A Marriage of Convenience (19 page)

On a November morning, several weeks after her arrival in York, Theresa received, with a letter from her father, a sealed enclosure in Esmond’s hand.

Suspecting Esmond’s purpose was either to find out whether she was seeing Clinton, or to hurt her by seeming forgiving, Theresa did not reply, although it did occur to her that she might be wronging him. But having decided not to make any attempt to contact Clinton, she felt no guilt for her continuing longings. Separated from Clinton, Theresa’s mind seemed as clearly marked by him as wax, recording every scratch and line from a vanished seal.

Gone were her old fears of future unhappiness with Clinton; these now influenced her feelings as little as remorse over Esmond’s sufferings. But while she still derided herself for running away, she could not bring herself to write to him. It had become a matter of pride and principle with her that Clinton should do the seeking. And since she was sure that any inquiry agent, armed with a list of theatrical agents, could find her in hours rather than days, she did not mean to offer help. If Clinton made no effort to trace her, it would prove the inequality of their need and the futility of further meetings. Though her heart rebelled, the days passed and Theresa did not weaken.

From the start of her engagement at the Theatre Royal, very little had gone right. The manager, considering himself lucky to have bought the services of an established actress for the salary he could afford to pay, had decided not to trouble her with more than two rehearsals of the first play: one to explain the business and stage positions, the other to run through the lines. For the regular members of the company, drilled in their parts almost like soldiers, the experience of performing with an actress who gave more attention to response and feeling than to prompt-book instructions was as unnerving as it was novel. And Theresa’s precautionary habit of pinning up bits of her part on the backs of chairs and on vases bred other fears. But on the opening night she was not only word perfect, but able to give a performance which unfortunately exposed the inadequacies of the rest of the cast.

Several times walking the narrow streets, under the overhanging eaves of the timbered houses, Theresa had been drawn to the ugly modern Catholic church in Duncombe Place. One day she did not walk past, as she usually did, but went in and knelt down in the dark interior. The little huddle of people outside the confessional made her think despondently of the well-being she had always felt after receiving absolution. Never having been prepared, while living with Esmond, to confess week after week to a sin she would repeat, Theresa had not been to confession for over a year. In the silence of the church, the glow of candles and the smell of incense filled her with a chill sense of exclusion and loss. Wanting Clinton, and knowing that she would continue to, without any desire to amend, she was still separated from the offices of her church. Memories of her convent schooling haunted her: the purple palls on the statues on Passion Sunday, the white veils at confirmation, the tinkling bell at sanctus. Sadness far greater than nostalgia weighed upon her as she rose to leave.

*

A week after the opening of
The
Patrician’s
Daughter
—Theresa’s last play with the company—the manager changed the musical interludes in the final act. In a break during the rehearsal called to alter cues and the timing of business, Theresa walked out into the spacious entrance hall with its sweeping double-staircase leading to the circle and upper tiers. Twenty years ago, before the railway had lured the local gentry to London for their pleasures, the Theatre Royal had been a fashionable resort. Now, only the faded flock wallpaper, the dusty chandeliers and gilded plasterwork recalled days when the manager had stood nightly in silk stockings and tails by the doors to welcome his eminent patrons.

While she was considering whether to go out, Theresa heard her name spoken from inside the box office. Through the small window she could see the woman who took the money and issued tickets, bent over a ledger. She was old and fat and wore men’s boots, and had seen too many actresses come and go to take much notice of them. Her little den was lit by an oil-lamp. A long haired tabby lay on her broad knees.

‘A man came with a letter for you.’

‘A gentleman?’ asked Theresa, taking the envelope thrust out at her across the hollow worn in the wood by countless coins.

‘Servant,’ the old woman replied curtly. ‘A sight too pleased with hisself too. Said you was to have it there and then and damn rehearsals.’

Theresa opened the envelope without much interest, supposing it would be another improper invitation from a prosperous corn factor or shop-owner. Suddenly her heart was fluttering like a caged bird, and she longed to escape where no eyes could see her while she read. But though her hands shook, she could not tear her eyes from the paper.

When she had finished, Theresa sat down on the bottom step of the staircase and rocked herself gently. From the auditorium she heard pizzicato notes on the violins. The call-boy came out to say that they were starting again. She nodded as if she understood but remained sitting where she was, absorbed and yet animated. She rose and then walked rapidly to the street door, where she paused as
if suddenly dazed. She stood a moment, her hand resting on the brass handle; then she turned it abruptly and stepped out into the winter sunshine. Crossing the street, she walked swiftly in the direction of Clinton’s hotel, her eyes fixed ahead of her, her lips slightly compressed. A coster’s cart and a dray loaded with barrels lumbered past. The sun flashed on the thick panes of glass in
bow-fronted
windows and made the coloured bottles in an apothecary’s shop glow like stained-glass. After the darkness in the theatre, everything was sharp and bright: women’s clothes, jars of preserved fruit, a striped barber’s pole.

As though the street were a bridge that might part in the centre, leaving her stranded on the nearest side, she hurried on into St Helen’s Square under the shadow of the Mansion House and past the line of waiting hackneys. Shops and doorways seemed to slide by as if she was borne on by water. With an urgency close to fear, she was reaching forward, always forward to each new moment, as though any hesitation might drag her back into the treacherous currents of the past. With a sensation like falling, she entered Coney Street and saw beyond the church of Martin-le-Grand, the large black wooden swan nesting on the porch of the hotel.

