Angel in Scarlet (77 page)

“I was thinking of—of love lost,” I replied.

“You're even more beautiful now. I—” He smiled again. “I'm so happy, Angie—so very happy. Dreams really do come true.”

“Some do,” I said. “Others are lost forever.”

“It's not just winning—it's
know
ing. Knowing I was right, knowing I was indeed cheated out of my inheritance, just as I always believed. I will admit now that there were times when—when I sometimes began to doubt, began to believe I really might
be
a bastard, but I carried on nevertheless. Those documents you found proved I was right all along.”

I looked at him, wondering if I could tell him, wondering if I could be so cruel. I remembered the letter he had posted to my husband.

“The documents are forgeries, Hugh,” I said. “I had them done myself by a master criminal in Seven Dials.”

His eyes filled with disbelief. The color slowly left his cheeks. Those brightly wrapped presents had just been taken away. I was immediately sorry I had told him. I could at least have left him his illusions. Several moments went by in silence, and I heard my carriage come round and stop in front of the house.

“You did it—you did it for me,” he said.

I didn't answer. Hugh peered at me, as though to find one.

“You did it for—for us, because of our love.”

“I did it because it seemed the right thing to do. I never wanted a title or great wealth or an estate—those things were never important to me. I told you that once, Hugh. I don't think you believed me. You turned your back on the things that mattered to me, and—” I hesitated, not wanting to continue in this vein. “I married Clinton because I loved him,” I went on. “He was the last of his line and, legitimate or no, you are your father's son with Meredith blood in your veins. You're far more entitled to the estate than Clinton's widow—who has no desire to keep it.”

“It will still be yours,” he said, “ours.”

“No, Hugh.”

“Angie—”

“I'm leaving now. I have no desire to see you ever again.”

“Angie!”

It was a cry from the depths of his soul. He was utterly distraught, utterly demolished. His eyes were full of panic, his cheeks ashen, all that earlier youthful elation vanished—perhaps forever. He shook his head repeatedly, his complexion even paler now. I knew that he loved me, and I knew what he was feeling now. I had been there before.

“You have what you always wanted, Hugh,” I said quietly. “You have the title, you have the wealth, you have the estate—and no one will ever question your right to them now.”

“I wanted them for us—for you. I love you, Angie. I love you! You're the only person in the world I've ever loved! You love me, too. You
must
love me! All these years—I've plotted, schemed, struggled, worked because—because you would be there in the end. I did it for
you
! You can't leave me now, Angie. Without you—” His voice broke, and it was several moments before he could go on. “Without you to share it with it means—it means nothing.”

“You're Lord Meredith now, Hugh, and a very wealthy man. I have no doubt you'll eventually find someone else to share it with you. In the meantime, you have the painting to remind you of what might have been.”

“You—you can't leave me,” he said hoarsely.

“I really must. I want to be back in London by midnight. You have what you always wanted, and I genuinely hope it makes you happy.”

“I love you. I—”

“Good-bye, Hugh.”

“Angie!”

That anguished cry seemed to ring throughout the house as I left the room. I went outside and climbed into the waiting carriage. He did not follow me. I tapped on the roof with my knuckles, signaling the driver, and the carriage began to move slowly down the drive. I did not look back. The last rays of sunlight were fading on the lawn. We turned onto the road, and before we had gone ten miles night had fallen and the land was shrouded in misty black and the sky was a deep purple-gray ashimmer with stars. The carriage bowled along, carrying me away from the past, taking me toward the future. It was a long, uncomfortable, uneventful ride, and bells were tolling midnight when we entered London. Charles and Megan were waiting up for me, as promised, and Charles helped the driver unload the bags and boxes and bring them inside. I was utterly exhausted, and, seeing this, Megan led me straight upstairs to the guest bedroom. I undressed and put the candle out and climbed into bed and, undisturbed by the noises downstairs, went to sleep immediately.

