Complying with Mr. Frohman’s wish for him to make a grand entrance, Peter waited restlessly in the upstairs hall of the producer’s great house on Trafalgar Square. Below him, the main floor vibrated with activity and music. It seemed nearly all of London society had turned out to worship him. All that remained was the arrival of the one person that mattered most. Wendy Darling was his reason—the reason he was here—and he could scarcely believe she would soon be in his arms.
For a moment, Peter worried she had changed her mind and would not attend. But Peter’s very nature was one of nearly fatal optimism. Personally, he had confirmed the delivery of Miss Darling’s invitation and acceptance from her very own and very dear hand. She would come and before the night drew to a close, her heart would be his.
Since the ball’s inception, Peter had occupied his every waking hour while not on stage with happy anticipation. This evening, he would finally know how it felt to hold her; to speak to her, at long last. How he had envisioned his declaration to Wendy—he knew every word by heart! She, of course, would melt to him and her beautiful cerulean eyes would shine with reverence.
By habit, he slipped his hand into his pocket and, grasping his good luck charm, made a wish. Make Wendy mine. As if in answer, Griffin appeared at the foot of the stairs nodding and gesturing wildly. Miss Darling had arrived.
Descending the main staircase, Peter reflected on how Wendy had brought him to this place. Although he had discovered the theatre on his own, without her influence, would he have loved it as much? Would he have formed the resolve to forsake his father’s business and become an actor? It was for love of Wendy that Peter was becoming the man he felt certain he was meant to be. And not just a man in the narrowest definition of a grown male, but as protector, provider, and—dare he be so bold?—sweetheart. So many times he had imagined this; their first meeting, professing his love, taking her for his bride and growing old together in love. Now that the moment was at hand, he could scarcely breathe!
Just last night he had dreamt of them as children, playing father and mother as if in rehearsal for future bliss.
He affectionately called her “old lady” when she met him at the door with their make-believe brood.
She went to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “Dear Peter,” she said. “I’m afraid I have passed my best, but you don’t want to exchange me, do you?”
“No Wendy.” Certainly, he did not want a change. Whether young and brimming with possibility or mature and radiating experience, she was perfection. His dream-self watched the boy Peter and the girl Wendy pretending. For a split second, he felt terribly old and wished instead of Father his role could be that of Wendy’s devoted son.
Peter came to uncomfortably, blinking, you know, like one not sure whether he was awake or asleep. Had he actually felt afraid to become a husband to Wendy? To start a family and grow old with her? Such lapses in confidence, even when dreaming, were so foreign to Peter that he easily shook them off.
At the bottom of the stairs, Griffin waited. With unwavering approval, he adjusted his brother’s pocket kerchief and straightened his tie.
“She’s here?” Peter inquired, his devastating grin ready to wreak havoc.
“Aye, Peter.” Griffin nodded toward the far end of the hall. “She’s just over there.”
Peter followed his brother’s nod with his eyes. Across the ballroom, he encountered the truest cerulean eyes locked on his, and what little breath he had left was stolen away by her beauty. As his vision tunneled, Peter, the man, crossed the void to his waiting beloved and the realization of every good thing. Shoulders erect, steps confident, his carriage was that of a man eager to embrace his destiny.
CHAPTER 8
Across the Ballroom
It took all Wendy’s composure not to look about her in an effort to find Peter. For once, Aunt Mildred’s instructions proved useful as Wendy made a grand display of being composed and charming. Inside she was the complete opposite of her façade. Her brain whirled, her stomach churned, and her blood boiled. Her agitation was such that she could pay scarce attention to the conversation before her. Everything around her seemed so trivial. All that mattered—indeed, the only thing that mattered—was Peter.
She heard herself politely speaking about the weather but the voice seemed to be coming from someone else. Then the voice, that came from her but was not hers, stopped mid-sentence. Across the room, the most intense, unnerving emerald eyes were boring into her soul.
