Angel in Scarlet (40 page)

“So much indeed. You've had the lead in six hugely successful plays. You've become the most famous, the most popular and the most beloved actress on the London stage—all because Lamb believed in you.”

“I've worked like the devil,” I said defensively.

“You have indeed.”

“The critics say I have flair and style and a delicious light touch,” I informed her. “They say I'm wasted in these turgid historical melodramas.”

“I've read the reviews, dear.”

“Davy Garrick wants me to join him at Drury Lane.”

“So I've heard.”

“Richard Sheridan wants me to do his next play.
The Rivals
was a glorious success with critics
and
the public.
The School For Scandal
ran for months last year.”

“I know, dear. I did the costumes.”

“Oliver Goldsmith bemoans the fact that I wasn't in the original production of
She Stoops To Conquer
. He wants me to play Kate Hardcastle in the revival he plans to do next November.”

“You're very much in demand,” Dottie agreed. “You clearly don't need Lamb any more. Why don't you accept one of those highly tempting offers?”

“One of these days I just might!”

Dottie smiled to herself and handed me a clean cloth, and I began to pat my face and freshen my makeup. When I had finished, I brushed my hair until it fell in gleaming chestnut waves. Dottie took my silver and violet gown from the rack, handling it with loving care. It was the most elaborate, the most expensive gown she had ever done, and she was justifiably proud of her craftsmanship. I took off my robe and put on the silver-tissue petticoat with its half dozen full, spreading skirts. The bodice was cut quite low, leaving most of my bosom bare, the waist extremely snug. I stepped into the high-heeled violet slippers, and Dottie helped me into the gown.

“Where is Lamb?” she asked. “I haven't seen him tonight.”

“He's skulking around the front foyer, tearing his hair, suffering the agonies of the damned, convinced the play will be a disastrous failure—you know how he is opening nights. He's never fit to live with until at least sixty people pound him on the back and assure him the play will run forever.”

I slipped my arms into the short puffed sleeves and adjusted the bodice as Dottie began to do up the tiny hooks in back. This done, she spread the skirt out over the underskirts, smoothing it carefully, then stepped back. Framed by baskets of flowers, I stood in front of the full length mirror. The shimmering silver cloth was embroidered with tiny violet silk flowers, and the skirt parted in front, draped to display a sumptuous violet velvet underskirt. With the short puffed sleeves worn off the shoulder, the form-fitting bodice cut daringly low, the gown was a bold, magnificent creation.

“It's absolutely gorgeous, Dottie,” I said. “It must have taken weeks to embroider all those delicate violet flowers. I—sometimes I still miss working at the shop.”

“And I miss you, too, dear. I have the Simpson sisters now. They're very skillful, very efficient, work like Trojans but, alas, have all the personality of prunes. I get the work done, but the place isn't the same since you and Megan left. I'm proud of you both nevertheless.”

“Megan's done wonderfully well. Jamie didn't want to use her for
The Goldsmith's Wife
—I had to fight for her—and then she almost walked off with the play. Audiences love her.”

Andy Dobson rapped on the door and opened it to inform me that the curtain was going up. I patted my hair and then put on the glittering diamond and amethyst necklace Dottie handed me. The loops of diamonds flashed with a shimmery fire, the amethyst pendants glowing a warm violet-pink. Although merely paste, they looked real enough, especially crafted by one of London's finest jewelers. I sighed, fastening the matching bracelet around my wrist.

“Mrs. Perry wears
real
diamonds as Castlemaine. Her lover, the Duke of Ambrose, gave them to her, and she insists on flaunting them.”

“Most unwise of her, I should think, with Lord Blackie on such a rampage,” Dottie said. “You can't open a paper nowadays without reading about another of his exploits. Captured the public's fancy, he has—haven't seen anything like it since the heyday of Jonathan Wild. One of these nights he's likely to break into Perry's flat and politely divest her of those diamonds.”

“And it would serve the slut right. I can't abide the woman—always giving herself airs just because she's got a noble protector—but she is a gifted actress. I'd better go, Dottie.”

“You're going to be marvelous, dear. I'll have a fresh cup of tea waiting for you after your curtain calls.”

