to cut all the great fight scenes! Why don’t we cut off the Musketeers’ testicles while we are at it?! No, the play will not go on!”

Peter stepped forward, speaking for the first time, “Mr. Boucicault, I can do it.”

“What?” He looked Peter up and down skeptically. “Aren’t you one half of the pair of little stage mice that are always lurking about? No, I’m afraid we will have to cancel.”

“Give me a chance, Sir. I can do it. I know every word by heart!”

“It is not merely a matter of words, boy. It is a matter of passion, and feeling—and—and fencing.”

Poole cut in. “The boy can fence.”

“It is not just a matter of fencing,” the director continued. “It is a matter of feeling and passion—and-”

As Mr. Boucicault delivered his speech, Peter walked over to Granville and asked for his sword. Brandishing the sword, he turned to the Fight Captain, Monsieur
Girrold
.

“
Engarde
!”

Monsieur
Girrold
drew his sword in answer and a wonderful freeform swordfight began. At first, the captain was easy on the boy, but as Peter exhibited his apparent skill, the man began to respond without reluctance. As M.
Girrold
thrust, Peter parried each move without hesitation. Soon the boy gained the advantage relegating his opponent to a somewhat frantic defense. Like a whirling dervish possessed, Peter cut, parried, and twirled across the stage in a most impressive display. Only when he had bested the Fight Captain, separating him from his weapon, did he look at Mr. Boucicault, who in turn was staring at Monsieur
Girrold
. The entire company, who had been watching, broke out in enthusiastic applause.

 
“The boy is D’Artagnon incarnate!” exclaimed the breathless Captain as he retrieved his sword. “Peter, surely you were a swashbuckler in another life! Where did you learn to do that?”

Peter shrugged.

“He has always been able to do that,” Griffin replied proudly.

Shaking his head, Mr. Boucicault bellowed to the company, “What are you waiting for? Get the boy in costume, practice the fight sequences, and run the lines to all
D’Artagnon’s
scenes. After all, the show must go on!”

His dream finally within his grasp, Peter rushed to get ready, so overjoyed he thought he might crow.

Wendy seated herself excitedly in the first row of the Royal Circle and began examining her
programme
. She loved the story of the Three Musketeers and greatly anticipated this new production. Over the past fortnight, she had worked herself into more than one agitation trying to visualize the cast enacting her most beloved scenes. Little did she realize how much the production would exceed her expectations.

The girl scanned the curtained stage. Something more than anticipation tugged at her hopes. A pull, nearly magnetic in nature, caused her eyes to fix on the far right corner—the actors’ stage left—as if the meaning of life, itself, were there and about to reveal all its mysteries to her.

“Wendy dear,” exclaimed Maimie pulling out a handsomely feathered fan. “The play has not yet begun and already you are flushed and trembling. You must try to calm yourself. You will never attract a husband in such a tizzy.”

At the word
husband
Wendy looked up sharply. “Do not even presume to joke about such matters, Maimie. James will not be put off much longer. Father and Mother seem to quarrel fortnightly about how to press him for an engagement. Aunt Mildred shamelessly flatters his great aunt and grandmamma. Even the dressmaker is dropping hints. Every time she comes, she brings sketches of the latest wedding gown designs from Paris. I am at my wit’s end! Truly you and this theatre are the only bits of peace afforded me.”

“Even this,” Maimie gestured around her, “may soon be coming to an end. Mother says that once I marry, it will not do for the
Viscountess
Withington
of Perrin Hall to appear in society unchaperoned and without her husband. Guessing on Lord
Withington’s
tastes, I shall be doomed to a box at the Opera.”

“The Opera?” Wendy exclaimed in horror and grasped her friend’s hand. “Oh Maimie, what will I do when you become a bride? I shall die of loneliness.”

“You will marry, too, and everything will turn out right in the end. You will see.”

Shaking her head, Wendy closed her eyes and sighed. “Aunt Mildred is odious indeed, but for the sake of this” indicating the theatre with a sweep of her hand “I shall have to endure.”

“If only you married, you would gain independence from the old spinster’s iron fist.”

“And trade it for the control of a husband? I have always wanted a family of my own, to be a mother, but at what cost, dear friend?”

An expectant hush fell over the theatre. Wendy turned her attention again toward the stage to see Mr. Charles Frohman, the producer and an American, standing before them.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the part of D’Artagnon will be played by Peter…uh…Peter…um…Neverland—Peter Neverland, who will be making his stage debut.”

