The Stepsister's Triumph (17 page)

They filed past the gaping matron and her red-faced son. Adele may even have nodded and smiled. Madelene concentrated on lifting her hems as she climbed the step. The footman pulled out a chair. Madelene sat. She held her head up. She held her spine straight.

Helene took the seat next to hers. She pressed Madelene's gloved hand with her own. Madelene didn't look at her. She couldn't bear to see her friend's sympathy and anger. She might start to cry. She couldn't risk it. Everyone would stare.

Not that some of them weren't staring anyway. Last year, the Theatre Royal had moved to an entirely new system of lighting. Gas lamps hissed and buzzed in every cornice, filling the theater with a bright, clear, unwavering light. Helene was busy expounding on the mechanism to Adele. Adele was fluttering her fan and rolling her eyes.

Around them, the crowd, all shining in their finest clothes and best jewels, was exchanging their greetings, finding their seats, and, of course, staring about to see who else was there. Snatches of conversation drifted from the seats and other boxes.

“. . . Miss Valmeyer. She's his cousin, would you believe . . .”

“. . . a gala evening, and Mister Cross is giving . . .”

“. . . I never would have believed it, myself, but it is quite true . . .”

Despite her previous resolve, Madelene felt herself beginning to wilt. She tried to reach out, to let herself enfold the space about her and take command of it, but she didn't have enough strength left. All she could see in front of her were Benedict's furious eyes. All she could feel was pain as she realized those eyes had never really seen her at all. Worse, he'd never wanted to. He'd only wanted the painted girl, the one he made and controlled.

If it wasn't for Adele and Helene beside her, she would have crumpled.

“Courage,” Helene murmured. “It's just a few hours, then we can all plead busy days tomorrow and go home together.”

“We have an invitation to join Lady Abbotsdown down in her box during the interval.” Miss Sewell displayed the folded note she held. She also looked directly at Madelene. “Shall I refuse?”

Madelene wanted to refuse. She wanted to run away right now. But she stiffened her spine. That's what the old Madelene would do, the timid mouse who so enthralled Lord Benedict that he wanted her to stay in her corner forever.

“No. Of course not,” she said, although she knew the words were thick with weariness. “Lady Abbotsdown is on our guest list for the ball. She might . . . she might feel snubbed.”

She half expected one of her friends to protest, but none did.

“Fuller, you may tell Lady Abbotsdown we accept with pleasure,” said Miss Sewell. Fuller bowed, and he left.

Madelene made herself face the stage. She made herself smile and applaud as the curtain rose. She, too, had a part to play. She could die later.

*   *   *

Benedict climbed out of the hired hackney. He stared up at the theater, glowing white in the bright new lights. He could hear the sharp sound of laughter from the audience. He mounted the stairs, pulled open the doors and stepped into the gilded lobby.

Mr. Cross had told him Madelene would be in his private box, if she decided to come. He said the interval would be about an hour and a half after the rise of the curtain. But the London streets had been clogged with carriages and mud, and the interval must have come and gone by now.

He could wait here. Try and see her as she came out. If he went into the box now, he would be noticed. The whole audience would turn. Madelene would be embarrassed. He should wait.

He should turn around. He should silently wish her well and leave her to the life she wanted. He was better off alone. She was better off without a selfish, wounded man like him.

Benedict put his hand on the gilded railing of the sweeping staircase and began climbing. He could not even have truly said why he did, only that it was what he must do.

*   *   *

“. . . Is there any way to show such friendship?” On the stage, Cousin Henry knelt and held up his hands, pleading to his Beatrice embodied by the lush form of Mrs. Jordan.

“A very even way,” she answered, “but no such friend.”

Madelene watched Beatrice turn her back decidedly and dramatically on her Benedick.
I shouldn't have come.

“May a man do it?”

“It is a man's office, but not yours.”

It was bad enough to watch Cousin Henry play the charming and roguish hero of
Much Ado About Nothing
, who happened to be named Benedick. But to watch that Benedick declaring his love to the distraught Beatrice was past bearing.