Turning, she saw her reflection in the window of a dusty corner shop: a strange little general store selling Dutch dolls, squares of yellow soap, and rickety kites. Her hair was dishevelled and she realised that, beneath her cashmere shawl, she had on the dark grey woollen day dress she only wore in the theatre. Next door was a milliner’s with numerous hats on stands: Glengarry caps, and Bergère bonnets. She went in, hardly hearing the tinkling of the bell. Anything would do to hide her hair. Looking at herself in a cheval glass she thought that the cold had made her nose pink. A veil … a hat with a black veil. She chose a leghorn with a pronounced forward tilt. The girl who served her was infuriatingly attentive, offering other choices, latest styles; the Rubens hat was very fashionable in London. Theresa snapped at her.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Simmonds,’ the girl stammered.

‘You’ve no call to be. I’m in a hurry.’

Theresa felt that she ought to make up for her bad temper by asking whether the girl had enjoyed the play, but as soon as she had paid, she left the shop.

At the desk in the entrance hall of the hotel she was dimly aware of a painting of a horse and some yellowing framed time-tables of the defunct York to London coach service. When the
landlord’s
wife came in answer to her ring, Theresa told her who she wanted.

‘Lord Ardmore?’ the woman repeated sourly. ‘We’ve no lords
here, nor baronets neither, and won’t have till the races, if I know aught.’

Theresa felt her cheeks glow. Why should he have decided to meet her somewhere other than the hotel where he was staying? In case Esmond was having her watched? If he was scared in York how much worse would he be in London or Dublin? Yet he had seemed so utterly devoid of caution. Bitterly disappointed not to see him, yet also confused, she walked out into the street. A crossing sweeper was shovelling dung, carriages passed. Slowly she started back towards the theatre.

Her performance that evening was nervous and tentative.
Afterwards
the manager came to her dressing room and asked if she was unwell, but she sent him away with a brightness belying her nervousness. The more she thought about it, the more
extraordinary
it seemed to her that Clinton had not offered to come to the theatre. The aggressive tone of his note, which had at first amused her, now struck her in a different light. Was it possible that he had not wanted to be seen calling on an actress well-known in the town? She dismissed the thought as ridiculous; and yet the
confusion
she had felt in the hotel remained. Why had he waited so long before coming to her, when he must have found out why she had left Kilkreen so suddenly? The gas hissed loudly in the mantle over her mirror; from the dressing room above came the gurgle of water. The room was quite warm but she found herself shivering. She sat down on the lumpy chesterfield by the window and tried to calm herself. After very little time, she knew that she would not go to the Black Swan. He would have to come to the theatre. The matter had become more important to her than a gesture or a desire to score a petty triumph. Various phrases in his letter stung her now, however facetiously they had been meant. The idea that she had
inconvenienced
his valet, for some reason hurt her particularly. Her head ached slightly and her skin prickled with a strange heat. She removed her make-up and then tried to wrestle with the
complicated
hooks and laces at the back of her dress, but could not manage it. She had sent away her dresser earlier, and when she rang for her again, discovered that the woman had gone home. Her heart had started to beat fast with the thought that he might be angry with her for not coming to the place he had indicated. And if he was angry, what would she think of him? Suddenly she wondered whether she knew him at all. She always kept some brandy in her dressing room and now poured herself a large measure into a cup. Perhaps she ought to have gone to the hotel. Perhaps he had had a perfectly good reason for asking her to go there. She found his letter and read it again; this time not knowing what to think. At the end
of a quarter of an hour her uncertainty and nervousness were as bad as ever, but, though wanting to change her mind and go to the Black Swan after all, she now feared that he might have left and be on his way to the theatre. She would wait.

Hours later, or so it seemed to her, she heard knocking at the door. She did not look up as Clinton entered, though she saw from the corner of her eye the heavy folds of an Inverness cape. He closed the door gently.

‘Look at me,’ he whispered in a low hoarse voice. Expecting anger, Theresa saw pain and incredulity in his eyes. He looked tired—older than she remembered. A lock of hair had fallen across his forehead. ‘I wanted to protect you; that’s why I wanted you to come to the place I asked.’

‘I went there,’ she murmured, ‘why didn’t they know your name?’

‘If it’s known that I’m a nobleman,’ he replied gently, ‘do you think the first maid or waiter who sees Miss Simmonds of the Theatre Royal go to my room, will draw breath before running to the editor of the local scandal sheet to claim his guinea? Do you want clerks and shopkeepers ogling you each evening not for your acting but for that?’

‘I don’t care how they look at me.’

‘But I care,’ he said quietly. ‘I know these provincial towns. I couldn’t bear to harm your reputation.’

‘
My
reputation?’ she echoed faintly, feeling her eyes fill.

As he took her in his arms, in her relief, every fear and misgiving fell away. She could not understand how she had doubted him. When he kissed her lips and then held her, she longed to stay forever with her head pressed against his throat and her fingers in his hair. Nothing in the world it seemed would ever hurt or trouble her so long as he held her like this. But when he stepped back to look at her, she saw the tension still there in his face and suddenly felt scared.

‘Don’t tell me how long you can stay … not tonight. Tomorrow you can tell me, but not now.’

Then she held him with all the strength of her arms, seeing the gentle smile on his lips, feeling her heart hurting her with a pain that was also joy to her.