The sight of Peter in his tuxedo was breathtaking! Wendy’s knees began to knock and she grasped a nearby chair for support. Everything that unfolded after, to Wendy, seemed to happen in slow motion.
With single-mindedness, Peter most deliberately crossed the floor toward her. His intense eyes devoured her from the inside out. The closer he came, the more disoriented she felt. Sure she was about to swoon, Wendy looked away.
Peter came to a stop directly in front of her but she dared not look at him, fixing her eyes, instead, to a spot on the marble floor. He quietly cleared his throat to gain her attention, but still she could not look up.
“Miss Darling.” His deep voice caused her heart to rise to her mouth. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Peter Neverland.” Bending forward, he took her hand from her side, his touch fire to her clammy skin.
Raising her ungloved hand reverently to his lips, Peter kissed her.
To kiss a lady’s hand was perfectly acceptable and chaste, and yet Wendy’s blood raced with the intimacy of the action. Her skin radiated with warmth and remembrance, as if this was not its first meeting with Peter’s touch. Her eyes flashed to his. “I know who you are, Sir,” she replied more harshly than intended.
Undeterred, Peter beamed at her. His smile conveyed the radiance of a thousand suns. “A waltz,” he uttered in delight. “May I have this dance, Miss Darling?”
Without waiting for her response—for he had no doubt her answer would be anything other than yes—Peter pulled her to him. His free hand encircled her waist finding precise purchase against the swell of her hip. His rough jaw rasped against her cheek as he nuzzled her temple. In this way, Peter began to lead Wendy, waltzing in bold, carefree steps. They were the first to dance, but other couples soon filled the space around them until the floor swirled with graceful motion. Peter, however, was really the best dancer among them.
As Peter and Wendy danced, their senses became occupied with one another. One dance led to another and then another. Their ignorance of anything but each other gave them one glad hour, and as it was to be their last happy hour for some time, let us rejoice that there were sixty glad minutes in it.
As Wendy twirled in the young actor’s arms, something buried and long-forgotten stirred in her soul. It worked itself around in her brain, a feeling or recollection of a similar experience from her childhood. Innocent and heartless, it wanted to skip around the room for joy.
She almost knew him in that moment. In fact, if the very grown-up acting Wendy hadn’t deliberately rejected her instincts as childish, she and Peter both might have been rescued from the resulting folly and we might have been spared a story. But she did not heed her lost child, and the events that consequently transpired were set into unalterable motion.
In the way a loose thread can unravel an entire jumper, sometimes the most inconsequential of events set into motion the beginning of the end. Wendy’s thread was this: after several dances, the musicians took a well-earned break. Wendy, drunk with dancing, emerged from the golden sway of Peter’s arms one sense at a time.
First, cool air on her cheek replaced the warm scrape of Peter’s jaw. Then Peter released her form, which had so perfectly melded to his that the action created the sensation of one being cleaved in half. The scent of Peter—one of spicy, masculine possibility—was replaced with the pungency of food and instead of gentle melodies, speculative babble assaulted her ears. Her eyes blinked open to discover Peter staring in rapture which caused her mouth to go dry. His gaze was so p
enetrating that she looked away and, in doing so, exchanged unfortunate glances with the iron scrutiny of Aunt Mildred.
The old woman, who had insisted on attending as Wendy’s personal chaperone, had a distasteful look on her shrewd face as if she saw some unwelcome pest scurrying about the room. And understandably so, as the look on Wendy’s face confirmed the old matriarch’s suspicions about her niece’s ulterior motives. In that moment, Wendy knew Aunt Mildred had guessed the truth.
Aunt Mildred was not the only person to have noticed Peter’s particular attention. The whole room seemed to be abuzz with conjecture. The observation caused Wendy to focus on her external surroundings rather than the boy in front of her, who, even now, leaned in for a kiss.
Wendy stepped back causing Peter to halt mid-gesture. But unable to recognize her movements as reaction to his action, and unwilling to let go of their moment, he advanced.