“. . . You have stayed me in a happy hour!” Beatrice cried. “I was about to protest I loved you!”

“And do it with all thy heart!”

Madelene was crying. She knew it. She could feel the tears slipping silently down her cheeks, but she could not stop them. She couldn't even lift a hand to wipe them away. She had to hope that if any opera glasses turned toward her, they would think her show of emotion was brought on by the play. She had to stop this. She had to do something. She had to . . .

The box's door opened behind them. They all turned, Madelene more slowly than the others.

Madelene rose to her feet.

It was Benedict, Lord Benedict,
her
Benedict, but it was not. The man who stole softly into their box was no untidy artist. This was a gentleman in flawless evening dress. The coat was precisely tailored, and the white silk breeches might have been painted onto his muscled legs, they fit so exactly. A single golden pin decorated his immaculate cravat. His gloves were as white as his shirt and his breeches. His unruly hair had been smoothed back and bound tightly with black ribbon in the naval fashion.

“. . . Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love thee.”

Benedict looked right past Madelene and bowed to Miss Sewell.

“Miss Sewell,” he murmured. “You will forgive this intrusion, I hope? Mister Cross gave me permission to inquire whether I could join you tonight.”

Miss Sewell did not even bat an eye. “Lord Benedict,” she said. “How very good to see you. I certainly have no objection to your making one of our party, but the decision does not lie with me. Miss Valmeyer?”

“Enough, I am engaged. I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand . . .”

Madelene closed her mouth.

Adele elbowed her in the ribs.

Helene kicked Adele's ankle.

Benedict ignored all this activity as thoroughly as he ignored the scene on the stage and the faces that were turning toward them from the other boxes and the balconies. He waited, quietly, calmly. He was so perfect, so polished, it was not to be comprehended. He was beyond handsome. He was magnificent. He had always looked magnificent to her, of course, but now his thoroughly masculine beauty had been polished to a high gloss and placed in a sophisticated setting, and his bearing proclaimed he belonged here.

What do I do? What do I do?
She glanced frantically at her friends. They were in a box. The theater's new gas lighting left no shadows to speak of. They could be seen perfectly by anybody who cared to look. On the stage, the curtain was going down for the scene change. People were applauding, and whispering. They were watching.

“Miss Valmeyer?” Benedict asked softly. “What is your wish? May I stay with you?”

“You . . . you . . .” She clamped her mouth closed. Then she grabbed up her train and headed for the door. “You can come with me,” she ordered as she pushed past him.

It was hardly more private out in the corridor, with waiters and porters and stragglers going to and fro. Indeed all manner of persons were taking advantage of the pause while the scene was changed to go in search of the retiring room, or to find a waiter for fresh drinks or to order a supper.

Despite this, Madelene made herself face Benedict. Love and anger warred frantically within her. She was dazzled by the sight of him. All the loneliness that had descended on her since she broke with him had parted like storm clouds to let the strength of his presence shine through, and it left her shaking. This was real. It was happening. He had come back.

But what he'd said was real, too, about her, about her friends. The way he'd wanted to shut her away in the name of protecting her. She could not forget that for one moment, and that was what she held in her mind as she finally gathered enough breath to speak.

“Just what do you think you're doing here?” she demanded in a harsh whisper.

“Apologizing,” he answered. “And, I hope, proving to you that I am able to be your escort for the season.”

“But you hate society. You hate me being in society!”

“I feared it. I feared seeing you as a success.” He might look entirely new to her, but he spoke in his familiar, blunt way, and Madelene's heart trembled. “But that was not your fault. It was entirely mine. I was misled by a vicious report, and in my weakness, I believed it. Madelene . . .” He reached toward her. “Madelene, will you hear me out?”

She wanted to take his hand. She wanted to pull him close, and never mind who stopped to stare. She needed to tell him all was already forgiven. But she made herself stand still and simply nod.

