Peter sought Wendy, but in all actuality it felt as if he were seeking his very self. How fortunate his arrival in the familiar lobby coincided with the exit of the matinee audience. Careful to keep to the shadows, Peter prowled the perimeter of the crowd, searching for his love.
“How romantic it was. Do you not agree Miss Darling?”
On hearing Wendy’s name, Peter spun around nearly colliding with a mass of blonde curls. The respondent, who kept her back to him, inclined her head in genteel agreement.
“Indeed.”
Peter inched closer to better overhear their conversation.
“The romance was extraordinary. It reminded me so very much of your courtship to my cousin James. How happy he has made you and how very much you worship him. Isn’t that right Miss Darling?”
In most enthusiastic tones, Wendy answered, “Exactly so, Miss Geoghegan.”
What a narcissistic creature Peter was! This was the first time since his decision to return that Peter stopped to consider the prospect of Wendy’s happiness. Not only did her intended make her happy, she worshipped him. Unable to help himself, he repositioned himself to better observe Wendy’s profile as her companion continued to talk.
“I knew it, Miss Darling. I have a sense about these things. If there’s anything I am an expert in, it is evidence of true love.”
“I dare say you are spot on.” Wendy’s agreeable smile was heartbreaking in its sweetness. It might as well have been a cannonball for the pain it inflicted on him.
“This was lovely,” the companion declared. “We should do this again, Miss Darling. Soon and often.”
If I cannot be with her, Peter thought dejectedly, I can at least hope to remain close to her each week at the matinee. Perhaps I can be content to stand near and love her from afar…
The last shred of hope to which Peter could cling was ripped from his hands with Wendy Darling’s emphatic reply. “In truth, Miss Geoghegan, I expect to be so divinely happy in marital bliss that I shan’t have any further use for the theatre and its world of make believe.”
Turning on his heels, Peter retreated leaving his shattered hopes on the floor of the lobby amidst the discarded programmes.
“How romantic it was. Do you not agree Miss Darling?”
Wendy inclined her head in genteel, if noncommittal, agreement. “Indeed.”
She was not fond of James’s visiting cousin, Winifred “Winnie” Geoghegan. Winnie was a silly sort of girl whose head swam with ridiculous notions of romantic love but lacked the sensibility to temper those thoughts with any practicality. In addition to her preposterous notions of courtship, she was an accomplished talker, which in Wendy’s good opinion should never be mistaken for conversation. With the slightest encouragement, Winnie could prattle on for hours concerning subjects of the littlest import.
How she missed dear Maimie. Unfortunately, Maimie’s mother was not well at present and it was a daughter’s duty to attend to the person responsible for her birth. It was Aunt Mildred who had suggested Winnie would make a suitable substitute for her truest companion. Like most things concerning Wendy’s life, Aunt Mildred had been sorely mistaken.
Winnie was a dreadful stand-in. Incapable of remaining quiet, she punctuated the play with a steady stream of whispered commentary. Even though Wendy refused to reply, the girl did not shut up. Wendy couldn’t ever remember a matinee as odious as this afternoon spent with Winnie.
“Isn’t that right Miss Darling?”
Drat! She had been saying something—terribly dull no doubt—about the play. With an enthusiastic smile, Wendy answered, “Exactly so, Miss Geoghegan.”
Winnie grinned, losing her thin lips in the process. “I knew it, Miss Darling. I have a sense about these things. If there’s anything I am an expert in, it is the evidence of true love.”
Still having no idea what the original topic had been, Wendy ventured, “I dare say you are spot on.”
If only she had turned around, Wendy would have not failed to notice the achingly familiar young man, with the piercing emerald eyes, eavesdropping. She would have marked the devastated expression of the young actor whose hopes and dreams were—at that very moment—being dashed to pieces, and perhaps given pause to her improvised replies. But she remained hopelessly ignorant, her attention focused on discovering the topic of her current discourse.
“This was lovely. We should do this again, Miss Darling. Soon and often.”
