Stages of Desire (20 page)

“Adam, can you bring me the cards that were left on the hallway table?”

He fetched them and watched as Harriet thumbed through each one. “Drury Lane. Sadler's Wells. Haymarket. I appear to be in demand. As you put it so well, the question is exactly what do I want to do?”

“What would give you the most pleasure?”

William's face, his chestnut eyes staring down in wonder as they made love, immediately came to mind.

No. Move beyond him. Let him go.

“If I had my druthers, I'd work my way through Shakespeare's tragedies. And I'd insist on being the manager of the Farley Players, not only an actress, and we would work wherever and whenever we pleased.”

“There's my girl. You have a grand opportunity here.”

She bit her lip. “Of course, some people would come to see my shows to see if I am truly cursed.”

“You'd get those sort. As long as they buy a ticket, I won't care why they've come.” A grin slowly spread across his face.

“What is it? What evil thoughts are you thinking?”

“I have an idea, if you're serious about this, for your first production.”

“What's that?” Before he could reply, Harriet gleaned the answer. “The Scottish Play.”

“With you as Lady M.”

For the first time in a week, a surge of energy coursed through her body, her head raced with ideas for sets and costumes.

It was true, theater was in her blood and it was what she was good at. The answer all along.

“Adam. You're brilliant. Now let's get started.”

Chapter 18

William breathed in the fresh morning air as he drove the curricle from Poundridge back to London. The English autumn had been unexpectedly bright and free of rain, and the smell of newly plowed soil filled the air. He'd enjoyed spending time in the country the past four weeks, traversing the many acres of the family's holdings with Jasper. The wound to his leg from Freddie's knife was healing quickly and would amount to a small scar at most.

Thank God for Jasper, as he ran the estate better than his father or grandfather had, and certainly with more authority than Oliver. Still, William had to admit he'd felt a little at loose ends, with no malaria treatment to keep him occupied. Instead, he'd still puttered about in his small laboratory and read his medical texts, driving Claire mad when he got distracted and didn't show up to dinner on time. All in all, it had been a nice way to end his bachelorhood.

He checked his timepiece and urged the team of horses to pick up the pace. Marianne would be arriving at his London residence within the hour. They were to be married this weekend at St. George's, and she'd written him insisting they meet to discuss the wedding breakfast. He was more than happy to oblige, as absence had indeed made his heart grow fonder.

After the tragic fire at Covent Garden, he'd had to get away. From London, from everything. And in Poundridge he'd finally broken free from the magnetic pull Harriet Farley had held on him. He hardly thought of her anymore.

His butler greeted him warmly when he arrived and William went straight to his study to catch up on his correspondence. He made a cursory review of various invitations, then picked up the latest issue of
Ackermann's
.

Harriet's visage stared back at him from the front page.

In the drawing, she stood tall, one arm lifted high in the air, her head in profile gazing up at her gloved hand. The haunted look in her eyes, combined with the classic features of her aquiline profile, made the theatrical pose seem surprisingly organic. She wore an intricate crimson gown cut low in the bodice that pooled in folds around her feet. Curls tumbled down her neck, each one drawn in exacting detail. “Actress-Manager Takes on
Macbeth
” said the headline. His heart pounded.

“There you are, my darling.”

Marianne glided into the room, wearing a bright yellow pelisse and matching bonnet. She paused before reaching him and cocked her head while slowly removing her gloves, in a pose that somehow felt more theatrical than the illustration of Harriet.

William messily folded up the paper and tossed it onto an armchair, hoping he didn't look as guilty as he felt.

“Marianne. You weren't announced.” He wondered if she'd seen the article as well. From her raised eyebrows and pursed red mouth, he was fairly certain she had.

“Since we're getting married Saturday morning, I figured I didn't need to be announced. After all, I'll be living here soon enough.”

“Of course, forgive me. This is your house as well.”

She accepted his invitation to sit down on the sofa. “I missed you, William.”

“And I you. How wonderful to see you.”

“How was the country?”

“Quite good. Jasper has the place well in hand. You'll have to see what you'd like done to the manor. I fear you'll find the furnishings rather outdated.”

She put her hand on his. “I'll be happy to add a woman's touch, if you like.”

“I expect you to.”