Benedict took a deep breath, steeling himself. She watched the uncertainty ripple behind his dark eyes.
Don't give way
, she thought toward him.
Whatever happens between us next, it's forever, and you know it and I know it. Please, Benedict.

“I've told you about me, and about Gabriella. How when I first made my name, it was because of the pictures I painted of her.”

“Yes.”

“And I told you how the fame went to my head. How the attention became a craving. How we went everywhere and we were known, and I loved it.” He paused. “We loved it.”

Madelene said nothing.

“Gabriella was more than just a beauty,” he whispered. “She had a power about her. She fascinated everyone. People wanted to do whatever she asked, just because she asked. And because she enjoyed my fame as much as I did, she helped court patrons for me. Men, mostly, but some women as well. When she suggested they have this scene or that painted. Well . . .” He shrugged. “It tended to happen. At first it was genuine. She was helping me, after all. The commissions paid our bills, and there were a lot of those.” He stopped and put his hand against the wall to steady himself. Behind him, a pair of beaus heading to their own box glanced at the two of them curiously.

Madelene ignored them. “You said at first it was genuine?”

Benedict nodded. “Later . . . she brought in the commissions to keep me busy, and out of the way.”

“She was using you,” breathed Madelene.

“And I was using her,” whispered Benedict harshly. “You didn't know her when I first brought her to London. Society loved her. She was fresh and new, and she loved it back, but she didn't understand it. The hypocrisy, the dangers. And I didn't shield her from any of it. In fact, I shoved her forward, because the more popular she was, the more popular I was.” He hung his head. “That's the real reason I fell so far. Because I believed what happened was my fault. I believed as her husband, I should have protected her, guided her. I should have taken charge of the direction of her character.” His hand knotted into a fist where it pressed against the wall. “That's what we're told a husband does, what a man does. Women are weaker, wilder. They
need
us to control them, and I failed in my duty.”

“You cannot control another human being,” Madelene said. “You can try, but in the end they make their own decisions, even if those decisions are terrible.”

Benedict nodded. “I know. I know. But I have spent years believing that, if I had been a better husband and kept her at home, we would have stayed happy. But as it was, the more parties we went to, the more my paintings were in demand, especially my paintings of her. I didn't see . . . I didn't know . . .”

What could she say to help him? There was nothing. But she could touch him, even here in the glare of the white lights. Madelene laid a hand on his arm.

“I think I suspected Gabriella was taking lovers, but I didn't want to believe it,” Benedict's whisper turned harsh. “I was famous, and I wanted that more than . . . more than anything. Certainly more than I wanted to see the truth. Even when men started to laugh at me, even when my friends started to warn me.” Madelene felt his strong arm tremble.

“What happened?” she asked as gently as she could.

Benedict's mouth curled into a mirthless smile. “Gabriella fell in love.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. He was shallow and ruthless and his conquest of her was quite thorough. She was the jewel in his crown, for a time. He used her, and he humiliated her, publically. And finally, it became too much for her.”

“Oh. Oh no.”

He nodded again. “They had rooms in town, and according to the maid, she was accustomed to dining with him there. I don't . . . I don't know everything. They only brought me, afterward, to collect her body. But I have always assumed that she poisoned the wine and then drank it with him.

“Despite all she had done, despite the way she treated me, when she died, I . . . well, I nearly died with her. I didn't paint for a year after that. And when I did, they were awful, nightmarish things. It was a long time before I could try to believe in beauty again.” His gaze found hers, and all the love and all the pain that shone in his eyes engulfed her.

“Then I met you, and it wasn't just beauty I could believe in, but love. And I was afraid. I didn't trust you. I didn't trust myself. I was afraid the world would do to you what it did to Gabriella and that I'd lose you like I lost her.”

Benedict took her hand. With that simple act, every memory of every moment they had shared seemed to flood through her. The sensation was almost too strong. It threatened to rob her of speech. But Madelene knew she could not afford to remain silent now. And for this once, she even knew what to say.