The prospect of more disagreeable outings with Winnie—soon and often—caused Wendy to utter the first excuse she could think of. It was, unfortunately, an outrageous lie. “In truth, Miss Geoghegan, I expect to be so divinely happy in martial bliss that I shall have no further use for the theatre and its world of make believe.”
At the time, Wendy felt pride regarding her artful evasion. If only she had realized the smallness of her world, where even the most intimate of conversations fell on outside ears and every lie had its consequence…
The dream was a lovely one. A cheery hearth, children snug in their beds, and a husband reclining by her side, reading. Considering the pale haired man next to her, she asked in confusion, “Wasn’t there another in your place before?”
The man shook his head but remained engrossed in his book.
Wendy frowned. She seemed to remember a chestnut head and brilliant green eyes, both gone before she could get a fix on his elusive features. And a name… Not James but something infinitely dearer. Like a hint of jasmine on the wind, the memory embraced her and was gone.
“Perhaps not,” she said faintly, squeezing herself as small as possible. She tried to sleep next to her husband, something inside her kept crying, “Woman, woman, let go of me.”
CHAPTER 15
The Girl in the Park
Peter stepped out of dimly-lit Victoria Station into the bright, busy street. This was London. Peter was sure he was in London, but to tell the truth the surroundings looked more like New York. He couldn’t be in America still—he had to get home! Wendy needed him.
He started to run down the unfamiliar street, turning right or left by instinct at unrecognizable corners until he was quite lost. In desperation, he approached a passing stranger, a fine lady.
“Excuse me Miss, do you know the way to Highbuy Street?”
“Peter,” the lady replied. “Do you not know me?”
He had met so many young ladies since taking the stage that he, indeed, could not remember them all, at least not well. With annoyance, he regarded the lovely stranger. “I’m sorry, Miss—” He was about to explain that he could not recall their acquaintance, when she somewhat impatiently interrupted him.
“I’m Wendy,” she said agitatedly.
Peter gasped, looking at her and straining until there was the tiniest glimmer of recognition. “I’m very sorry, Wendy. I say,” he whispered to her, “always if you see me forgetting you, just keep on saying ‘I’m Wendy,’ and then I’ll remember.”
For the rest of the dream as he kept passing her on unfamiliar streets, she would say ‘I’m Wendy,’ and he would remember. Each time he was bitterly sorry and silently vowed never to forget again, but the moment they parted, her memory faded. She was forgotten.
When Griffin suggested they take a walk through Kensington Gardens, Peter heartily agreed on account of the fine weather. Peter had always loved this particular park. It was one of the few things he missed while overseas. He was grateful for such a fine day to enjoy Kensington one last time.
Since his hasty return to London, his dreams had taken on a life of their own, a dark and troubling menace that clung to the edges of his reality. Although his brother was more the type to take stock in the subconscious, Peter did believe that these particular dreams carried a message. And with the message came action.
So without preamble he said, “I am returning to America, Griffin.”
His brother frowned. “Without speaking to Miss Darling?”
“I have to let her go. She has a love—worships hi
m, the undeserving sod—and she’s blissfully happy. That’s all matters.”
“But Peter—”
“No.” Peter interjected quite decidedly. “I must forget about her for my own sake, and especially for hers.”
Griffin chuckled, “Aye, Peter. If you were able to accomplish that you wouldn’t have dropped everything and spent the last fortnight crossing an ocean to get home.”
“I can at least try,” Peter insisted. “Maybe with enough distance and distraction, I could accomplish it.”
“So you are going to return to America, then? Find some measure of happiness in the embrace of an American lass?”
“Never, Griffin!” Peter cried passionately. “I gave my heart away to Wendy long ago. How should I every marry another without a heart?”
“Aye, that would pose a problem.”
“Tell me then, what should I do?” His troubled eyes probed the other’s in earnest for some advice, some respite to his hopeless predicament.
“Well,” began his brother, “It seems to me that if you came all this way for her, you should at least see her.”
“And then what?”
“Talk to her.”
