Page 19 of The Passion of the Purple Plumeria

  “No matter.” Even off the stage, Fiorila’s voice was musical and pitched to carry. “You have it now.”

  She sounded tired, tired and ineffably weary. It was not the voice of a woman who had just received multiple encores.

  “How did this get here?” The dresser was shaking out the gown Gwen had dropped. “I could have sworn . . .”

  Fiorila swung around sharply. “Has someone been in here?”

  “I was looking for the crown,” began the dresser, flustered. “I did not see . . .”

  Fiorila sat down heavily at her dressing table. Gwen saw her hand go to the pocket of her dressing gown, assuring herself that her letter was still there. Her hand fell away again. Gwen could see her face, darkly, in the mirror, her auburn hair piled on top of her head in an elaborate cascade of curls, her white robe, crusted with make-believe diamonds, falling off her shoulders. Next to all that glitter, her face was pale and strained.

  “I do not like this,” said the dresser darkly.

  “I know, Justine.” Fiorila pressed the heels of her hands to her temples as though her head hurt. Given the volume of the chorus, it probably did. There were a few rather overenthusiastic baritones out there. “I don’t like it either, but there’s nothing else to be done.”

  “What about the father of the child?” From the tone of her voice, the dresser had been with Fiorila for some time, long enough, at least, to know her secrets. “Surely, he would—”

  Fiorila cut her off. “I cannot ask him for aid.” Her voice softening, she said, “He is only recently married. I hear it is a love match, at that. He has been too good a friend these many years for me to play him such a trick as that.”

  “But if he knew—”

  “He will not know.” Fiorila’s voice was final. “I’ll get us out of this coil myself. I have before.”

  Gwen felt a reluctant sense of kinship with her, with the straight set of her spine, the determination in her voice. They were both women who knew what it was to stand alone.

  A woman would risk much for her child.

  “Not like this,” said the dresser darkly. “Not with—”

  “Hush,” said Fiorila. “And bring me the gold-spangled gown for Act II.”

  “Foreign places, intrigues . . . I liked it better when we were in London,” grumbled the dresser.

  “I, too,” said Fiorila. She was stripping the paint from her face with a damp sponge. She dabbed a tiny brush into a pot of rouge, prepared to start again. “We’re so close, Justine, so close. It will all be over soon, I promise.”

  “But at what cost?” The dresser took the brush from her mistress’s hand and began applying the rouge for her.

  Fiorila’s voice was wry and more than a little bit sad. “There is always a cost, Justine. It is simply a matter of the price. Yes?” Her voice rose in response to a knock on the door.

  It opened to reveal one of the chorus girls bearing a large bouquet. “A gentleman sent this for you,” she said, and giggled.

  Gwen took advantage of their distraction to scuttle away, as quickly as she dared, along the beam, past the partition that separated the rooms. Outside, a boy was calling principals for the second act. Gwen lowered herself as carefully as she could, dropping lightly to her feet in the storeroom. Quickly, she brushed her dress clear of the dirt and grime from the beam. The dark purple satin absorbed the stains admirably. According to the watch she wore pinned to her breast, she had been gone just over ten minutes. It felt like longer.

  It was surprisingly easy to thread her way back through the side of the stage to the boxes. Everyone was bustling about their own business, carrying props, shifting sets, gossiping about so-and-so’s gaffe in the opening ballet. No one noticed a woman in purple making her way quietly through the corridors. There were the usual loiterers in the corridor, ladies engaging in flirtations, dandies making wagers.

  Gwen sailed haughtily past them, back in her role of disapproving chaperone, her feathers firmly in place.

  Below, the second act had begun. The audience, waiting for the signature arias of the third act, were doing as they usually did and paying very little attention. There was a lively game of cards going on in one box, loud laughter and boisterous voices from another. The orchestra scraped vainly on.

