Angel in Scarlet (52 page)

I read slowly, carefully, trying to visualize each scene onstage, trying to imagine how it would play, reading some dialogue aloud to hear how it would sound. Three hours later I set the manuscript aside and stared at the empty fireplace without seeing it. The play was bad. It was incredibly bad, far and away the worst thing he had ever committed to paper. The structure was sound enough, but the whole second act was devoted to an emotion-charged encounter between Mary and Elizabeth, who had never met in real life, and it was violently melodramatic, would never, never play convincingly. Elizabeth was a caricature, not a character, while Mary was so good, so pure, so noble she was totally unbelievable. The curtain scene, her execution, might have been effective and quite moving had the dialogue not been so stilted and had one been able to care one way or the other. The play was a ponderous, tedious bore, and I dreaded having to tell him so.

Jamie came home at six, looking weary and a bit rumpled, the green silk neckcloth untidy, his brown frock coat creased. I had bathed and washed my hair and changed into a deep rose brocade gown embroidered with flowers in a darker rose silk. Megan and Charles had asked us to dine with them tonight, and I intended to go whether Jamie came or not. I hoped he would. I hoped we could have a pleasant evening and not discuss the play, not just yet. It was not to be. He came into the study and saw the manuscript wasn't on the table where he had left it and looked at me, prepared to battle.

“You read it?” he inquired.

“Yes, Jamie. I read it.”

“You don't like it. I can tell from your tone of voice.”

“It—I know you worked very hard, Jamie, and I know you had high hopes for it, but—” I hesitated.

“You think it stinks,” he said sharply.

He was angry, and I could feel my own anger beginning to mount. I was prepared to discuss it calmly, objectively, but I wasn't about to be bullied and have him put words into my mouth.

“It stinks,” I said.

“Would you care to elucidate?”

“If you like. It's ponderous. It's tedious. It's leaden. The scenes are much too drawn out, and the dialogue is incredibly stilted, like nothing ever spoken by the human tongue. Elizabeth is a stereotype villainess, without a single redeeming feature, and Mary is so absurdly noble you might just as well give her a harp and a pair of wings.”

“What did you think of the handwriting?”

“Spare me your sarcasm, Jamie! I'm trying to be objective. I'm trying to be honest. You asked for my opinion and I gave it to you. It will never play. If you attempt to produce it you're going to have a full-scale disaster on your hands.”

He didn't explode. He looked at me with a faint, deprecatory smile on his lips and stepped over to pour himself a glass of brandy. His manner was infuriatingly calm and superior as he glanced at the liquor in his glass and swirled it, the smile still playing on his lips.

“Some think it's a brilliant piece of work,” he remarked.

“Some? Who do you mean by
some
?”

“Mrs. Perry,” he replied.

I had been sitting in one of the wing chairs. I stood up, and I could feel two spots of color burning on my cheeks.

“You gave it to her? You let
her
read it before I did?”

“She loves it.”

“Goddamn you, Jamie!”

“She thinks it's the best thing I've ever done,” he said calmly.

“She would! The bitch wants to play Mary! If you respect her opinion so goddamn much, let her play it! Produce it. Lose your shirt. Become the laughingstock of London. Not one penny of
my
money will go into it, let me assure you.”

“I don't need your money,” he informed me, still speaking in that calm flat voice. “I got along quite nicely for a number of years without you, Angel, and I imagine I can do so in the future.”

“Be careful, Jamie,” I warned. “Don't force the issue. Don't say anything you'll regret. I don't know what's happened, why you've been so cold and remote this past week, but—I've had just about all the strain I intend to take.”

“You don't have to play Mary,” he continued, as though I hadn't said a word. “You've had offers from half the managers in London. They're panting for you, waving offers left and right. Garrick wants you. Goldsmith wants you. Sheridan wants you for his next play. You certainly don't need
me
any longer.”

“I damn sure don't!”

“That's it, then, I guess.”

“I guess it is,” I said.