William leaned forward and lightly kissed her. She responded with a small giggle in the back of her throat.

“Is that all right?” he asked.

“It's wonderful.” She leaned in to him and pressed her hands against his shoulders, encouraging him on.

He playfully touched a finger to her lips. “Perhaps we should go over the guest list. There's so much to be done before the wedding.”

“Yes, of course.” She reached into her reticule. “You can't imagine how silly Mama's being about all of the plans, as if she were the one getting married. We're not sure whether Lady Claire should like to be placed next to Lord Bancroft.”

The next several minutes were spent discussing the finer points of the seating chart for the wedding breakfast. Once they finished, she grasped his hand tightly. Too tightly.

“William, we must discuss what happened after the fire. Please, I know you're reluctant but this is important.”

He squirmed. “There's nothing to discuss. I went to the theater and helped those that I could escape the blaze. Many others died. It's not something I wish to dwell upon.”

“And I'm not asking you to dwell upon it. I know it was a terrible experience. But you did save Harriet.”

The mention of her name made him ill at ease. “Yes. I carried her out.”

“And you brought her to your house and cared for her.”

“Only for one night. I gave her tartar emetic in order to get rid of the poison, and, luckily for her, it worked. I haven't seen nor heard from her since and I don't expect to.”

“Poison?”

He had misspoken. Marianne knew nothing of the travails of the Farley Players.

“I meant the smoke. Tartar emetic helped clear the smoke from her lungs.”

She breathed a deep sigh. “Of course, I would expect you to save her, as she was once practically part of the family. That was compassionate of you.”

A vivid memory washed over him, one he had tried to forget: Harriet's moans of pain combined with the acrid smell of smoke, his frantic effort to get them both to safety. During the fight with Freddie, he'd wanted to kill the man for his outrageous acts, to pummel him to death. The rage that had consumed him surprised him with its intensity.

“It's over and done with.” William hoped this would end their discussion, but Marianne's look told him he needed to provide further reassurance. “She's more than scandalized both our houses.”

Tears welled up in Marianne's eyes. “I'm so sorry. Mother never would have brought her to live with us if we'd know how she'd turn out.”

“I hope you're not listening to the gossip. It will die down soon enough.”

“Wherever I go, whether it's to the shops or to pay a call, I feel everyone is watching me and whispering about me. You're lucky you could retreat to the country.”

A pang of guilt swept over him. He'd left London quickly, eager to get away, desperate to put distance between himself and Harriet.

He took Marianne's hands in his. “After the wedding we'll travel to Weymouth for a fortnight, then spend some time at Poundridge. By the time we've returned to London, I promise you the gossipmongers will have moved on to a different subject.”

“I do hope you're right, William.”

They settled the rest of the affairs relating to the ceremony, and once she had gone, he called for tea. The journey, and his discourse with Marianne, had worn him out. He sat in the armchair and picked up the paper, telling himself it was simple curiosity, no more, that made him read the article. He should know what the girl was up to and whether his name was linked with hers.

Even though he'd been far from London, the news that Harriet had become a darling of the press had traveled north quickly. The good reviews of her performance in Birmingham, combined with her recent calamities, had resulted in her taking on the title of the first woman actor-manager in London theater. The article stated her production of
Macbeth,
which she was also starring in, was set to open at the Drury Lane Theatre in a week.

There was no mention of the ghastly Mr. Hopplehill as her betrothed, which could only mean she'd broken free of the yoke of marriage. No man in his right mind would marry her now.

He had to admit a part of him was proud of her. And ever so slightly envious. She was free from the bonds that held most people back, those of duty and family, and had taken matters into her own hands. Her life was her own, however scandalous it might be.

The door to his study opened, but instead of his tea being delivered, Claire entered carrying a small trunk in her hands. The bright color in her cheeks thrilled him. Her health was improving daily and the extract had proven to be much more effective and easier to ingest than the bitter bark tea.

“How's your rummaging going?” He took the trunk from her and placed it on his desk.

“I'm not rummaging, I'm cleaning out Mother's sitting room for your new bride.”

“Why don't you let one of the maids take care of it? No need to put yourself out like this.”

Claire put her hands on her hips. “First of all, I'm strong as an ox these days and I have to find somewhere to put this excess energy. And secondly, no one's been in that room since the day she passed away. I'm curious.”