“Wendy,” he implored so familiarly and tenderly. He still had enough boyish arrogance left in him to be thoughtless of anything but his most pressing need. Need of Wendy. Heedless of their audience, he reached out to stroke her cheek.
Conscious of Aunt Mildred closing in, Wendy began to panic. She flinched away from Peter’s hand, her cheeks burning with shame. Perhaps, if she had not been from such good society she wouldn’t have cared that all eyes were on her. If she had had more to draw from in life, she might have been able to be coy and flirtatious. Maybe she could have matched Peter’s stare and cunningly made some encouraging retort. Perhaps she could have even given Peter some indication that she returned his sentiments. Then he would have escorted her to the garden where they could have privately declared the magnitude of their feelings for one another.
If only Peter, merely by being himself, had not stripped her to the point of transparency for the whole of London society to witness!
Instead, Wendy was ill equipped to deal with either the force of her internal emotions or the external scrutiny. With Aunt Mildred bearing down on her and the entire ballroom gawking with unveiled curiosity, the poor girl did the only thing in her nature to do. She fled.
“Please, do excuse me,” she mumbled. Then, she turned her back to and walked away from the only thing that truly mattered to her. It took every ounce of effort to get through the front doors and outside without breaking into a run. Once escaped, however, Wendy Darling ran all the way home.
Only when she had locked herself in her room did she allow her insides to explode outward in gut-wrenching sobs. Hours later, although exhausted, Wendy could not sleep. What must Peter think of her? How could she ever explain to him when she didn’t understand herself? Surely Aunt Mildred would inform Wendy’s parents of her secret; how would she ever make them understand? They would never forgive their daughter for loving an actor when a banker was within her grasp.
We must not be too severe with Wendy, whose life had not been her own since childhood. The rich matriarchs who ruled her class still clung to the notion that a favorable match was indeed the only situation that could deliver a young lady from financial and societal ruin. Such matches were measured by bank accounts, not sentiments. When it came to the Darling household, venerable Aunt Mildred was no different.
Near daybreak, Wendy began to doze. In her dreams, the brave Wendy accompanied her to the party, lending her strength. When finally face to face with Peter, everything went exactly as it should. Peter escorted her to the garden where he professed his love. How her heart leapt for joy! Wendy was about to make her own declaration when cutthroat pirates descended upon them from all sides. They were a horrible lot of the blackest villains with ropes and knives.
Peter leapt forward to protect her. Taking on a dozen at once, he fought valiantly, but it was no use. They were captured. As they were being taken to the Pirate Captain, a little glowing light appeared. At first, she thought the mischievous pixie was there to save them. As it got closer, Wendy realized that it was tinkling with glee. The spiteful creature was laughing because it had led the pirates to the garden. It had orchestrated their capture.
With growing horror, Wendy realized the satisfied pixie was not laughing merely because of what had occurred but because of the terrible things the pirates had yet in store for her…
Peter’s eyes popped open and blinked rapidly to dispel his nightmare.
He’d been dreaming horrible dreams. Profoundly disturbed, he’d stayed up most of the night dissecting the ball over and over in an effort to figure out how the evening had gone so terribly wrong. In retrospect, his sentiments had seemed an embarrassment to Wendy. Not only did she not return his feelings, but also, as her good aunt explained, she had come in hopes of encountering another. Had she only danced with him out of charity? The thought that she would be ashamed of him had never crossed his mind. That is until Wendy fled and her most apologetic aunt had had the decency to explain the way of things.
“My good Sir,” the Grand Dame had said, as she halted him from going after the girl of his dreams. “I feel I must apologize. My niece has an unusual sense of propriety and is easily offended.”
Peter, while concerned as to Wendy’s flight, scoffed at this. “Surely, I am not the cause of any offense.” It is humiliating to have to confess that this conceit of Peter was one of his most fascinating qualities.
“By no means…” the good matriarch replied. “However, tongues do tend to wag. Sometimes, sentiments are better handled in private, do you not agree?”
