Stages of Desire (16 page)

The duchess, Marianne and William would be relieved to have her out of their hair. She wouldn't be missed.

She opened her mouth to tell her father her decision when a man in his forties shot through the door, speaking at a great speed. He had thick brown hair and a bright red cravat and walked with his chest puffed up and his chin tucked. His sharp, short movements reminded Harriet of a robin red breast.

“Farley, great to see you again,” the man said. “And here is your bewitching, and may I say talented, progeny.”

Her father beamed. “Yes. Miss Farley, may I present Mr. Harris, producer at the esteemed Covent Garden Theatre. Mr. Harris, my daughter, Miss Farley.”

Harriet was taken aback. She'd expected to meet one of the producers from the other big cities on the circuit. Not London.

“Mr. Harris, pleased to make your acquaintance,” she stammered.

They sat on the sofa while Mr. Harris perched on the edge of an armchair, elbows slightly out, as if he might take flight any moment. “My stay in Birmingham seems to have been serendipitous. Your notices are extraordinary and I don't see why we should waste any time with the Farley Players trundling around the countryside, performing for rustics. We have an unexpected opening at the Covent Garden Theatre in a couple of weeks and I'd like your players to fill it.” He held his hands out front of him, palms facing away. “We'll bill it as the ‘Cursed Comedy' and dare theatergoers to come. Starring Miss Farley as the reincarnation of the late Mrs. Ivey.”

“What an excellent plan.” Her father slapped his knee. “‘The Cursed Comedy.' Most excellent. I'll take a sixth share for myself, and we can work out the salaries for the actors in due course.”

“Goodness, no.” Harriet had to stop them, everything was moving far too fast. And she couldn't allow them to link the dead woman's name to her own like that. If her father got his way, she'd be the center of attention in the most undignified manner. She imagined what the duchess would think, how horrified and humiliated she'd be at the idea of her former ward appearing on the London stage. “What about the circuit?”

Her father raised his bushy eyebrows and gave her a lopsided smile. “A chance like this only comes around once in a lifetime. We've got to seize it.”

“But we'd be making money off the death of an actress, one whose name and memory should be mourned, not used to sell tickets.”

Both men grew serious, and for a few seconds no one spoke, as if obeying a moment of silence.

“It was a terrible thing that happened to Mrs. Ivey,” said Mr. Harris. “A great loss to our community.”

“I know,” her father exclaimed. “We can do a musical tribute to her before the play. An original composition celebrating the life, achievements, and contributions to the English theater by the late Mrs. Ivey. I'll write it myself.”

“Fantastic idea!”

Harriet grew frantic. “But won't our regular patrons be angry? Don't we owe it to them to keep our promises?”

Her father's eyes grew dark. “If anyone wants to see the show, they can come to London. Don't be daft.”

“I'm not sure it's a good idea.” Harriet was out of excuses.

“What's the matter with you, girl? I invited you here as a surprise, so you can be part of the moment. This may be our only opportunity to bring the Farley Players to London. Don't you want that for Adam, for Mrs. Kembler? After all the hard work they've done?”

“She wants a share.” Mr. Harris rubbed his chin. “She's a smart one, your daughter.”

“I don't want a share.”

“Fine, how about a tenth of the box office?” said her father. “I'll take an eighth, she can take a tenth, and we'll pay the actors ten pounds a week.”

“I think that might work. I'll have the contract made up this afternoon.”

“You won't regret this, Mr. Harris.”

Both men rose.

“Wait, I haven't agreed to this.” Harriet stood as well. “It's too fast.”

Her father winked at Mr. Harris. “She's green. Afraid of what her posh friends might say.”

“I'm not green.” Harriet imagined standing on the stage at Covent Garden, the boxes filled with acquaintances of Marianne and the duchess, pointing fingers and mocking her. And William, seated beside Marianne, joining in. “I can't do it. I won't.”

As she ran out of the room, she heard her father reassuring Mr. Harris. “Only a case of nerves, nothing to worry about.”

But it wasn't nerves. Harriet stood outside the doorway of the house, not sure which direction to go. Across the street was a park she hadn't noticed on the way in. The colors of autumn tinged the uppermost leaves of the field maple trees, as if they'd been lightly dipped in yellow paint.

She entered through the gates and roamed the grounds. No matter what choice she made, she was in a bind. If she joined her father and went to London, the duchess would be humiliated. She couldn't do that to the woman who'd taken her in and raised her the past six years. If she turned down her father's offer, he'd be angry, and she couldn't bear his disappointment after she'd made him so proud. He was her father, after all.

An older couple sat on a bench overlooking a small lake, talking and laughing as though they hadn't a care in the world. She envied their obvious fondness for each other. A few days ago, she might have envisioned sitting like that with William.

