Angel in Scarlet (46 page)

Spring was here and the air was soft and scented and flower beds were full of varicolored blossoms and Jamie was leaving tomorrow for Tunbridge Wells. I was going to be bright and cheerful. I was going to make our last day together pleasant and fun. I was not going to be sad. I would fill the house with the flowers I had bought and I would be light and merry and this evening after I returned from the theater I was going to cook a splendid midnight supper and open a bottle of the superb wine I had ordered and give him something to think about while he was away. He would only be gone for two or three weeks, but it would seem an eternity, I knew. Damn the bloody play, and damn Mary, Queen of Scots, too. I was thoroughly sick of her and had no desire to portray her onstage, but Jamie assured me I would adore the play once he had finished it.

I sighed, turning the corner of Chandos Street and starting down St. Martin's Lane with its rows of mellow old stone houses. There was a carriage in front of our own, brown and battered, obviously hired, sturdy chestnuts standing patiently in the sunshine while the driver, in a worn green coat, slouched on his seat and munched a crusty roll. I wondered who could possibly be visiting at this hour. Moving up the steps, I opened the door and stepped into the foyer, and I felt an iciness inside me as I heard that rich, resonant, affected voice I knew so well and had come to detest.

“—see no reason why we
shouldn't
have a meeting between Mary and Elizabeth, even though they never actually met face to face. An artist is permitted to take liberties with history, after all—
Shake
speare did—and it would make a stunning curtain for the second act.”

“The dramatic possibilities are endless,” Jamie agreed.

“The two cousins, face to face, Mary proud and poised, refusing to humble herself, Elizabeth cold and scornful—'I expect no mercy for myself, Cousin, but I plead with you to release my beloved Bothwell'—and the third act opens on the eve of her execution. She has learned that Bothwell has gone insane in his Danish prison, her son has become her sworn enemy and the poor darling has nothing else to live for. All her hopes, all her dreams have turned to ashes, but she is going to face her death like the noble, majestic soul she is. It's going to be mag
nif
icent, James!”

“Maybe you should write it for me,” he said.

“Dear me,” Mrs. Perry protested,”
I
could never write a play—I merely interpret those lines written by my betters, but if I have provided some small inspiration to
you
I'm more than satisfied. Our discussions have been so
very
stimulating, James, and I trust they've been helpful as well.”

“They've been helpful indeed.”

“I know
Angel
doesn't like the material, but I feel in my heart this play is going to be your greatest achievement. Charles Hart will be superb as Bothwell, he has such magnetism, and though she's really not
mature
enough to play Mary, I'm sure Angel will give a perfectly competent performance. You couldn't dream of doing the play without her, of course. The public expects her to be in all your plays, even if she's not right for the part.”

This last was said in a velvety, commiserating voice, indicating her sympathy with his problem, and I actually looked around for a pistol to shoot the slut with. Seeing none, I shut the door rather emphatically and stamped noisily on the floor of the foyer. Silence fell in the study. I sailed blithely in, basket of flowers on my arm, a radiant smile on my lips.

“What a
lovely
surprise!” I exclaimed. “Mrs.
Perry
. How
nice
it is to see you. So unexpected. You must forgive me if I'm a bit breathless. It's a good walk from The Market.”

Jamie was standing by the fireplace in tall black knee boots, tight black breeches and a loosely fitting white lawn shirt with full belling sleeves, the tail tucked carelessly into the waistband of his breeches and bagging over it. He was holding some manuscript pages and looked both startled and wryly amused by my dramatic, ingenue entrance.

“Mrs. Perry stopped by to bring me a couple of books I wanted to borrow,” he told me. “I'll need them in Tunbridge Wells.”

“How
lovely
of her,” I said.