  There were voices coming from her own box, but pitched less loudly. Gwen paused, one hand on the curtain, struck by the unpleasant tableau of Jane tête-à-tête with the Chevalier. On her other side, Jane’s father was fast asleep, head resting on the balustrade and periwig tilted over one eye. Mrs. Wooliston nodded over her embroidery frame.

  The Colonel was nowhere to be seen.

  Where was the blasted man? Gwen felt a surge of entirely unjustified indignation. He should have known better than to leave Jane alone with that cad—even if Jane weren’t technically alone. But any fool could see that her parents were hardly the most diligent of duennas. One might as well leave a pair of sheep as chaperone.

  Her temper wasn’t the least bit improved by the Chevalier’s tone, low and intimate, as he said, his lips dangerously close to Jane’s ear, “I should like to lure you off your pedestal.”

  Jane leaned back in her chair, regarding him coolly. But was that a glint of amusement Gwen saw beneath her vaunted calm? “You are certainly at leave to try, sir, but I warn you, I enjoy the view too much to be easily swayed.”

  “What are challenges for, but to be conquered?”

  Jane settled her skirts demurely around her ankles. “Sometimes, the best lessons are learned in defeat.”

  The Chevalier leaned forward. As if sharing a secret, a delicious, scandalous secret, he murmured, “But success is so much more pleasant.”

  Jane cocked a brow, a queen who deigned to be entertained. “You are very sure of yourself, sir.”

  “Am I?” The Chevalier sat back in his chair. Gwen could happily have slapped the smug look from his face. “A man must be adamant if he seeks to move marble.”

  “You mix your metaphors—or at least your masonry.”

  He pressed a hand to his heart. “So long as I build a small home in your heart.”

  “I doubt you should be content with anything less than a palace.”

  “You wrong me, Mademoiselle.” The Chevalier’s voice was warm. To Gwen’s horror, he took possession of Jane’s hand. Even worse, Jane made no move to stop him. “I should dwell in a willow cabin so long as it were at your gate.”

  No. No, no, no. Gwen stood frozen at the back of the box, unable to believe the evidence of her eyes. This wasn’t her Jane. Yes, certainly, she had seen Jane flirt before. In fact, she had done everything she could to aid her in it. Her chaperonage waxed and waned depending on its utility to the mission. She had, without qualm, left Jane alone in gardens and on balconies for as much as half an hour at a time, ready to burst in if needed, but just as happy to leave Jane to work her magic on the ignorant mark of the moment.

  The idea that Jane might actually fall in love wasn’t to be thought of.

  Not now, in any event. Eventually. Somewhere down the road. Then she would see Jane happily wed to some worthy soul who held her in the proper sort of esteem. She might even condescend to stay on to bully their children. But not now, not this. She wasn’t ready for it all to be over yet, for Jane to throw it all away for such a petty specimen of a man, all superficial charm and glib compliments.

  She had been just Jane’s age, exactly Jane’s age, when she had done just that.

  “There you are.”

  It was the Colonel, all cheerful bonhomie, as though there weren’t a dark farce taking place in front of them. Jane gently drew back her hand, but too late; she had let it lie there too long, long enough for liking.

  The Colonel regarded Jane and the Chevalier. “They make a handsome pair,” he said.

  A handsome pair? They weren’t any kind of pair.

  Gwen turned on the Colonel. “Where have you been?” she snapped. “What were you thinking, leaving them alone?”

>   “Looking for you,” he said. “And they’re hardly alone. Her parents—”

  “Haven’t the sense God gave a sheep!” Gwen burst out.

  The Colonel possessed himself of her arm, making the sort of soothing noises one might to a fractious child. “Why are you taking on so? What harm can the young ones come to in an open box? Surely, even the greatest sticklers couldn’t find fault with that.”

  The fact that he was right only made Gwen angrier. She yanked her arm away. “You oughtn’t have left them! Just because you leave your own children to roam the earth without supervision doesn’t mean that some of us don’t take our responsibilities seriously.”

  The Colonel dropped his hand as though he had been stung. His face went white, whiter than it had in the alley, with his blood draining out along the seams of his coat.