“And say what? Don’t marry your fiancé, Miss Darling. Run away, instead, with me.” He raked his hand through his hair in frustration.
Ignoring his brother’s self-deprecating tone, Griffin nodded thoughtfully. “That would serve as an opening.”
Peter continued his lament. “Run away from respectability to live the life of a vagabond. Forego the quiet joy of a banker’s wife by wedding a socially inferior actor. No. I could never abuse her so.”
“Socially inferior? Are not the best parlors of London open to Peter Neverland?”
“All the money in the world cannot afford one ounce of propriety.” As this was said sharply, Griffin was taken aback by the cynicism evidenced in his brother’s grave words and rendered momentarily speechless.
Peter squeezed his eyes shut and raked his fingers through his unruly hair. “For all I have heard, James Whitby III is the love of Wendy’s life.”
“James Whitby III,” Griffin asked not altogether unamused. “You know your competition by name, then?”
Shuddering, Peter’s hollow eyes turned inward. “He haunts my dreams, Griffin. I have never met this luckiest of men, but in my dreams he is—sinister. He is a villain with the blackest of hearts and an iron claw for a hand. It is this loathsome blackguard to whom Wendy is betrothed. Even if he were the opposite of the personage that I have created him to be in my mind, he still could not deserve her. And yet, as she ardently loves him, he must be the most worthy of men.”
Griffin could see that his brother was deeply troubled so he did not find fault. Instead, he looked off into the distance. “Maybe there is truth in dreams. While Mr. Whitby may not appear to be wicked, we cannot know the condition of his heart. Perhaps you are meant to save her.”
“If only… Would it be very wrong of me to ask the heavens for a sign?”
“It could not hurt,” The elder boy answered slyly. “Do it now Peter,” he urged.
As Peter bowed his head in silent petition, his brother and confidant focused on the fine figure of an approaching lady. Although Peter had been too distracted to notice, Griffin had lived with his brother’s obsession long enough to recognize Miss Wendy Moira Angela Darling by the merest of glances.
The day was fine. The air scented with blossoms and the breeze warm, hinting that summer was on its way. To Wendy the day was perfect, sunny and fragrant and oozing with—freedom!
The wedding was less than a week away. As her mother and Aunt Mildred argued about salmon and other reception delicacies, Wendy had escaped to the one place that held her eternal girlhood. She knew that Maimie would be at Kensington Gardens, along with her darling infant son and his red-cheeked nursemaid, taking in the fine spring weather. More than anything Wendy longed for one last innocent stroll with her most bosom friend.
The next time she walked these enchanting paths would she be Wendy Moira Angela Whitby, wife? And how long until she had her own nurse-maid in tow? She both longed and dreaded the day. In her mind’s eye she could only picture chestnut-haired babes with penetrating emerald eyes...
She shook her head vigorously to dispel the vision. It was perfectly normal, she supposed, to have some lapse of nerves this close to the nuptial day. It did not, despite what Maimie had insinuated, have to do with the return of a certain actor, who no longer mattered to her in the slightest.
Wendy was steeling herself to argue with her friend that very point, when she rounded a bend and collided, bodily, with the very subject of said point. Before she could draw a breath, she found herself in the steadying arms of Peter Neverland. Gasping, she reflexively stepped back, shrinking from what would certainly be misconstrued as an embrace. In her haste, she stumbled causing Peter to spring forward and embrace her anew.
The fine weather had tempted most of London to pass the afternoon out of doors and the commotion seemed to draw every eye and ear within hearing. Wendy colored, helpless as the blood pooled behind her pale cheeks. She could not help but imagine how the scene must appear to curious onlookers. To make matters worse, Peter’s own brother stood off to one side, a shrewd enigmatic smile on his face.
“Miss Darling!” Peter exclaimed looking shocked and still holding her about the waist. “Forgive me for the impropriety but I must speak with you. We met some time ago. My name is Peter Neverland.”
Blushing and flustered, Wendy kept her eyes on her shoes. “I know who you are, Sir.”