As she drew closer, she recognized the laugh of the woman. Incredulous, Harriet approached the bench and smiled.

“Miss Entwhistle. And Adam!”

They blushed like schoolchildren caught doing something naughty. “Harriet, do join us.” Adam gestured to the seat beside him.

“I couldn't, I'm on my way back.” Harriet didn't know where she was headed, but she didn't want to interrupt them.

“Oh, do sit down,” chided Miss Entwhistle, and Harriet obeyed. “Tell us what the big secret was. Your father could hardly contain himself this morning.”

“The producer of Covent Garden wants to bring
As You Like It
to London.”

Miss Entwhistle clapped her hands. Adam let out a low whistle.

“With you in the lead?” he asked.

“Apparently so.”

“Is that what you want to do?”

“I'm not sure. My guardian would be mortified. But father will be angry if I don't. I'm not sure where I belong.” Her face became hot and tears prickled the corner of her eyes.

“My dear, my dear.” Miss Entwhistle patted her hand gently. “Now don't cry.”

“I love being part of the company. But the papers are caught up in Mrs. Ivey's death, as if I'm her replacement. I'm not. I could never be.”

“What is it you truly want?” asked Adam.

Deep down, Harriet knew. She wanted to marry William and have a family together. To spend every day and night with him. Even now, when he'd been so awful to her, a part of her still loved him.

“Sometimes you need to take the time to figure these things out,” offered Mrs. Entwhistle. “Goodness knows, I did. After working under Lord Abingdon's father for years, I'd forgotten what it was I wanted. Until now.” She and Adam exchanged smiles.

“William's father?” prompted Harriet, hoping to hear more.

“He was a nasty man, I'm sorry to say. He treated little William terribly. Luckily, he was able to hide away with his scientific books. I'd often find him curled up in some chair, his nose buried in a book. He was a brilliant child, and grew up to be a brilliant man. Did you know he won honors at Oxford for his studies? He was considered one of the brightest minds to grace the halls there.”

“I'm not surprised.”

“But he inherited his father's sense of propriety, I'm afraid. Always doing what's expected of him.”

“Yes. Of course. He's an earl.”

“Unfortunately.”

“That has nothing to do with me.”

Miss Entwhistle took Harriet's hand in a firm grip. “It has everything to do with you. Love doesn't come around often. Look, even Adam's been writing me poetry. Can you imagine?” She reached into her reticule and pulled out a wrinkled sheet of paper.

Harriet read the poem to herself and looked at Adam, whose ears had turned bright red. “It's wonderful, Adam.”

“Just a simple thing. Nothing like our bard.”

Something in the last line caught her eye. It wasn't the words. It was the flourish of the pen, the handwriting.

She took one close look, memorizing the image, and returned the poem with a heavy heart.

Chapter 14

She had been expecting the knock on her hotel door, but Harriet still jumped when she heard the harsh raps. She'd packed her portmanteau with two of the plainer dresses from Lord Warwick's collection, and had dressed in a third. The rest of the gowns had been placed in a trunk for the Farley Players to pick up on their way out of town. Where she was going she wouldn't need anything fancy.

She opened the door and let her father inside.

“Would you like tea?” she asked.

He looked at her as if she were crazy. And maybe she was. “No. I don't want tea. I want you to tell me why you embarrassed me in front of Mr. Harris. Is a tenth of a share not good enough?”

She invited him to sit down but he refused.

“Father, it's not about the money. I don't want to go on with you and the company. I'm done.”

He grinned. “A girl after my own heart, are you? Well, I'm telling you now I won't bargain any further. I refuse to increase your share. You'll be left behind.”

The man was maddening.

“I'm not angling for more money.”

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked around the room. “You're packed up. If you're not going with us, where are you going?”

“Back to my guardian, back to London.”

“Who do you think you are, to throw away success like that?” He wagged his head slowly back and forth. “Success I've worked hard for my entire life.”

“You? You had nothing to do with the Birmingham production, let me remind you. We couldn't even count on you to show up to rehearsal.”

“My contribution was cumulative.” His eyes became narrow slits. “Why are you giving up? Because Lord Abingdon told you to? I would think my daughter would make up her own mind.”

“My decision has nothing to do with Lord Abingdon.” She needed to take control of the conversation and not let her father disrupt her. “I came to Birmingham to help you. But I should never have done so.”

He sat on the sofa, spreading his arms wide along its back, and crossed a foot over one knee. “Am I supposed to be supplicating at your feet because you got me out of a slump? I already told you I appreciated it.”

“You're using me now, with Mr. Harris, as you did when you gave me away as a child. I'm no more to you than a stage prop.”

“It was for the best, I've told you that before.”

“And did you have any remorse for selling me to strangers? Any at all?”

“Of course I did. Don't be peevish. There were decisions to be made, difficult decisions.”

