At the Highwayman's Pleasure(12)

It must have cost Phineas a great deal of soul-searching to come to the  theatre, and he certainly could not be seen to approve of the  entertainment. Ross had no such qualms, but he was on his guard. He  would enjoy the performance but not-most definitely he would not-allow  himself to be captivated by the actress.                       
       
           



       

* * *

The play ended to enthusiastic cheers and applause from the audience.  It was clear that Mrs Charity Weston was hugely popular. A number of  nosegays were hurled onto the stage and she gathered them up, lifted the  flowers to her face as if to inhale their delicate perfume then smiled  her thanks towards the audience. One had to admire her technique. Ross  glanced up at the boxes again. Phineas and Hannah Weston were the only  ones not applauding.

There was a short interval before the next part of the programme, which  according to the handbill promised amusing songs and recitations. Ross  noted that the Westons were leaving their box and he joined the throng  heading for the foyer. Few people paid him any heed; those that did  recognise him gave him no more than a disapproving stare before moving  away. He took no notice, for he had spotted those golden ostrich  feathers a little way ahead of him. The wearer was standing alone and  Ross was at her side before she had even seen him.

‘Good evening, Hannah.'

‘Ross.' Alarm flashed across her face, but she quickly concealed it. ‘I didn't expect to see you here.'

‘Nor I you. I thought your husband considered entertainments like this an affront to the Lord.'

He noted the wary look in her eyes, but before she could reply he heard an angry voice behind him.

‘Durden. I might have known we should find you in such a place as this. Get away from my wife, damn you!'

A hush fell over those nearest them and people edged away. Ross turned  slowly to find Phineas Weston at his shoulder. His lip curled.

‘You should try for a little civility, Weston. You are not in Beringham now.'

The older man's eyes narrowed and his face turned a dark angry red, almost the same colour as his coat.

‘The law is the law, whichever side of the county border you may be.'

‘And is there a law now about speaking to an old friend?' drawled Ross.  His tone was deliberately taunting and he saw the flush deepen on  Hannah's already rosy cheeks.

He allowed himself a contemptuous smile as Weston struggled with his  temper. A bell rang out, summoning everyone back to the auditorium.  Phineas took his wife's arm.

‘Come, my dear, this way. I have fixed it....'

Ross watched them go, then with a shrug he made his way back to his seat.

* * *

‘Another successful first night, Miss Charity.'

Charity cleaned the paint and powder from her face while Betty eased the heavy wig from her head.

‘It isn't over yet. We have still to play the farce.' Charity met her  maid's eyes in the mirror and smiled. ‘But we have made a good start.  Can you work your magic on the wig again for tomorrow night's  performance? The papillotte curls looked very well, I think.'

There was a knock at the door and the stage doorman looked in, his old eyes twinkling.

‘Mrs Weston, I have a lady and gentleman here who are very desirous to  meet you and don't wish to wait until tonight's reception.'

Charity glanced at the little clock on her dressing table. Smudgeon  must consider these patrons important-and very rich!-if he was prepared  to allow them backstage between performances.

‘Of course, Mr Smudgeon. I have a few minutes to spare before I need to  change my gown for the farce.' She sent Betty away and rose to greet  her visitors.

Her smile froze when the couple walked in. She gave no more than a  cursory glance to the woman in her glittering, overdecorated gown and  gilded feathers before fixing her eyes upon the man at her side.

For the first time in thirteen years she was face-to-face with her father.

* * *

It took Ross a few minutes to realise that the Westons had not returned  to their box. He recalled the magistrate's words as he led his wife  away. I have fixed it.... Mayhap there was some advantage to be gained  here. Quickly he slipped out again and made his way to the stage door.  He bribed the boy standing guard to let him in and depleted his meagre  purse even further to be directed to Mrs Weston's dressing room.

He made his way through the main room where the ladies of the chorus  were changing their gowns. There were a few good-natured shrieks and one  or two saucy comments, but he ignored them and continued on to the  narrow passage and series of doors that had been described to him. The  first, so he had been told, was for Mr Jenkin, the actor/manager. The  second was reserved for the theatre's new leading lady.

An elderly man was standing in the doorway to Charity's room, and Ross  recognised him from his previous visit to the green room as Smudgeon,  the stage doorman. A shout went up and Ross stepped back into the  shadows, rehearsing the reason he would give for being there if he was  challenged. Smudgeon stepped out into the corridor and pulled the door  closed behind him, then to Ross's relief he set off in the opposite  direction. As the footsteps died away, Ross could hear the rumble of  voices coming from the dressing room and was almost certain that one of  them belonged to Phineas Weston.                       
       
           



       

* * *

Charity was aware of the familiar icy dread stealing through her when  the doorman withdrew. Her smile faded and she remained standing,  determined to keep the meeting short.

‘This is one place I did not expect to find you,' she remarked, to break the silence.

‘I would not have come had I not heard such disturbing intelligence.'

Phineas glared at her, his fleshy jowls working angrily. She thought he  had aged considerably since she had last seen him. His whiskers were  grey and he had put on weight, but he still had an imposing presence,  and now he pulled himself up to his full height to declare, ‘How dare  you come back here, dragging my name through the mud?'

She remembered that deep, resonating voice of outrage-she had heard him  use it many times to great effect from the pulpit-and was obliged to  ignore the chill it sent running through her.

He cannot hurt me. He has no power here.

She raised her brows and forced herself to remain calm.

‘It is my name, too, and if the reports are to be believed I am raising  it out of the mire. Not that I have told anyone of the connection  between us.'

His eyes snapped.

‘When people told me that an actress-' he almost shivered with  revulsion as he spoke the word ‘-that an actress calling herself Mrs  Weston was playing in Allingford, I could not believe it was you. Then I  heard talk that my daughter-my daughter!-was exhibiting herself on the  stage. I tried to put an end to such rumours, but it is too widely  spoken of, so I judged it was time to come and see for myself.'

Charity spread her hands.

‘And now you have seen,' she said coldly. ‘Are you satisfied?'

His brow darkened. ‘Still the same pride, still that same stubborn wilfulness that I tried so hard to dispel-'

‘That you tried to beat out of me!'

‘Aye, and I should have thrashed you harder,' he snarled. ‘As it is I have to watch you prostituting yourself-'

‘I am acting. That is all it is.'

‘It is a monstrous abomination and you are the purveyor of evil.'

She managed a laugh.

‘Good heavens, one would think you were speaking of Bonaparte himself!'

Phineas drew back, glaring at her from under beetling brows.

‘The Emperor has his faults, but he is God's instrument.'

‘Bonaparte?' she said, surprised. ‘He is a tyrant. An enemy of England.'

‘England has more enemies within,' roared Phineas. ‘Sinners and those  who wish to see the country once again under the heel of the Pope!  Bonaparte is the scourge of the papists. There are some who think he is  an agent of the Messiah, whereas you, madam, are an agent of the devil!'

‘Now, Phineas, don't you be getting yourself in a bother about this.'

The woman standing beside Phineas spoke for the first time. Charity  assumed this was his wife, the third Mrs Weston, and when she took a  moment to study her she was surprised how young she was, possibly even  younger than herself, but a constant look of dissatisfaction had left  permanent lines upon her once-pretty face. She smiled, although her  brown eyes held a calculating look.

‘My dear Charity-may I call you that? After all, I am your mama now.'  Her affected laugh grated upon Charity's ears. ‘We did not come to  quarrel with you, dear, but you must see that to have you here, not  fifteen miles from our home, is a little difficult for your papa. After  all, he is a justice now.'