I flashed another radiant smile. Mrs. Perry smiled, too, a tight, carefully controlled smile. She was looking particularly opulent in a deep honey-colored satin gown. The edge of the extremely low-cut bodice was trimmed with black fox fur, as was the hem of the full skirt. The sleeves were short, and she wore a pair of long black velvet gloves. A wide-brimmed black velvet hat slanted across her head, one side dripping amber and black plumes. Full lips a lush pink, deep blue eyes half-veiled by heavy mauve lids with dark, luxuriant lashes, Mrs. Perry exuded that ripe, slightly bruised sensuality that most men find irresistible. I gave her that. She might be
old
, but she was loaded with allure. She was a good actress, too, perfect as Castlemaine. I tried to remember that now as we smiled at each other.

“What a stunning gown,” I remarked. “A bit extreme for this time of day I should think, but it suits you divinely.”

“Thank you. Been shopping?”

“I always select my own flowers.”

“My maid does all my shopping. I feel it would be rather unseemly for an actress of my stature to appear at The Market—all those people.”

“An actress of your stature could appear at The Market without the slightest danger of being bothered by all those people,” I said sweetly.

Her smile tightened even more as the dart struck home. I set the basket of flowers down on one of the low tables, still the ingenue and playing it to the hilt. Shoving a long chestnut wave from my temple, I brushed a speck of imaginary lint from my sprigged muslin skirt and sighed.

“We'll be having tea soon. Won't you stay?” I asked.

“I really mustn't. I have to think of my figure.”

I glanced at it pointedly. “Of course,” I said.

Jamie chuckled. Both of us whirled around to glare at him and he quickly sobered and immersed himself in the pages he was holding. Mrs. Perry reached up to pat the plumes dripping from her hat brim and said she really must be going. I said that was a pity, she must come back soon, and Jamie put down the pages and said he was very grateful for the books. She said it was no trouble at all and gave him a smile so warm it would have melted ice and he grinned at her and said he'd show her to the door. I watched them leave the room and listened to the words they exchanged at the door, and then I went into the kitchen and took vases from the cabinet and carried them back to the study. I was arranging the flame-colored hibiscus in one of them when Jamie came back, that heavy brown wave slanting across his brow. I ignored him, reaching for another hibiscus.

“No need to be upset,” he said.

“Upset? Me? I'm not upset. Whyever should I be upset?”

“I didn't ask her to come by. She just showed up. I thought she'd leave the books at the theater for you to bring home.”

“Very thoughtful of her to bring them,” I said.

“As a matter of fact, it was.”

“Pity I came home so soon.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

I finished with the hibiscus, fluffed them a bit, set the vase on the table and began to arrange the giant marigolds in a shallow white vase, sticking daisies among them.

“I asked you a question,” he said. “Are you implying—My God! Are you implying I planned to
sleep
with the woman?”

“That's what
she
had in mind, I can assure you. She came dressed for it. That gown—at four o'clock in the afternoon? Oh yes, she came prepared. The hook was baited and no doubt she'd have pulled you in if I hadn't arrived when I did.”

“I resent that! I have no interest whatsoever in—”

“Spending hours with her in the Green Room, discussing your beloved Mary,
that
I can tolerate, but when she brazenly comes to my home dressed like an expensive Piccadilly whore and tries to undermine me with her sly remarks I draw the line!”

“You're
jealous
!” he exclaimed. He looked pleased.

“Jealous? Of an inconsequential supporting player pushing forty and losing her looks? Don't be absurd! I'm not jealous, don't flatter yourself, you sod. Wipe that grin off your face. I just happen to know that bitch would like to take my place!”

“Sure,” he said.

“She wants to supplant me!”

“Of course she does.”

“You ad
mit
it!”

“Why shouldn't I? She's wretchedly obvious, love, transparent as a sheet of glass. Think I don't know what she's been up to? Think I'm that dense and dim-witted? Sure she'd like to take your place. What actress with any ambition wouldn't? I was on to her little ploys from the first, but she
has
been helpful, Angel, she
does
know a great deal about Mary, and she's given me some very good ideas.”

“I'll bet she has!”

He smiled a slow, pleased smile and came toward me and I stiffened and he paused and shook his head, very amused by my anger. I stuck the last marigold into the vase and picked up the large bunch of golden-yellow daffodils and debated whether I should put them in the tall, fluted white vase or the shorter, rounded cut-glass container.

