Angel in Scarlet (45 page)

“You
used
to like that kind,” she said.

“You—you remembered.”

“Had a devil of a time finding them, too. I read in one of the papers that you lived in the house that once belonged to Aphra Behn, and I had the bookseller find a set for me and had it rebound in blue leather. I imagine you probably already have the books.”

I shook my head. “We—Father used to have a set, but they were sold, and I have never been able to locate another. I—I'm terribly pleased, Solonge. Damn it, I want to cry.”

“Please don't, darling. I thought the shawl would go with your eyes. It's exquisite, isn't it—not my color, though. I wear only soft pastels now, creamy pinks and pale blues and golds and soft limes, nothing bold and dramatic. I have a new image to project, alas. You must drink some more champagne. Hand me your glass.”

I did so. She refilled it and gave it back. “Solonge,” I said hesitantly, “what—what became of Marie?”

Solonge frowned. “I heard about what she tried to do to you, darling, and I fear that was the last straw as far as I was concerned. She lost Marie's Place, you know, and naturally she came to me for money—a pack of howling creditors at her heels. I paid them, and I settled a sum of money on her on the condition she leave the country and not pester me
or
you any longer. She went back to Brittany and opened a boardinghouse. I hear from her occasionally—asking for money, of course.”

“She runs a boardinghouse?”

“And scrubs her own floors, from all reports. I could do more for her, particularly now, but I have no inclination to do so. Call me a monster if you like but she has no real need and I want nothing more to do with her. She's out of my life and I plan to keep it that way.”

“And—Janine?” I asked.

“Janine went to Brittany with her. She married a French cobbler and, according to my informant, is as big as a house. Spends her days eating pastry and napping over the shop while her husband mends shoes. Don't look so distressed about it, darling—she's probably happier than you or I will ever be.”

“She probably is,” I agreed.

Solonge sighed, glancing at the clock I kept on the dressing table. “How do you get home, darling?”

“I generally walk. It's only a short distance.”

“It's safe?”

“In Covent Garden it is. Everyone knows me—even the pickpockets. They'd never let harm come to their Angel.”

“I'll take you home in my carriage tonight. This will be the last time I'll see you for—a very long time. If things go as I hope, we'll probably settle in Italy with only an occasional trip back to see after the properties here.”

“I'd better change,” I said. “Would you unhook me?”

Solonge unfastened the tiny hooks in back of the bodice and I stepped behind the screen, removed gown and petticoat and put on my white faille petticoat and a silk wrapper.

“Bart was—He wasn't terribly exciting, as I recall,” I said, sitting down at the dressing table to remove my stage makeup, “but I remember him being very nice.”

“He's dull as ditch water, darling, but he's much brighter than anyone gives him credit for being, and he's a genuinely good person. All his life he's lived under the shadow of his father. Now he's going to step into the sun and a lot of people are going to be surprised by the new Duke of Alden.”

“He'll have you behind him.”

“Every step of the way,” she said. “I've sown my share of wild oats as you know, but I'm almost thirty, darling—don't you dare tell anyone—and it's time to settle down. I'm going to be faithful to him. I'm going to give him an heir. I'm going to make him happy.”

“I—I'm sure you will.”

“Count on it, darling.”

Makeup removed, my face washed and dried, I applied a bit of pink lip rouge and brushed my hair out, then put on the black and white striped taffeta gown I'd worn to the theater. It had a red velvet waistband, complementing my high-heeled red slippers and heavy red velvet cloak. Solonge and I chatted as I dressed, and we finished the champagne. Her elegantly attired footman removed glasses, bucket and tray, then returned to carry my presents out to the waiting carriage. I told the doorman good-night, and we stepped outside a few minutes later.