Claire going through his mother's effects made him uneasy. Their father had preferred they not discuss her after her death, so the children had followed his lead and kept their memories and feelings to themselves. The sitting room was considered off-limits. Besides, it was so long ago.

“I found this trunk in an armoire. And it's locked.” She gave him a conspiratorial smile. “Luckily I was able to open it using one of my hairpins.”

William laughed. “If I remember correctly, you taught Oliver the same trick and he kept nicking my toy horses, even though I kept them locked in my room.”

“I do remember. You were awfully stingy when it came to sharing.”

“Because I knew he'd break every single one. It was a matter of protection.” He laughed at his indignant anger from long ago. “So silly.”

“He did break your toy theater. Even I was upset at that.”

The toy theater. His mother had given it to him one year as a birthday present, a small but intricate proscenium stage made from brightly colored cardboard mounted on wood, with cutouts of characters and stage props. He and Claire had invented plays with complicated plots and nasty villains, much to their mother's delight.

“I think that was my favorite toy of all time,” he said.

“I heard father once worrying we'd end up becoming actors, and mother arguing to let us be.”

“They argued quite a bit.”

Claire took out several letters and newspaper clippings from the trunk and carefully placed them on his desk.

“Do you have to do that here?”

“What are you so afraid of? Don't you want to know more about Mother? You were only five years old when she died.”

He had to admit he was curious as to what they'd find. Yellowed newspaper clippings, locks of her children's hair, and letters seemed to be the sum of his mother's treasures. He was pleased to see portraits of each of them as children, except for Jasper, of course, who'd been born the day she died. The letters were from close friends and family members. One, however, caught his eye. He picked it up, trying to remember why the name stood out.

“That's strange.” She glanced over his shoulder. “Henry Butler. Have you ever heard father speak of him?”

“Never.” He placed the letter back in the trunk.

“Aren't you going to read it?”

“I don't think we ought to, Claire. These are her private papers.”

She snatched it up and unfolded it. “It's dated right before you were born.” He watched as her eyes moved to the bottom of the page. He waited for her to tell him what it said, but instead she folded it back up and replaced it in the trunk. “Only an old acquaintance. You're right, probably best to store these up in the attic.” Claire's eyes shifted back and forth uneasily and she seemed slightly frightened. She'd read something she shouldn't have.

“Let me see it.”

“William, I'm so sorry.” She crossed her arms, gripping each elbow tightly. “Are you sure?”

He wasn't.

“You ought to sit down,” she said, retrieving the paper.

He took a seat in the armchair by the window and read the letter while Claire paced back and forth. It was from a Mr. Henry Butler of Norris Street, who'd written a passionate love letter to his mother. Butler asked her to run off with him, so they might raise their child together. He mentioned an offer he'd received to bring a play he'd recently written to be staged in Bath, and begged her to reconsider her decision and join him.

You say you can't leave your children, but by doing so you deny me mine. My love for you is unceasing, and I miss you terribly.

William's throat closed up. What Oliver and the girl had told him, the night they were killed, was true.

He raced back over to his desk and rifled through the papers Claire had carefully arranged on top of it. One newspaper clipping included an obituary of the “esteemed and talented playwright Mr. Henry Butler,” who died the year William turned five, of consumption, and spoke of his distinctive red-brown hair and tall bearing.

Memories from his time with Harriet came flooding back. When he'd first met Adam at Chipping Norton, the man had looked upon him with a dazed expression, as if he were a ghost. He'd said he was the “spitting image,” but not of whom.

Sam Farley had called him “Butler” when they first met.

Henry Butler was his father. His mother had had an affair with a playwright, and William was the result.

“No wonder Father was intolerant of me,” he said finally. “My hair and complexion served as a reminder to him. He must have known.”

Claire put her arms around him. “It explains so much. She loved him but she chose to stay here with the family.”

“I wonder where they met. Where would a woman of her standing meet an actor?”

“At the theater, of course. She loved to go, until Father forbade her.”

“Oliver knew.”

She took a step back. “What?”

“The girl he was with knew. That night, when I scoffed at the idea of them marrying, she told me I'd better be careful what I say, as I was no better than she was.”