A bird was singing in the gardens, warbling throatily and lustily and with excessive volume. I moaned and opened my eyes, and the sunlight streaming into the room was dazzling, making bright patterns on the polished floor. The window was open—Megan must have opened it earlier—and a warm breeze caused the white faille curtains to flutter. I struggled into a sitting position, resting my shoulders against the headboard, still groggy and disoriented. The bird continued to sing. I could have done without the noise just now, however pleasant it might be. There was a cheerful rap on the door and Megan came swirling into the room bearing a tray with coffeepot, cup, a plate of buttered toast. Wearing a fetching yellow frock, her long auburn waves falling to her shoulders and glistening with rich golden-red highlights, she looked disgustingly chipper.

“I see you're finally awake, luv. I was beginning to worry. I've brought your breakfast up—or what passes for your breakfast. You really should eat more in the morning, Angel. It's the most important meal of—”

“Please,” I protested.

“I won't tarry, luv. I know you're always a grump until you've had several cups of coffee. It's a glorious day, warm as can be. Spring is early this year.”

She placed the tray across my knees, smiled perkily and left, informing me that she would be downstairs when I was ready to join the living. I sighed and poured my coffee and drank it, waiting for the sadness to come as it always did when I first awakened, presaging the rest of my day. The damnable bird outside kept right on singing and the curtains stirred gently and I could feel the warm breeze on my bare arms and cheeks and the sadness did not come. The grief was still there, would always be there, but it was contained now and instead of the sadness there was a sense of acceptance. I ate a slice of toast and drank another cup of black coffee, and then I set the tray aside and got out of bed and performed my ablutions, washing thoroughly. Wearing only a thin white silk petticoat, I went over to the window and looked out.

The tight, tiny buds studding the tree limbs had burst open, and the limbs were covered with fragile, pale jade-green leaves, and, gracious, the daffodils had opened already, bobbing delicate yellow silk heads in the breeze. The hyacinths were blooming, too, pink and mauve and pale purple, and it was only mid-March! The bird warbled in the sunlight, a plump robin with an apricot-colored breast, celebrating this phenomenon with its song. I smiled, and it was as if a great weight had lifted from my shoulders. Yes, yes, it was time … time to go on living.
You mustn't cry
, he had said.
I
want you to be happy. Promise me you'll be happy, my darling
.

I intended to keep that promise, for I knew it was what Clinton had wanted for me. I went over to the wardrobe and opened the doors, examining the frocks hanging there. No more black velvets and silks. It was time to put my mourning away. I took down a turquoise silk and put it on. Solonge had worn a turquoise frock once, I recalled, years ago when she was a golden-haired siren intent on mischief. Mine was bold and dramatic with a low heart-shaped neckline and short puffed sleeves worn off the shoulder. The waist was snug, the skirt full and flaring out over my petticoat. It made me look younger. It made me look … almost like a girl myself. I sat down at the dressing table, brushing my hair until it fell in glossy chestnut waves, and I could feel the joy in my heart. I wanted to sing myself. I
was
young, and I was alive, and the future was mine to shape as I would.

“Angel!” Megan cried as I came downstairs.

“It's time, darling,” I told her.

“Oh, luv, I—I'm so glad! You look radiant.”

“I feel radiant. I'm going out,” I added.

Megan rushed over and caught me up in a tight hug, and then she moved back and smiled a wonderfully wry smile.

“Give him hell, luv,” she said.

“I intend to do just that.”

I left the house without a cloak, but I didn't need one. The air was warm and soft, laden with all those marvelous smells that come with spring. The sky was a pure translucent blue, silvery sunlight spilling down in brilliant profusion. A sense of elation, of expectation filled me as I went down Maiden Lane. I turned on Bedford and again on Henrietta, and Covent Garden seemed to welcome me back. Wonderful, worn, mellowed by age, shabby and raffish and not quite respectable, it had its own unique character and color, and I was part of it. I belonged here, as I had never belonged at Greystone Hall, and I was a member of its aristocracy, an aristocracy far more lively and interesting than that which had haughtily refused to have anything to do with Lady Angela Meredith, who had married into its ranks. This charming, tatterdemalion neighborhood with its Market and run-down shops and busy theaters was, to me, the heart of London, and it was good to be back home.