She fetched the book of sonnets and opened it to the page with the inscription. “You didn't even write this, did you?”

He peered at the page. “Of course I did. I'd forgotten. It was an incredibly confusing time.”

“Adam wrote it. I recognized his penmanship earlier today. Did he suggest you give it to me at our parting, knowing I'd be bereft once I realized you'd left me behind? He probably figured you'd be too busy counting your coins to care.”

“For God's sake, girl, you can stand there sniveling about what's happened in the past or you can come with me and seize the future. I'll make it up to you, I promise. Come to London with me. I worked so hard for this. You weren't there when we were trudging around in the rain and mud. You were safe in the duchess's household, educated and well taken care of. Stop thinking only of yourself. The Farley Players have earned this chance and it won't be the same without you in the lead.”

“Because it won't sell as many tickets, right?”

He took the book out of her hands and hurled it across the room. “Who are you to speak to your father this way? Now I remember why I sold you off. Even with the troubles with Freddie, I always knew he was a true Farley. Not you.”

She couldn't help herself. “You're wrong about that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Freddie's out to get you. Has been for a while now.” Now she had his full attention. Probably for the first time in her entire life.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

She knew she should stop, but she couldn't resist. “He's been trying to ruin the company. First by getting you drunk, then setting fire to the wagon, and finally poisoning your leading actress.”

She regretted her words as soon as they'd left her lips.

He stared at her, his eyes wide, mouth open. “Poison? I thought it was oysters?”

She stayed still, frozen in place.

“You're saying Freddie poisoned Mrs. Ivey? How do you know?” He stared hard at her, almost looking through her. “Lord Abingdon. He's a physician, right? He fixed up Freddie's arm. He'd know.”

She should never have let him bait her.

He stood and paced the room. “Bibby had Freddie in the palm of his hand this entire time.”

“It looks like it.”

“Mrs. Ivey. Poisoned. By a rival company. If the papers hear about this, it will cause quite a stir.”

She'd finally gotten through to him. “Yes. That would be awful. We don't want to encourage any speculation. Freddie's gone, he's run away, so we'll never know the truth. Maybe he was forced to do it or else they'd kill him. We had a run-in with Bibby's men on the way to Birmingham, and I assure you they meant business.”

“Right.” She could tell by the far-away look in his eyes he hadn't heard a word she'd said. “I'm simply thinking out loud here, nothing definite. But maybe we have an opportunity here.”

“What opportunity?”

“To bring down Bibby. For good.”

“No. You can't say anything to anyone, I told you in confidence.”

“But don't you see? This could be fortuitous for us, if word gets out. In more ways than one.”

She couldn't believe she heard him correctly. “If you spread the rumor, Bibby will turn around and point the finger at Freddie. The scandal would be terrible.”

“It's already terrible. A distinguished actress, cut down in her prime. We have to make the best of a dire situation, I've been saying that all along.”

“Then leave it be. I should have never told you.”

“Come to London.” Her father drew close. “We can do this together. Think of the money.”

Harriet's hands shook. Her father was willing to jeopardize his own family to make money. “You sicken me.”

He studied her closely, as if looking at her for the first time. Then he slapped her. “The rules of your rarefied world don't apply to me. You best remember that.”

The door slammed shut and he was gone.

* * * *

Harriet lifted the pail from where it hung over the kitchen fire, shuffled over to the basin, and poured it out. She scrubbed the breakfast dishes with sand to get rid of the eggy residue and dipped each in the water, wincing from the burning sensation on her cracked hands. When she was done, she dried each dish with care, knowing the cook would inspect them and find something wrong, as she had done every day since the duchess led Harriet into the kitchen at Brook Street and introduced her as the new maid. The cook had barely concealed her delight in Harriet's change in fortunes. But it didn't matter.

The cook crept up behind Harriet and peered over her shoulder. “Make sure you dry them well. Last time I noticed spots on the plates and saucers.”

“Yes ma'am.”

The cook's face was bright red even when she wasn't leaning over hot stoves and fires, her nose a mass of red veins. A lock of frizzy red hair hung down one side of her face, having come free from her cap.

“When you're done with that, you can help me cut up these carrots for the stew.” She wiped her brow with a thick forearm. “Bet you never expected to be slaving away down here, did you?”

When Harriet had first shown up at the duchess's door, after traveling by stagecoach from Birmingham, her guardian had been predictably angry. During her questioning, Harriet downplayed William's role in her activities as well as her own turn on stage. Still, the duchess was aghast at Harriet's disrespect and disobedience, and explained that if she wanted to continue living with them, she'd have to accept a lowering of her station to that of kitchen maid.

Harriet accepted, knowing the hours of work would be a godsend at the end of the day, when she could fall into a deep, dreamless sleep and forget what a muddle she'd made of her life.