Peter took her to mean that he should have escorted Wendy to the garden before trying for a kiss, and that this breach of propriety alone had been the source of Wendy’s mortification. “Of course. I should go apologize.”
Quick as a cobra strike the old woman placed a deterring hand on Peter’s arm. “Perhaps it would be better if I speak with her. For I am confident if anyone can make her see sense, it is I.”
He was ever so grateful Wendy’s good aunt had come along as chaperone. With her to champion his cause, Peter felt sure his beloved would be persuaded to hear him out. Feeling nothing more than mild agitation, he paced the foyer, awaiting Aunt Mildred and Wendy’s return.
The unfortunate boy had no way of discerning that he had placed his faith in the most deceitful of champions. Aunt Mildred, it must be said, did follow her niece outside. And that is where her pursuit ended. Under the guise of taking air, she tarried and happened to overhear the most fortuitous of conversations between the theatre company’s director and its producer regarding an invitation to perform in New York and a shortage of funding. To ensure the troupe’s swift departure to America, the Grand Dame pledged a most sizeable donation in exchange for a guarantee of anonymity.
After an appropriate length of time, Aunt Mildred reentered the ball to find Peter. She claimed Wendy had made to her a startling confession (which she would only recount to Peter after much coaxing).
“It seems my niece is an ambitious girl. She’s informed me that her sights are set on a most eligible young banker and it would not do for gossip to undermine her careful plotting. Why she only agreed to attend the ball in hopes of encountering the young gentleman. As he was not here, not even my urging could convince her to stay. She has asked me to implore you to respect her wishes by never speaking to her again.”
Peter could hardly believe the enraptured theatre patron, his Wendy, regarded another above him. When they danced, he’d felt assured that her heart mirrored his own in sentiment. However, if his love wanted him to leave her alone, then he would attempt to comply and never see her again.
It was actually a relief when Mr. Frohman’s big announcement came with such fortunate timing. Thanks to a very generous donation, he was taking the entire company to America to present The Three Musketeers on the New York stage.
They would leave in two weeks time on the Lusitania. For the heartbroken Peter, it would not be soon enough. Therefore, he volunteered to go over early with Mr. Frohman and Mr. Boucicault. They would leave in three days for Fishguard, Wales and from there take the Mau
retania to New York. Peter was not sure even putting an ocean between Wendy and himself would ease his heartbreak… but he had to try.
As he began to pack, he reflected on his disturbing sleep. In his dreams, Wendy had returned his love and at the ball, he had swept her off her feet and into the garden where the two could be alone. He had been staring into her lovely blue eyes, leaning in, about to kiss her perfect mouth… when from out of nowhere appeared the vilest lot of murderous pirates led by his little dream guide.
Instantly, he knew they meant Wendy harm! He fought as hard as he could but he was no match for them. The pirates strung them up to take back to their Captain. Bound and gagged, Peter could only listen to the horrible things they had planned for his beloved Wendy.
CHAPTER 9
Three Days After the Party
Peter and Wendy hovered together in mid-air above a lovely forest alive with twinkling lights. The night was magical; shining stars above and shimmering fairies below. Face to face they were both dancing and floating at the same time. Twirling with his beloved in his arms, Peter could feel her smooth skin beneath his touch; he could smell her lilac scented hair; sense her sweet breath on his cheek. He leaned in to kiss her. Her lips were warm, soft and welcoming. A perfect kiss that seemed to last for a long time.
When they finally pulled apart the fairies were gone. Dark, stormy clouds hid the stars as heavy drops of rain began to fall. A bolt of lightning pierced the sky right between the lovers. The force of the blast ripped them apart sending them in opposite directions.
As Peter tumbled backward through the darkness, he lost sight of Wendy. Crashing into the churning sea, the whole world went round and gray and wet. Trying not to panic, he let an air bubble escape from his lips and followed it until his head broke through the surface of the turbulent water. There was no land to be seen and Wendy was gone. In vain he called to her, “Wendy! Wendy!”