At the Highwayman's Pleasure(6)

He waved to the window. ‘Over the lean-to roof.'

She rested her hand on the silk-and-velvet bonnet thrown over one of the mirror supports.

‘Well, you may leave the same way.'

‘I will, when I'm ready.'

‘Now.' She pulled a hatpin from the bonnet. Its steel shaft was some  eight inches long and glinted wickedly in the dim light. ‘Do not think I  will not use this to defend myself,' she added, when he did not move.  ‘It would not be the first time and I am quite adept, you know.'

‘I don't doubt it,' he said, his voice rich with laughter as he strode  over to the window. ‘But you mistake me, Mrs Weston.' He put his hand in  his pocket. ‘I came to return this.' He held out her cameo brooch.  ‘Well, take it, me darlin', before I change my mind.'

Warily she reached out and plucked it from his open palm.

‘I thought to see it adorning some pretty young serving wench,' she told him. ‘Why did you bring it back?'

‘Guilty conscience.' He moved a little closer. ‘And the prospect of a reward.'

Suddenly she felt very breathless, gazing up into the masked face and  seeing the glint of the candlelight in his eyes. There was only the  length of the hatpin between them. She did not resist when he took her  wrist and deflected the sharp blade away from his body.

What was she doing? Alarmed, she dropped the brooch and put her free  hand against his chest, but even as she opened her mouth to scream he  captured her mouth, kissing her so ruthlessly that her bones melted  under the onslaught. It was over in an instant. She was still gathering  herself to resist him when he released her.                       
       
           



       

‘Yes,' he said, his breathing a little ragged. ‘I was not wrong.'

‘A-about what?'

Her eyes were fixed on his mouth, fascinated by the sculpted lips and  the laughter lines engraved on each side that deepened now as he gave  her a slow smile.

‘You kiss like an angel.'

In one swift, fluid movement he turned away from her, threw up the sash and slipped out into the darkness.

Charity ran to the window, but there was no sign of anyone, only the soft drumming of hoofbeats fading into the night.

* * *

Hywel clapped his hands. ‘Very well, everyone, let us begin by reading through the first act. Mrs Weston-are you with us?'

Charity started. ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Jenkin. I am ready to rehearse, of course.'

He looked closely at her. ‘Did you not sleep well last night?'

‘No, as a matter of fact.' She paused and said casually, ‘You told me  you could recommend a manservant for me. Someone to be trusted.'

‘Aye. There is a fellow called Thomas who is presently doing odd jobs for me, but he would prefer regular work, I know.'

‘How soon can he start?'

‘Today, if you wish. Shall I send him to you when we have finished rehearsals?'

Charity nodded.

‘If you please, Hywel.' She touched the little cameo pinned to her  gown. ‘I shall feel happier with another servant in the house.'





      Chapter Two

It was opening night and the theatre was packed for the new production  of The Rivals. The playbill pasted up at the entrance announced boldly  that the role of Lydia Languish was to be played by the celebrated  actress Mrs Charity Weston, fresh from her successful season in  Scarborough. Ross Durden took his seat on one of the benches in the pit  and soon found himself squashed by bodies as the pit filled up.

‘Should be a good night,' remarked the man in the brown bagwig who was  sitting beside him. ‘I read that this new leading lady's being compared  to Mrs Siddons.' He pulled a nut from his pocket and cracked it expertly  between his fingers. ‘We shall soon find out.'

‘Have you ever seen Mrs Siddons?' asked Ross, mildly intrigued.

‘Once.' The man cracked another nut and munched meditatively. ‘In York,  in the role of Lady Macbeth. Excellent, she was. Never seen the like.  Just hope this lass is as good as they say.'

‘But this is a comedy,' Ross pointed out, recalling that the great Sarah Siddons was renowned for her tragedies.

His neighbour shrugged. ‘A play's a play and if the lady's no good then we shall soon let her know!'