We faced each other, that invisible wall between us, and I felt a terrible pain inside, felt tears I was too proud, too angry to shed. Jamie drank his brandy and set the glass down, still calm. I couldn't believe this was happening. I couldn't believe it was ending. I wanted to scream at him and shake him and make him see how foolish, how unnecessary this was, but I didn't say anything. My damnable pride prevented it.

“I'll pack a few things,” he said. “You can stay in the house. We'll settle all business and financial matters later.”

“No,” I replied. “You signed the lease. I'll leave. I'll spend the night with Megan. I'll collect my things as—as soon as I've found another place.”

“As you wish,” he said. “I hope you and your new lover will be very happy.”

“My new lover? What are you talking about?”

“Don't bother to pretend, Angel. I know all about it. He came to the theater for you. He took you to dinner at Eldridge's. You were seeing him all the time I was at Tunbridge Wells. Apparently he's very wealthy, one of the gentry, a striking-looking fellow from all reports.”

I saw then. I understood. I understood everything.

“These reports,” I said, “I assume they came from Mrs. Perry.”

“She wrote me. She told me all about it.”

“And—and you believed her.” My voice was trembling with anger. “You trusted me so much, had so much faith in me that you—you accepted the word of that woman without question. After four years, you had such a high opinion of me you were perfectly willing to believe I'd be unfaithful, perfectly willing to believe I could blithely sleep with another man while living with you. That you could even think me capable of such conduct is—is—” I cut myself short, trying to control the fury.

“A man did come to the theater,” I continued after a moment, “and I did go out to dinner with him, but—”

“You don't have to explain yourself,” he told me.

“You're right,” I said.

I stepped over to him and slapped his face so hard I feared I had broken my wrist. He stumbled back, almost falling, absolutely appalled, and his face turned white, a vivid pink hand print burning on his left cheek. I gave him a savage look and marched to the door leading into the foyer, and then I turned and looked at him again.

“Good-bye, Jamie,” I said, “and good luck with your new leading lady. God knows you're going to need it.”

Chapter Seventeen

I hadn't counted on the chickens and the cow. The cottage I had rented for the summer was only five miles from London and charming indeed with a thatched roof and mellow cream stucco walls with exposed brown beams and blue morning glories climbing the trellis around the front door. There were flower beds and ancient oaks and, in back, a pleasant kitchen garden. There were also chicken pens and a cow and I had agreed to tend to the animals during the three months I would be staying here. I had grown quite fond of Matilda, the cow, an amiable creature who stood patiently swishing her tail while I milked her, who nuzzled my arm when I brought her feed, but the chickens were a hateful querulous lot who clucked and flapped and carried on quite rudely when I fed them, the hens giving me accusatory looks when I gathered their eggs.

The cottage belonged to a friend of Mrs. Gainsborough's who was visiting a sister in Cornwall for the summer, and Mrs. G. had arranged this rental for me. She and Thomas had stayed in the cottage several times in the past, he painting bucolic landscapes while she went merrily berserk with her baking, elated by the plentitude of eggs and milk. I had been here for two and a half weeks now, and the peace and solitude was wonderfully welcome after the rush and noise of London. I hadn't realized just how hard I had been working or how weary I was until the activity ceased. I spent my days reading, cooking simple meals, taking long walks about the countryside or strolling to the nearby village for provisions. Instead of staying up all night, I went to bed quite early, awakening at dawn to the sound of birds chirping in the boughs of the oaks. It was pleasant and restful and it helped. The anger and resentment and pain were still strong inside, but somehow they were easier to bear here in the country, away from Covent Garden.

My books, much of my wardrobe and most of my personal belongings were presently stored in the spare room of the flat Megan and Charles shared. They had helped me remove them from the house on St. Martin's Lane, and I was glad Jamie hadn't been there at the time. I hadn't seen him since that Sunday night I had left the house. I had no desire to see him. I was still too bitter, too hurt. My fear of accidentally encountering him in Covent Garden was one of the main reasons I had decided to take the cottage. I needed to be away from everything associated with the past four years. Being alone had definite advantages, for I didn't have to put on a front, didn't have to pretend, didn't have to answer questions or make explanations.