I moved back down the hall toward the wings, careful not to let my spreading skirts brush against the dusty flats. I stepped over a coil of rope, moved around fake marble columns the crew hadn't yet stored away. It was dim and shadowy back here, but I knew my way by heart. The Lambert was like a second home to me, every nook and cranny as familiar as the back of my hand, and I had grown so accustomed to the smell of dust and mildew, hemp, stale greasepaint and powder that I no longer even noticed it. I smiled at a stagehand and moved on into the wings, standing in the shadows and watching the activity onstage, fighting the panic as I always did.

Three years it had been since I made my debut in
The Goldsmith's Wife
. Six plays I had done. I was a seasoned actress now. I was a professional. I still felt sheer terror every time I started to go onstage. My throat tightened. My mouth went dry. I felt a hollow sensation in the pit of my stomach. I was going to forget all my lines. I was going to trip and fall flat on my face. Everyone was going to laugh at me. I was going to make a bloody fool of myself. I took several deep breaths. You're going to be perfectly all right, I assured myself. You're going to be fine. You
always
feel this way. You'll go on and you won't trip over your skirts and you won't forget your lines and you
will
control this trembling. Why the hell do I do it? Why the hell did I let him talk me into it in the first place? I hate acting. There's nothing glamorous or exciting about it. It's hellishly hard work. It tears your nerves to shreds. I'm going to throw up. I can't go on. I can't possibly. I'm ill. There's no way I'm going to go out there and humiliate myself in front of hundreds of people.

Charles II and the Duke of Buckingham were having a heated confrontation in the King's private drawing room, all done in ivory and gold and pearl gray, pale violet upholstery covering chairs and sofa. The blasted spaniels were curled up on a pile of sky blue cushions near the King's chair. They looked jumpy and on edge. I closed my eyes for a moment, valiantly struggling for control. Buckingham confessed that he had indeed been part of the conspiracy to discredit Nellie, to oust her from Whitehall, and he admitted that Castlemaine was behind it, afraid she would be supplanted. Charles sighed and shook his head and said it was about time for the beautiful Barbara to make a long visit to her country estates. Buckingham left. Charles turned to the spaniels and informed them that these meddlesome women were going to drive him mad with their jealous spats. Nellie was different, though, he told them. Nellie didn't give a damn whether he was a king or a pauper. She was the only woman who had ever loved him for himself, and he'd be damned if he'd let those gorgeous bitches drive her away … Oh God, he was going to hear the knock and turn around … I took another deep breath and swallowed and Angel Howard vanished.

I touched my hair. I brushed my skirt. I became bright, saucy Nellie, all vivacity and sass, still the mischievous scamp of Covent Garden despite the silver and violet gown, despite the jewels. The knock sounded. Charles II turned, arching one brow. I sallied onstage, not waiting to be announced, an engaging, capricious minx who was shockingly irreverent and refused to treat her handsome Charlie like the monarch he was. There were several oh's and ah's at my magnificent gown, then a round of noisy applause. I ignored it, just as I ignored the heat of the footlights and that vast darkness out there filled with staring eyes. I was Nell Gwynn, raffish orange girl and actress now become the King's favorite, and I greeted my King impishly and confessed that yes, I
had
put laxative in Moll Davis's chocolates in order to take her place and yes, I
had
smuggled the handsome lackey into Castlemaine's bedchamber and forged a note requesting Charles to come see her at once on urgent business.

“But I didn't know she was going to jump into bed with him, Sire,” I added, ever so winsome. “I thought surely she'd send him away. Bet she was taken aback when you came sauntering into her bedchamber.”

“Taken aback and
on
her back,” he said solemnly, and then he grinned. “Ah, you're a sly minx, Nellie, a veritable imp.”

“'Tis my nature, Sire.”

The scene was going remarkably well. The spaniels were behaving themselves, and Charles Hart's casual, laconic delivery was perfectly suited for the role of Charles II. He certainly looked the part in the silver-embroidered blue brocade and long brown wig. He smiled indulgently as I made more confessions of pranks pulled on the beautiful but vicious Castlemaine. “But Sire,” I said, “'twas done for love. Were I to lose my handsome Charlie, 'twould break my heart.” He was touched by that, so touched he had to turn away—Megan really wasn't at all fair, Hart was quite good and had the makings of a superb leading man. He moved over to his chair and sat down, and I began my big scene wherein I grew serious, pledged eternal devotion and shed real tears.