I paused in front of Brinkley's Wig Shop, looking through the dusty window at the display of wigs. Old Brinkley, in back of the shop, looked up and spotted me and waved. Immersed in his own little world of powder and curling irons and hair, he had probably never been aware I had been away. Moving on past the green door that led to the apartment Megan and I had shared, I smiled to myself and wondered if the new tenants had grown accustomed to the smell of powder and scorched hair. I crossed the street. Plump blue-gray pigeons strutted on the sun-warmed stones of the piazza, and St. Paul's had its own faded majesty. The Market seemed to be bustling, carts full of flowers and vegetables being pushed through the portals, customers coming and going. “Angel!” someone cried, and I turned to see a hefty woman with an armload of flowers hurrying toward me. I stopped and smiled. Pigeons scuttled out of the way as Annie made her rapid approach.

“Angel! You're back! Lor', luv, you look glorious!”

“Thank you, Annie. You're looking fit yourself.”

“Me? Go on! I look like a weather-beaten old 'arridan an' well I know it. All-a us were sorry to 'ear about your loss, luv. We were all 'opin' you'd be comin' 'ome an' you '
ave
! She's
our
Angel, I told everyone. She ain't stayin' with them 'igh-falutin' folk now that 'er 'usband's gone. 'Ere—” She thrust the flowers into my arms. “These are for you, luv.”

“Why—why, thank you, Annie.”

“Pink roses, blue delphiniums, white and gold daisies—best th' 'ot 'ouses 'ave to offer, though we'll soon be 'avin' 'em out of th' gardens. Never in all my days seen spring come so early. And you're back! Covent Garden wudn't th' same without you, luv.”

Annie grinned, made me an awkward curtsy and started back to her stall in The Market. I stood there in the middle of the piazza with my armload of fresh flowers, pigeons cooing, sunlight splashing all around, and my eyes misted with tears, so touched was I by Annie's gesture. It seemed like an omen, and I had the feeling that this was the very first day of a glorious new life. Brushing the tears away, I left the piazza and walked up King and turned on James, heading toward Longacre. People called to me, waved, and, clutching the flowers to my bosom with one arm, I waved back and smiled and returned greetings, a joyous elation welling inside.

The Lambert was ugly and gray, its white marble portico deplorably stained with soot, but to me it was the loveliest sight in the world. I walked around to the stage door and went inside, savoring the wonderful smell of greasepaint and powder, dust and damp rope. It was very dim back here, but I knew the way well, and I moved past piles of painted flats and a rack of dusty old costumes, recognizing the silver and violet gown I had worn as Nell Gwynn. I could hear voices onstage, one familiar voice soaring angrily above the others. Someone moved briskly toward me when I reached the wings, prepared to deal sternly with an intruder. I gave the flowers to a startled Andy Dobson and, before he could exclaim aloud, placed a finger to my lips, cautioning him to silence. Awkwardly holding the bunches of flowers, Andy beamed and nodded, and I went on toward the stage.

“You call
this
your best work!” he roared, slapping a sketch he clutched in his other hand. “I asked you to design a backdrop representing Covent Garden in 1660, and you show me a sketch of a few indeterminate buildings obscured by mist! I want to see The Market! I want to see Drury Lane in the distance! I want to
feel
Covent Garden as it was back then! There are going to be orange girls strolling in front of that backdrop, cavaliers in plumed hats, flower sellers with carts of real flowers, pickpockets in rags, high-born harlots in silk gowns and jewels! This is going to be the most ambitious, the most spectacular production I've ever mounted, and, by God, I'll have the proper backdrop or you two gentlemen will be out on the streets begging for work!”

The two gentlemen in question cringed and nodded and nervously assured him he'd have a satisfactory sketch before the week was out. James Lambert scowled furiously, tore the existing sketch to shreds and hurled the pieces away. They fluttered in the air like thin white birds and drifted slowly to the stage. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his breeches and continued to scowl as the two worried gentlemen scurried off into the wings on the other side. When they were out of sight he gave an exasperated sigh, shook his head and turned, looking extremely harried.