She could hear a crowd gathering around them now. How many of the spectators knew who she was? Surely some recognized her as the fiancée of James Whitby III. How many more must recognize Peter?
She couldn’t seem to take in enough air. Despite the layers of clothing, Peter’s hands burned where they rested upon her. Her face felt hot and she suspected she was about to faint.
If she fainted, Peter would have no choice but to scoop her into his arms and cradle her against his chest. How would she ever explain that? She would bring shame on her family, on James. The humiliation enhanced her lightheadedness. Tear stung her eyes, threatening to gush. She wrenched herself from Peter’s steadying hands. Blindly, Wendy turned to flee.
“Wait!” Heedless of propriety, Peter reached for her.
She felt him grasp her shawl. Without stopping, Wendy jerked forward, pleading, “Please, please leave me be!”
Painfully aware of the instant that Peter let her go, Wendy ran to the far end of the park, where there was an oft-overlooked path and a very private bench. It was there, on that out-of-the-way bench, that Maimie found her sobbing her eyes out.
“Dearest,” exclaimed her friend, coming to sit beside her. “I thought I might find you here. Are you all right? I heard you were accosted.”
The misinformation brought Wendy up short. “Accosted, dear Maimie? No.” She wiped at her eyes trying to make less of the encounter—surely in the retelling it would not seem like the cataclysmic event that Wendy had made it out to be. “Not accosted. I bumped into a gentleman is all. I lost my footing and he helped me regain it.”
“Who was the gentleman?”
Wendy ducked her head. “No one.”
Sagely, Maimie nodded. “Of course. When I bump into ‘no one,’ I often hide myself away and sob. That is perfectly understandable behavior.”
The sarcasm only served to start Wendy crying anew. Unable to stand by while her dearest friend wept, Maimie went to great lengths to make amends. When she finally had Wendy calmed down, she gently asked, “What is it really? Is it wedding jitters—because that is perfectly normal. Remember my antics, like trying to join that convent?”
While Wendy appreciate her friends attempt to distract her, she was in no humour for levity. “It is not jitters, exactly. The ‘no one’ I ran into was the very someone I was seeking to avoid.”
Maimie’s sharp intake of breath, confirmed that the girl k
new her better than anyone. “No! Peter was here?”
“Yes,” Wendy said miserably, “I bumped into him. Then stammered and staggered so that I drew a crowd. He tried to speak with me and I panicked. Why do I turn into a perfect disaster every time he comes near?”
“Love?”
Although her friend’s response was sympathetic, there was an underlying shrewdness that pierced Wendy. “After all this time, how could I still love him?”
Maimie shrugged prettily, adding, “Maybe he loves you too.”
“You are insane,” cried Wendy. “Quite mad if you are suggesting that Peter Neverland loves me.”
“Really?” The girl arched an artful brow. “What did Peter say to you exactly?”
“He said, ‘Miss Darling forgive the impropriety, but I have to speak to you.’”
“And then?”
Wendy knit her brows in consternation. “And then I thought I was going to faint—so—I ran away.”
With a most severe look, Maimie continued, “Nothing else was said between you?”
Wendy looked mournfully at her shoes. “I might have begged him to leave me be…”
Maimie let Wendy stew in her thoughts a few moments before asking, “Is that what you want? Truly?”
Leaping from the bench, Wendy began to pace. “It is not about what I want. It’s for the best. I marry James in a week. This is not something that I am entering into unwillingly. I warmed to him. I encouraged him. And when he proposed I accepted him. I have a duty to him.”
“And what of love? What if bumping into Peter was a sign? Can Juliet, truly be happy with Paris? Especially when Romeo is within her grasp?”
“Juliet is going to do her best.” Wendy stated grimly. With a sigh, she shook her head at her friend’s romantic folly. “I do not have the luxury of believing in signs, not when I am bound by duty.” Maimie opened her mouth but Wendy silenced her by saying, “No, we shan’t talk of Peter again. It is best if I just forget him.”