Ross said no more. He had come into Allingford on business today, and  had bought himself a ticket because he had wanted a diversion before  returning home. The Rivals was one of his favourite plays and the fact  that Charity Weston was making her debut in Allingford had not  influenced him at all.

At least that was what he told himself, yet somehow this evening the  familiar prologue and first scene did not captivate him, although the  rest of the audience seemed to be enjoying it. He realised he was  waiting for Mrs Weston's appearance in Scene Two.

Then she was there. Powdered and bewigged, but there could be no  mistaking that wonderful figure nor the brilliance of her blue eyes,  visible even from his seat halfway back in the pit. Her voice, too, held  him spellbound. It had a mellow, smoky quality, redolent of sexual  allure. It should not have been right for her character-Lydia Languish  was meant to be a sweet young heiress-but there was an innocence about  Charity's playing that rang true.

Ross glanced about him, relieved to see the audience was captivated by  her performance. Smiling, he turned back to the stage and settled down  to enjoy the play.

* * *

The first performance in a new theatre was always exciting, but  nerve-racking too, and Charity breathed a sigh of relief when it was  over, knowing it had gone well. The audience was on its feet, clapping  and cheering. She dropped into a low curtsy, smiling. The applause never  failed to surprise her. When she reached the wings, Hywel caught her  hand and led her back to the stage.

‘They will not settle down if you do not grant them one last bow,' he murmured, smiling broadly.

She sank into another deep curtsy. Someone had thrown a posy of  primroses onto the stage. She picked it up and touched it to her lips  before holding it out to the audience, acknowledging their applause. The  crowd went wild, and they were still stamping and clapping and cheering  when she accompanied Hywel into the wings.                       
       
           



       

‘Well, that is the first night over. I only hope they continue to enjoy my performances.'

‘Oh, they will,' replied Hywel confidently. ‘Now, I must go and get  ready for the farce and you must prepare yourself to be besieged by  admirers when the show is over!'

* * *

Charity exchanged praise and compliments with the rest of the players,  then went back to the dressing room to find Betty waiting for her. Her  handmaid's austere countenance had softened slightly, a sign that she  was pleased with her mistress's reception.

‘Help me out of this headdress, if you please, Betty. Heavens, it is such a weight!'

‘If you'd been born twenty years earlier, Miss Charity, you'd have had your own hair piled up like this for weeks on end.'

‘I cannot believe this monstrous, pomaded style was once the fashion.'  Charity gave an exaggerated sigh of relief as Betty carefully pulled  away the wig, which was curled, powdered and decorated with a confection  of feathers and silk flowers. ‘Put it aside, Betty, and help me out of  my gown, if you please. Mr Jenkin thinks there may be a crowd in the  green room once the farce is ended.'

‘Not a doubt of it, madam, the way they was cheering you. Now, I  brought the rose silk and your embroidered muslin. Which will you wear  to meet your admirers?'

‘The muslin, I think, Betty. And they are not my admirers. Mr Jenkin  tells me that it is the custom here at Allingford for all the cast to  gather for a reception in the green room.'

‘Aye,' muttered Betty, ‘but there's no doubt who will be most in demand!'

Charity was exhausted and longed to go home to bed, but she knew Hywel  would expect her to join the other members of the cast and ‘do the  pretty', as he phrased it, talking to those wealthy patrons who were  invited backstage to meet the players. She was grateful for the supper  that was laid on and managed to eat a little cold chicken and one of the  delicious pastries before Hywel carried her off to introduce her to the  great and the good of Allingford. He began with Lady Malton, who looked  down her highbred nose at Charity and afforded her the merest nod.

‘In a small town like this we cannot rely upon one rich patron like  Lady Malton to support the theatre,' Hywel explained as he led her away  from the viscountess. ‘We depend upon the goodwill of a large number of  gentlemen-and ladies-of more moderate means. People like the Beverleys.  They are a delightful couple and the backbone of Allingford life. Sir  Mark is the local magistrate and his lady is very good-natured and likes  to fill her house with actors and artists.'