Wendy’s eyebrows raised in surprise.
Peter Neverland?
She’d never heard of him. A quick glance at Maimie confirmed he was unknown to her as well.

The curtain rose while Wendy leaned perilously forward, scanning the stage in annoyance. D’Artagnon was one of her favorite literary characters. She had been looking forward to Granville’s portrayal. The role would require skill and subtlety—no novice to the stage could do it justice.
And besides…that is…and…

Wendy’s train of thought abruptly derailed, for D’Artagnon had stepped from the very spot where her eyes had previously alighted. As he took center stage, everything else ceased to exist. For her, the world had become pitch black except for one shining spotlight causing the young man below to glow as if lit by the sun itself. He was not merely an actor but an angel—D’Artagnon incarnate!

To say the actor was handsome was an understatement. He had not the delicate features of some pretty men. No. For lack of a better description, he was breathtaking!

His thick chestnut hair had a slight curl with copper and golden highlights that shimmered under the stage lights. He had a straight, aristocratic nose and his square chin bore a delectable cleft. When he smiled, his generous mouth revealed white, straight teeth and deeply dimpled cheeks.

His dazzling eyes were by far his most striking attribute. Deep emerald green, colored with flecks of gold and mahogany, they were terrible and sublime all at once. They seemed to search Wendy out in the darkness. Caught in their gaze, she felt transparent as he stared up at her with eyes so bright that they seemed to bore two holes to the Heavens.

Although he was the height and size of a man, he had a discernable boyishness to him. It was the kind of combination, Wendy reflected, that made him appear older than his actual years but would, in later life, make him seem considerably younger. Coupled with his unrestrained zeal, his appearance made him glorious—god-like. Wendy could not take her eyes off him.

For the next three hours, there was only Peter. The play, the actors, the words meant nothing to her. Every time he exited the stage, Wendy bit her lower lip in anguish. Without realizing she was doing so, she held her breath as long as she dared. Staring at the wing, she willed him to return so she could breathe again.

The final act contained a thrilling swordfight. Peter was magnificent! He was so sure and brave that Wendy felt certain he was a swashbuckler in a previous life.

As the curtain closed, the audience rose to its feet, as one, but Wendy could not move. Overcome with emotion, her whole body trembled with an unexpected force. She ached with the need to know Peter; longed to bare her soul to him—confide her every thought and fear—without restraint. She needed to consume every scrap of information Peter could give her and this need felt very close to madness.

If she had been capable of rational thought, she would’ve had an epiphany as to why so many of Shakespeare’s plays ended in tragedy. For the line that separates true love from insanity thins to the point of transparency. But Wendy had no such insight.

The unfortunate girl was undone.

Eyes closed and shivering, she sat for the longest time in torment. Finally, with Maimie’s pleading and the insistence of the head of ushers, Wendy left the darkened theatre feeling more confused and alone than she had in her whole life. It seemed her entire existence began and ended in that single afternoon alongside the story of D’Artagnon…and the actor, Peter Neverland.

It would seem improbable, impossible even, that two people who’d never spoken could form such an immediate and earth-shattering attachment at first sight. Very few have the aptitude to see it and even fewer the propensity to experience it. But you should understand, there are unseen forces at work.

If one were to look toward the Neverlands, a certain island would appear to be waking up. Through the mist, we can just glimpse the first stirrings of spring after an interminable, frozen winter. Furthermore, Wendy and Peter are not unknown to one another, even if both have forgotten and remain quite ignorant of their previous acquaintance. Despite thinking themselves strangers, each felt as if they had danced a hundred dances and shared a summer’s worth of conversation with the other.

And now that we understand the way of it, let us draw closer to discover what each makes of this most fortuitous encounter.

At Peter’s urging, Griffin took up a permanent station in the stage left wing. From that position he could observe Wendy and report to Peter between scenes.

It was from that vantage Peter had been waiting with his brother just prior to curtain, when Mr. Frohman made his announcement. “Ladies and Gentlemen, the part of D’Artagnon will be played by Peter…uh…Peter…um…” Having forgotten Peter’s surname he glanced helplessly toward the brothers.

But before Griffin could say Smythe, Peter blurted out, “Neverland.”

Flustered, Frohman continued, “Neverland—Peter Neverland, who will be making his stage debut.”

Griffin raised his dark eyebrows whispering, “Neverland?”

“A stage name, Brother. In case of disaster, I would hate for this to reflect on Father.” At the moment of decision it had popped into his mind, unbidden. And although he could not articulate his reasons, he rather liked the name. It felt exotic and comfortable at the same time, like a well-loved treasure from abroad.