It was a lovely night, cool and clear, the sky a deep blue-black. Moonlight bathed the front of the theater and created deep shadows in the recesses. Torches held by the linkboys illuminated the carriage, and it was every bit as splendid as I expected, white and gold with the Alden crest on the door. Four strong, handsome white horses stood in harness, stamping impatiently. I gave the driver directions, and the footman opened the door for us and handed us inside. The interior was sumptuous, too, seats padded white velvet, cloth of gold curtains hanging at the windows. It was the grandest carriage I'd ever been inside, and I was duly impressed. Solonge settled back against the cushions, clearly accustomed to such luxury. I was pleased for her and glad that, against all odds, she had made so fabulous a match. With linkboys running alongside to light the way, the carriage began to move through the twisting cobbled streets of Covent Garden.

“Tell me about your man,” Solonge said. “Is he really as handsome, as brilliant and wicked as they claim?”

“He's very handsome,” I replied, “even with his crooked nose, and he's unquestionably brilliant, though not at all wicked. He has a wretched temper which he makes no effort to control and he's impatient and stubborn and willful and impossibly demanding, but—quite endearing in his way.”

“He must have something. You've been with him for three years.”

“He has something,” I said. “Definitely.”

“You're in love with him?”

“I—I'm not sure. I don't think so. I'm terribly fond of him.”

“Three years is a long time to stay with someone of whom you're merely fond, darling.”

“We work well together. We've formed a theatrical partnership. We're interested in the same things, have the same goals.”

“Even so—”

“I suppose ‘fond' isn't a strong enough word. I suppose I do love him, in a way, but—” I hesitated.

“Not the way you loved Hugh Bradford,” Solonge said. “It's just as well, Angie. That kind of love comes but once—it's overpowering, overwhelming, obsessive, altogether too intense to endure more than once. It makes you a captive of your emotions and you're no longer free. You survive it, but you never feel with quite that degree of intensity again. Thank God,” she added.

“I forgot—you loved him, too.”

“I was tougher than you, darling. I cured myself of it before a serious infection could occur.”

“I—I often wonder what became of him.”

“They followed his trail to Plymouth,” she told me, “but lost track of him there. It's reasonable to assume he boarded some ship and left the country, although they were never able to prove it—he undoubtedly sailed under an assumed name. He's probably in the Colonies now, fighting on the side of the Rebels. It would certainly appeal to him, hostile as he was.”

“He had reason to be hostile,” I said quietly.

We were both silent for a few moments as the carriage bowled down the street with linkboys trotting alongside, flames wavering in the dark like ragged orange banners. As horse hooves clopped smartly on the cobbles, I gazed out the window and thought about the moody, dark-eyed youth I had loved, and then I deliberately forced those thoughts out of my mind.

“I suppose you heard about Clinton Meredith,” Solonge said.

I shook my head. “I haven't heard anything about him since—since he wanted to set me up in an apartment. That was four years ago.”

“He was in love with you, darling. Did you know that? He was desolate when you vanished without a trace. He blamed himself—felt quite guilty about it.”

“So Marie said. I imagine he got over it.”

“He went back to Greystone Hall and, believe it or not, he reformed—or at least he seemed to. He gave up his wild ways and settled down and began to take a sincere interest in the estate. He married Lady Julia Robinson, a demure young woman with a sweet nature and, unfortunately, very poor health. She succumbed to the fever only a few weeks ago. He's been in deep mourning ever since.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” I said. “Clinton was—He wasn't really wicked, just spoiled and unprincipled. He was too wealthy, too good-looking. He had too much of everything and thought the world should pay obeisance to him.”

“Perhaps he's grown up,” Solonge said. “People do change. I'm the living proof of it.”

Both of us smiled, and the carriage came to a halt in front of the house and the footman opened the door. Moonlight gilded the front steps and the small portico sheltering the narrow porch. A light was burning in the study, a misty gold square against the shadows. Jamie was undoubtedly working on his notes. Solonge told the footman to take my presents, and I asked him to put them on the table in the foyer, adding that the door was sure to be unlocked. Solonge and I looked at each other, both of us far more moved than we cared to admit. It was hard to associate this elegant creature with her silvery hair and gold and white plumes and diamonds and gorgeous pale gold and lace gown with the vibrant, feisty girl I had known, but the bond was still there between us.

“I do wish you'd come in and meet Jamie,” I said.