“She hadn't a prayer,” he told me.

“Indeed?”

“No one could ever take your place, love.”

I ignored that remark and put the daffodils in the tall white vase, and I heard his exasperated sigh but didn't look up. I was being totally unreasonable, I knew that, my anger was at her, not him, but he was so … so exasperating! And he was going to leave in the morning and I would be alone, wake up alone in the mornings, and he would not be there to touch and tease and delight. I put the bronze chrysanthemums in the cut-glass container and fetched a brass pitcher with a long spout from the kitchen and filled it with water and poured water into all the vases of flowers. Jamie watched as I placed the vases at various points around the room.

“Finished?” he inquired.

“For the moment.”

My voice was cool, but that didn't deter him. He came over to me and put his hands on my shoulders and squeezed gently and gazed down at me with sleepy seductive green-brown eyes and I smelled the musky, male smell of him and felt his warmth and felt his strong fingers kneading my flesh, one hand reaching up to lift my hair and curl around the back of my neck, but I was still irritated and I wasn't going to melt and give in just because he had a magnificent body, just because he had a full curving mouth and a wonderful crooked nose that was endearing and kept him from being too handsome, just because he was a superlative lover and knew how to make me feel such glorious, wicked feelings inside, even now, when I didn't want to feel them at all. I had had such plans for today, his last day home, such delicious plans for tonight, and now they were in ruins and I was quite put out.

“I
hate
Mary, Queen of Scots,” I snapped.

“You'll love the Mary I'm going to write for you.”

“I wanted you to do a play about Aphra Behn. She was a strong, independent lady who made her own way in a man's world and became a huge success. Her life was full of romance and adventure, too. I don't know why you can't write
that
play for me.”

“Maybe I'll write it later,” he said huskily.

“I'm not in the mood, Jamie.”

“Hunh?”

“You heard me. Stop rubbing your thighs against me.”

“Just delivering a message.”

“I got the message. I'm not interested.”

“You don't have to leave for the theater for hours. I thought—”

“I know what you thought and I'm not in the mood. I suggest you read the books Mrs. Perry so thoughtfully brought, or, better yet, go see her. Pay her a visit. She'd love to receive your message.”

“Sometimes you're an awful bitch, Angel.”

“I don't deny it.”

“I don't know why I put up with you.”

“Nor I with you, you sod.”

He squeezed the back of my neck. “Sure you're not in the mood?”

“Positive.”

“Guess I'll have to work on it,” he purred.

He did and I resisted and we fought and he won but he had to work for it. The victory was mine, of course, even though he overpowered me and I submitted against my will, and it was glorious, even though he was rough and unruly, and it was even better later, lying on the sofa, his arms around me, the afternoon sunlight drifting through the windows and fading on the floor, he murmuring in my ear and growing amorous again and slowly, gently, lazily loving me anew and rebuilding the bliss we had so splendidly shared a while before. We loved and we had tea and the sunlight vanished and lamps were lit and all too soon I had to bathe and change and leave for the theater.

Jamie walked me to the Lambert, a long gray cloak draped around his shoulders, his fingers curled around my elbow, and he left me at the stage door and gave me a perfunctory kiss and told me he'd be waiting for me when I got back. I watched him saunter away and then went to my dressing room and left my cloak and went to the Green Room to join Megan. We had formed the habit of meeting there for a chat before the performance a long time ago, and both of us looked forward to this opportunity to catch up on gossip and exchange the latest news. With its faded, pale lime-green walls, worn beige carpet and large comfortable chairs, the Green Room was pleasant and full of atmosphere with framed posters hanging about and two glass cases full of theatrical memorabilia.

“Well, luv,” Megan announced when she came in a few moments later, “the handwriting is on the
wall.
”

“Oh?”

“This morning I was in the kitchen, making coffee for him, spreading butter on his toast, and the charming Mr. Hart saunters in looking thoughtful and holding a pair of stockings and casually informs me they need mending, would I mind terribly patching them for him when I finished making breakfast. You can
imagine
my reaction!”