I had scarcely started when one of the spaniels got up from its cushion and wandered over to the chair. It sniffed about a moment and then blithely hoisted its hind leg and pissed all over the silk-clad ankle of Charles II. That noble personage turned a ghastly white and looked as though he might faint. The audience howled with boisterous laughter, which caused all four mutts to start barking and scampering about the stage in panic. I thought I might faint myself. I didn't. Murder in my heart, I watched the adorable creatures bounding about and tossed my curls, smiling another winsome smile.

“You
will
surround yourself with spaniels, Sire,” I improvised. “Do allow me to remove them.”

Charles II nodded regally, almost losing his heavy wig, and as the audience continued to howl. Charming Nellie in her gorgeous gown raced about the stage after the beasts, catching them, cuddling them, cooing and carrying the little horrors into the wings, thrusting them into the arms of their panic stricken trainer and an ashen Andy Dobson. I stepped back onstage and there was thunderous applause and rousing cheers and I desperately tried to remember where we'd been before the pup pissed. The Merry Monarch was gazing glumly at his soggy white silk stocking, still pale, and I smiled once more, vowing that James Lambert would not live to see the morning sun come up.

“'Twill quickly dry, Sire,” I said. “A patch of piss never hurt anyone.”

“'Tis bloody discomfiting, Nellie. Methinks I'll just take off my shoe and stocking. Will'st thou help me?”

“Sire, I am indeed your humble servant, your own charming Nellie, but there is no need. As I said, 'twill quickly dry. Sit there in your chair like a good King and contemplate the beauty of your Nellie and let her continue. Where were we, Sire?”

“Haven't a clue,” he said.

The audience hooted. King Charles sat there in his sumptuous attire, totally at a loss, and somehow, I know not how, I managed to improvise until, finally, I picked up the threads and got back into the scene. I told him that I cared not if he sat on a throne or if he dwelled in a hut, he was my handsome Charlie and I loved him as I had never loved before or would again. Tears glistening prettily on my lashes, I made a low curtsy and sank to my knees in front of my royal paramour. Deeply moved, trying in vain to conceal his own emotions, he rose and took my hand. “Arise, my charming Nellie,” he commanded, and the curtain slowly fell amidst a furor of deafening applause.

“Jesus, Angel!” Hart whispered. “I'm sorry!”

“It wasn't your fault, Charles. I
told
that son of a bitch we shouldn't use those bloody animals, but would he
listen
to me!”

“I thought I was going to pass out when that creature lifted its leg.”

“You almost did. He's going to pay for this.”

“You were magnificent, Angel. The way you handled yourself—I was ready to rush offstage and out of the theater and join the Horse Guards again. They kept laughing and you never once stepped out of character.”

“I'm going to kill him,” I said. “I'm going to
kill
him.”

The curtain began to rise. I smiled at Hart. He smiled at me and led me to the footlights and bowed to me. I bowed to him. We bowed to the wildly applauding audience. Charles backed away, leaving me alone, and I smiled and bowed and blew kisses and turned and held out my hands, summoning the rest of the company. They joined me, one by one, each modestly acknowledging their share of applause. Mrs. Perry simpered, milking it, diamonds flashing. Megan received several loud cheers. We all joined hands and bowed in unison and the curtain came back down. The others scurried into the wings and the curtain rose again to discover me all alone in the center of the stage. The audience was standing, cheering, stamping feet, and I bowed, humbly accepting the boisterous tribute from my public. When they settled down somewhat, I made a charming speech, thanking them for their reception, and then James Lambert strode out with a gigantic bouquet of pink roses. I recognized them. They were the ones Gainsborough had sent. The cheap son of a bitch had removed them from my dressing room.

He smiled. He looked very elegant in his black breeches and frock coat and white satin vest, frothy white lace at throat and wrists. He handed me the roses. I accepted them with a radiant smile. He bowed to me, ever so gallant, and then
he
made a charming speech in which he declared that his modest little drama would be an abject failure without his magnificent leading lady, who had brought it so brilliantly to life. I lowered my eyes demurely as he rambled on about my talents and his gratitude and when, at last, the curtain fell for the final time I gave him a look that should have turned him to stone. He grinned sheepishly. Temper, Angel, I reminded myself. Keep your temper. Control. Dignity. Don't let the sod see how furious you are.