  “What did you say?” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

  She had never seen him like this before, never imagined that he could look this way. If a human could breathe fire, there would have been flames shooting from his nostrils. Every inch of his body quivered with tension. His blue eyes were as cold as the Thames in winter, hard and frozen.

  She wasn’t going to back down. She was Miss Gwendolyn Meadows and she bowed to no one.

  She raised her head, matching him stare for stare.

  Or tried to. Something in his gaze shamed her. Her eyes shifted sideways. “I said that some of us take our responsibilities seriously.”

  It came out wrong, somehow, low and sulky.

  “Right,” said the Colonel. His nostrils flared. His hands clenched in fists at his sides. But he held his temper. She could practically see the effort, the tight leash on which he held himself.

  “You’d best see to them, then, hadn’t you?” he said, and turned and walked away.

  Gwen watched him march away, his back straight, his hands balled at his sides, the silver in his hair shining in the candlelight, and felt shame such as she had never known descend on her like a fog, miserable and choking.

  She felt like an earthworm.

  It was a concept so foreign as to be almost unimaginable, but she had been . . . wrong. She wasn’t used to being in the wrong. It was a distinctly uncomfortable feeling.

  In the box, Jane and the Chevalier were still engaged in close conversation. Gwen glanced at them and then back at the Colonel.

  Dropping the curtain, Gwen set off after the Colonel, the slap of her slippers against the marble floor echoing in her ears.

  Chapter 14

  “Wherefore do you follow me?” protested Plumeria. “Go back to the feast. The danger there is far less than the perils that face us below the earth, where this cursed crew hold their deadly revels.”

  “Think you I would allow you to face this danger alone?” quoth Sir Magnifico, and drew her forth into his embrace. “I go with you, or we go not at all.”

  Plumeria lifted her torch high. “Come, then. For the hour grows late. And the hour of reckoning draws nigh.”

  Down, down, down they went, through a maze of stairs, deep into the heart of the Tower. Only the torches flickering along the walls illuminated their way, for there was no light of moon or star to penetrate this cursed place. As they descended, the sound of a rhythmic drumming grew ever louder. . . .

  —From The Convent of Orsino by A Lady

  “Colonel Reid!”

  William kept walking. Over the chatter of the theatregoers, over the flat sound of his own footfalls, he could hear a clear soprano voice singing of the soldier tired of war’s alarms.

  War’s alarms hadn’t broken him. War, he understood. It was peace that was confounding him, a thousand times more complex than anything he had been forced to confront in any of his varied commands. He had fought through deserts, jungles, and the narrow and twisting streets of hostile cities. He hadn’t always won the day; he had experienced his share of retreats, of rearguard actions, of desperate last-minute maneuvers.

  But never before had he felt so entirely defeated as this.

  The footsteps behind him quickened. “Colonel Reid! William.” The sound of his name on her lips brought back a powerful memory of Bristol, of Gwen Meadows bullying and cosseting him back to health. She hadn’t called him that since they’d left Bristol. “Wait.”

  Slowly, William turned.

  “It’s about time!” Gwen skidded to a stop on the slick marble floor. Her color was high, her breathing rapid. She paused just long enough to catch her breath before saying, in the hectoring tone of one who knew the value of a strong offense, “There’s no need to go off in a huff.”

  William faced her without expression. “Don’t you have a duty to discharge? I wouldn’t want you to be remiss.”

  Just because you leave your own children to roam the earth without supervision . . .

  He inclined his torso in a bow. It wasn’t a polished bow, like the Chevalier’s. It was stiff and formal and it hurt like the very devil. His wound might have scabbed over, but it still burned.

  “Don’t let me keep you,” he said.

  Gwen folded her arms across her chest. “I didn’t mean it. Not that way.”

  Some of us take our responsibilities seriously. . . .