“You didn't answer my question.” The cook picked up a knife and began chopping the vegetables. “Never mind. You best hope Lord Abingdon never asks Lady Marianne's hand in marriage. The minute he does, Her Grace will be able to hire a full staff back. And you'll get the boot.”

Harriet couldn't restrain herself. “He hasn't asked yet?” Two weeks had passed, and although Marianne had attended numerous balls and dinner parties, Lord Abingdon hadn't called upon her at home. Harriet was grateful for that.

“They say he's had family matters to attend to. Sick sister. Not that it's your business.”

Harriet turned around. “She's still ill?”

The cook put her knife down. “What do you care?”

Had William's extraction failed? She was impatient to find out more details, but before she could figure out a subtle way to inquire, heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs.

It was one of the footmen. “Miss Farley?”

“You can call her Harriet now,” corrected the cook.

“Harriet, then, Her Grace would like to see you upstairs.”

She dried her hands, pulled her hair back under her cap, and followed him to the empty drawing room. Harriet sat on the sofa to wait. She wasn't sure if protocol allowed her to sit, but she was exhausted. Several magazines and newspapers were scattered on the seat next to her. She was gathering them up into a neat pile when an article in the
Times
caught her eye.

The piece hailed the arrival of the Farley Players in London. Harriet recognized the name of the woman playing Rosalind, an established actress two decades too old for the part. Luckily, the article was innocuous enough.

But when she turned the page, her heart sank. The headline “Mrs. Ivey Poisoned?” was blazoned across the top. Below it Mr. Farley, manager of the Farley Players, offered a lurid account of her final hours, followed by his desire her ghost wouldn't haunt the opening night performance this evening. He insinuated that an unnamed suspect, hired by a rival company, was still on the run.

A burning shame roiled through her body. She should never have told her father. Her only hope was that the piece would be dismissed as a trumped-up plea for attention.

The duchess entered and sat opposite Harriet, every move efficient and brisk. She had her back to the window, but even with the bright sun streaming in behind her Harriet could tell the past several months of uncertainty had taken a toll. The duchess's eyes and mouth turned down at the corners, as if pulled by invisible strings.

The duchess had fallen far, from wealthy wife to poor widow. In contrast, Harriet considered herself lucky, having simply moved from one form of service to another. Whether it was putting up with Marianne's self-absorption or scrubbing dishes, she knew her place in the world. And in many ways she was grateful to the duchess, who could have easily turned her out into the streets.

“Harriet, someone has been inquiring after you. I thought you should know.”

William. Perhaps he had read the article and was furious. Or he wanted to speak about what had happened between them. “May I ask whom?” she said, her voice breaking.

“Mr. Hopplehill and I spoke the other day at church, and I told him he could call on you this afternoon.”

Harriet looked down at her chapped red hands. Of course William wasn't interested in seeing her. What had she been thinking? He hated her, blamed her for the debacle in Birmingham. “I don't think I'm up for a caller.”

The duchess carried on, undeterred. “I know you've been working away downstairs the past couple of weeks, and I have to say I'm amazed at your diligence and discipline. Perhaps you're paying penance for having run away and almost ruining Marianne's chances of marriage. I should hope so. But you'll be happy to know things are looking up.”

“They are?”

She nodded. “Lord Abingdon's sister was ill, but now she's almost fully recovered.”

The extract had worked. Harriet's heart soared, only to plummet when the duchess continued speaking.

“Marianne saw his lordship at Lady Rutland's evening party last night and it appears the romance has been rekindled.”

“I'm glad.” Harriet steadied herself by smoothing her skirt. “But I don't see any need for me to see Mr. Hopplehill. Particularly under these changed circumstances.”

“I haven't said anything to him about your new position here. If Mr. Hopplehill will still have you, I'd advise you put on a proper gown and jump at the opportunity. I can't keep you on forever.”

Harriet recalled the cook's warning, about how easily she could be replaced once the duchess had the funds to do so.

The older woman leaned forward. “And there's a more pressing need for you to see Mr. Hopplehill this afternoon. Lord Abingdon is coming by later, to pay a call on Marianne. I would prefer if you and Mr. Hopplehill go for a walk in the park. You may have the afternoon off.”

Her motive was clear. She didn't want Harriet present when William called.

Harriet stood. “Of course, I will be ready for Mr. Hopplehill. Thank you, Your Grace.”

She pulled away from the duchess's steely gaze and left the room.

* * * *

“Don't tire yourself, Claire,” said William. “There's no need for us to tromp all the way to the Serpentine if it's too much for you.”

The afternoon was gorgeous and he knew he ought to be content, out walking with his sister and Lady Marianne, particularly as this was the first time Claire had been able to do so in a while. But truth was, he would have much preferred to stay in his study and continue working on the patent for his treatment.