Bag of feed in hand, I strolled past the kitchen garden now, past the well with its old oaken bucket, approaching the chicken house at the end of the property, the yard carefully fenced in. Oak boughs groaned quietly overhead, thick leaves rustling. Seeing me from the adjacent field where she was grazing, Matilda mooed plaintively. I called to her and opened the gate and stepped into the chicken yard. The nasty creatures immediately went into convulsions of excitement, swarming around me and clucking greedily and flapping their wings for attention. I tossed handfuls of grain into the air, and they scrambled for it, squabbling viciously, pecking angrily. The rooster crowed, shaking his bright red wattle and driving a cluster of hens away from a particularly large pile of grain.

The chickens were making such a racket I didn't hear the rig coming up the lane, didn't hear the knocking on the front door or the footsteps moving around the side of the cottage. Bag empty at last, I brushed the skirt of my blue cotton frock and shoved a long chestnut wave from my temple and turned, and it was then that I saw him standing there on the path beside the kitchen garden. Somehow I wasn't at all surprised. Calmly, I checked the trough to see that there was enough water, and, finding it half full, I opened the gate and stepped out, securing it behind me. He watched, arms folded across his chest, a gentle summer breeze ruffling his raven-black hair. He was wearing tall black knee boots and snug black breeches and a fine white silk shirt with full bell sleeves. He unfolded his arms and rested his hands on his thighs as I approached.

“How did you find me?” I asked.

“I made inquiries.”

“I see.”

His dark eyes studied me, and even though my hair was tousled and my face was probably smudged and my dress was dusty, I could see that he was pleased by what he saw. The girl feeding the chickens was far more appealing to him than the glamorous Angel Howard in her satin gown. There was admiration in his eyes, and love, and I felt a wonderful elation awakening inside. I hadn't wanted to see him again, had hoped he would stay away forever, but now that he was here I wanted to weep with joy. Hugh would never know that, of course. I couldn't afford to let him know. I mustn't give him any encouragement whatsoever.

“How did you get here?”

“Rig I hired for the summer. It's out front.”

“Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

“I stopped in the village, got directions there.”

I looked at him, loving him, yet when I spoke my voice was cool. “Why did you come, Hugh?”

“We both know the answer to that,” he said.

Yes, we both knew. I was still bitter and disillusioned and hurt over the breakup with Jamie, and I wanted to be alone. I didn't want to love anyone ever again, and Hugh had come and we both knew why and I wondered if I could find the strength to send him away. Matilda mooed and the chickens clucked and the rich, loamy smell of the kitchen garden wafted on the air as we stood under the boughs of the oak tree, looking at each other.

“I was just going to make some lunch,” I said. “Will you join me?”

“That would be nice,” he replied.

“Eggs,” I said. “I have a plethora of eggs. Will eggs do?”

“Eggs will do nicely,” he told me.

I led the way and he followed me through the back door and into the kitchen with its cool stone floor and mellow beige walls and low-beamed ceiling. He sat down at the old oak table and watched as I tied an apron around my waist and began to stoke the fire in the belly of the old iron stove. I cracked eggs, dumping them into a wooden bowl, beating them with a little cream, adding some herbs and then pouring them into the skillet that had been heating on the stove. Hugh stretched his long legs out and tilted his chair back, and it seemed so natural, so right for him to be here. I chopped ham and grated cheese and added them to the skillet, carefully folding the cooked egg over them.

I served the omelete with buttered bread and poured fresh coffee into heavy brown cups, and Hugh ate with relish. Afterward I cut him a slice of the almond cake I had baked the day before. It was rich and buttery and he claimed he had never eaten better cake. There was no strain, none whatsoever. It didn't bother me that I was wearing the old dress, that my hair wasn't brushed, that my forehead was moist from standing over the hot stove. Hugh finished his cake and drank the glass of milk I handed him, and it felt good to have him here, to wait on him. He continued to loll at the table while I washed the dishes and tidied up the kitchen, and I was pleasantly aware of his eyes on me the whole while.