“I'd better not, darling. Bart's waiting for me at Grosvenor Square, and he always gets restless when I'm not there.”

“Thank you for the presents, Solonge. You've made this the nicest birthday I've had in a long time.”

“Take my advice, darling—stop having them.”

I smiled. “Good-bye, Solonge.”

“Good-bye. I'll send you a letter from Italy.”

“Please do.”

I climbed out of the carriage and, casting aristocratic poise aside, Solonge climbed out after me and caught me to her. We hugged tightly, emotionally, both of us remembering those days gone by. “Take care,” she whispered. “You, too,” I said. We clasped each other for another moment, and then she sighed and let me go, brushing a tear from her cheek. The footman helped her into the carriage and shut the door and ascended his perch on back of the vehicle. I climbed the steps and turned. Solonge held the curtain back and waved as the carriage pulled away, linkboys trotting alongside with torches held high. Brushing away my own tears, I went inside. The past was a part of all of us, and I knew I would never be entirely free of my own.

Chapter Fifteen

Glorious golden marigolds, lovely yellow and white daisies, bronze chrysanthemums, just what I needed, and, yes, a huge bouquet of those daffodils as well. The flower woman assured me I had made the perfect selection, her flowers were the loveliest in th' 'ole bloomin' Market. I paid her, and she began to twist sheets of thin green paper around the stems of the bunches of flowers, talking all the while. It was an 'onor 'avin' me buy 'er blooms. She 'adn't seen one of my plays 'erself, 'adn't 'ad th' pleasure, but everyone knew Angel. Wudn't 'oity-toity like some of them actresses, I wudn't. A real person, it was well known. She placed the flowers carefully into the large, flat basket hooked on my arm, and I smiled and thanked her.

“Would you
like
to see one of my plays, Annie?” I inquired.

“Lor', luv, me—I ain't got th' means to go squanderin' money on theater tickets, though if I
'ad
, it'd be your play I'd go ta see.”

“You come to the box office tomorrow night, Annie. Bring a friend. I'll have two tickets waiting there for you—the best seats in the house. Compliments of Mrs. Howard.”

“You mean, you mean—” Annie was dismayed. “Lor', you
are
an Angel!”

“And be sure to come backstage after the play is over. We'll have a cup of tea in my dressing room.”

She thrust a large bunch of flame-colored hibiscus into the basket, smiling a broad smile and wiping gnarled brown hands on her soiled white apron. I thanked her again and moved on through The Market with my heavily laden basket. Friendly greetings assailed me on every side. I smiled and nodded, acknowledging them, feeling the waves of affection. Actresses were supposed to be temperamental and exclusive, haughty creatures who were surrounded by sycophants and had nothing to do with the common folk. That might be very well for women like the pretentious Mrs. Perry and her ilk, but I considered myself a working woman, and I worked bloody hard, finding precious little glamor in my position as London's Favorite Actress. Being so successful just meant you had to work twice as hard in order not to disappoint your public.

“'Ow 'bout some fine cabbage, Angel?” a burly man cried.

“Not today, Ed. They're lovely, though. Those last you sold me were wonderfully crisp.”

“Only th' best for Angel of Covent Garden.”

“'Ear, 'ear,” his companion called. “Our very own Angel, gracin' us today with 'er presence. Three cheers for Angel!”

Hearty cheers rang out all around, and I acknowledged this tribute with a gracious smile, slightly embarrassed as I always was by such displays of adulation. Gone were the days when I could saunter through Covent Garden with anonymity, but I refused to barricade myself and live in elegant seclusion with a staff of servants to protect me from the public, as did most prominent theatrical folk. My freedom and mobility were far too important to me, and I realized full well that my accessibility was one of the major reasons for my popularity. Leaving The Market, I crossed the piazza. Plump blue-gray pigeons scurried on the stones, searching for crumbs, and radiant sunlight bathed the facade of St. Paul's. It was late April, a glorious afternoon, and I savored the clear blue sky and the fresh new greenery as I strolled toward St. Martin's Lane.