  “You needn’t sugarcoat it,” he said, feeling, for the first time, every one of his fifty-four years and then some. Where had they gone, those sunny, laughing years? How had they come to this? “It is what it is.”

  Kat with her reddened hands and defiant eyes. And Lizzy. Where was Lizzy? Every one of those words scored his conscience like a cat-o’-nine-tails on raw flesh.

  “Oh, all right, I— You touched me on the raw,” Gwen said gruffly. She fiddled with her fan, making a fold of painted silk appear and disappear. “I oughtn’t to have said it. I was out of line.”

  His lack of response seemed to madden her. In and out the fold of silk went, in and out.

  “I was angry at myself, not you. Well, at myself and at that coxcomb of a Chevalier. I should have gone after him, not you.”

  William nodded at her fan. “If you keep doing that you’ll break it.”

  “It’s sturdier than you think.” Gwen snapped the fan together. She looked up at him, a deep furrow between her eyes. “It was ill done of me. Unsporting. Say something!”

  Somewhere, William managed to find words. “You were protecting your charge,” he said flatly. “That was all.”

  “No,” said Gwen. “It’s not all. Stop standing there looking like a corpse! I’m telling you I was wrong. And I don’t say that often.”

  He didn’t imagine that she did.

  She paced a few steps, her purple skirts whirling around her legs. “You were right. Her parents were with her.” She couldn’t restrain herself from muttering, “Even if they are without a stick of sense between them.”

  There was more than an apology at issue here. The formidable woman he had seen facing off armed men with a glint in her eye was rattled, and William would wager it had something to do with two handsome young people in an opera box.

  It wasn’t easy to lose a child, even if a surrogate one. Perhaps particularly if a surrogate one. No matter where they went, or whom they married, he had a claim on all his children, the most basic claim, the claim of blood. What call on a child’s heart did a chaperone have once the chaperonage was done?

  Looking at Gwen with compassion and a new understanding, William said, “You love her, don’t you? Miss Wooliston.”

  Gwen stiffened. “I am very fond of Jane,” she said guardedly. “Proud, even. I owe her a duty. Her parents entrusted me with her care.”

  He’d never known a woman who knew so many ways to hedge aroun
d the concept of affection.

  “All that, too,” he said.

  Gwen glowered at him. “Love,” she said succinctly, cutting off every word with a snap, “is a word too often used and too little meant. What does it matter to say you love someone if the word inspires no action?”

  It reminded William of something he had heard once in a play. “My words fly up, my thoughts remain below. Words without deeds do not to heaven go.”

  Gwen tapped her fan against her palm. “Don’t try to distract me with doggerel verse. The Lord knows, poetry has done enough harm in its time, all sweet professions that last only until the ink has dried.”

  “Not all sweet professions are lies,” protested William, “verse or no. Sure and it’s no crime to put one’s love into words.”

  “It is when those words are nothing more than empty air.” Gwen regarded him militantly. “One can love volubly and publicly, with all the trappings of sentiment, and still fail someone entirely when it comes to the point.”

  Love his girls? Of course he did. He would have said so to anyone who asked. Volubly and publicly. But in the end, all his fine sentiments had led him here.

  “Yes,” William said slowly. “Sure and that’s a fair assessment of my own situation, whichever way you turn it.”

  Gwen’s head snapped up, purple feathers bobbing. “That’s not what I—”

  “Meant, I know.” William’s lips twisted wryly. “But you were right, all the same. I’m a poor excuse for a father. I’ve let my children go to wrack and ruin and I didn’t even know it was happening. I’d brag of them to anyone who would listen. I waxed sentimental over their miniatures in the mess. But I hadn’t the devil of an idea that they were out running about England entirely without resources or supervision.”

  He remembered his idealized image of them, all pastels and frills, like someone off a piece of French porcelain, Kat in a muslin gown, sitting beneath the spreading branches of an oak tree, watching Lizzy, sprawled on a blanket on the grass, eating cherries and laughing, their rosy-cheeked grandmother calling them in for dinner.