One Little Sin (23 page)

The streets leading to the theater on Wednesday evening were choked with carriages for a quarter mile in all directions. Esmée tried to stare out the window without appearing to gawk like the rustic she secretly was. All of London, Aunt Rowena claimed, was attempting to attend the opening night of
The Wicket Gate,
lest they be viewed as less pious or less saintly than their neighbors. Some even expected to be entertained.

For Esmée, however, such a trip to the theater
was
the evening’s entertainment, for she had never seen a real play, save for a traveling theater company at a village fair one summer. Once inside the theater, they were shown to their box, a lavish little nook done up in wine-colored velvet. Esmée, it seemed, was to sit in the front of the box with Lord Wynwood, whilst the three ladies took the rearmost seats, where they immediately fell into whispered gossip about everyone and everything around them.

Wynwood was all that was polite, offering to fetch refreshments, ensuring she had the best possible view, and making light conversation whilst they waited for the lights to go out. And yet she sensed that he was ill at ease. His gaze kept drifting around the theater, and his conversation felt forced.

Esmée did not have long to ponder it. Behind her, the whispers were growing in heat and intensity. Esmée strained to hear the words.

“Why, the audacity!” her aunt murmured. “Ever the peacock, isn’t he? And
she
means to play more than one role tonight, I’m guessing.”

Lady Kirton’s voice was quiet but calm. “Actually, I believe that is the sister on his arm,” she responded. “And the Karlssons really are quite good actresses. I met them once, you know.”

“Oh, horrors!” said Esmée’s aunt. “You are speaking of that dreadful incident at Drury Lane, are you not? When that Black Angel person was murdered?”

“She shot herself, Rowena,” corrected Lady Kirton. “It was an accident.”

“Still, Isabel, one must admit you were in the wrong place at the wrong time,” said Lady Wynwood. “And then to be detained by the police—and with those infamous Karlsson sisters!—really, my dear, I should have fainted, I am sure!”

“The sight of blood does not make me faint, Gwendolyn,” said Lady Kirton calmly. “Nor does having to visit a police station with a pair of actresses. We were all three witnesses to the accident, and we all three did our civic duty. I thought them very kind.”

Lady Wynwood ignored the tactful overture. “Nonetheless, Wynwood, I hope and pray, would never make such a spectacle of himself as
he
is doing! Indeed, I should hope Wynwood would not acknowledge her at all!”

Beside Esmée, Lord Wynwood seemed to sink lower in his chair. Esmée wanted to look about and see just who was provoking such fervent disapproval, but by then, the lights were going out.

Due to the play’s length, there was to be no prelude, so Esmée slid eagerly forward in her seat. Lord Wynwood leaned over to whisper in her ear. “Have you read Mr. Bunyan’s famous allegory, Miss Hamilton?”

In the gloom, she gave him a self-deprecating smile. “I tried,” she confessed. “I believe I made it as far as the Valley of the Shadow of Death, then decided poor Christian would have to soldier on to his eternal reward without me. Did you finish?”

He laughed softly. “It may surprise you to learn that I have read every word of
The Pilgrim’s Progress
twice,” he said. “Both times at knifepoint—a penknife, that is, since my tutor was a notoriously hard-minded fellow. So if you have questions, feel free to ask me.”

From the general direction of the pit, a strain of almost celestial music rose, swelling to a crescendo as the curtain slowly rose on its shrieking mechanisms to reveal the chorus.

“Good God,” whispered Wynwood, wincing. “They ought to oil those pulleys.”

The chorus consisted of a trio of beautiful, white-clad angels bearing flaming torches. The centermost angel, a tall, breathtaking beauty whose white-blond hair hung below her waist lifted her torch and stepped forward. In unison, they began to speak, portending in dire, theatrical voices the many tribulations and temptations which were to come. Soon the actor playing the role of Christian the Pilgrim stepped forward and began the first act.

The work was ingeniously put together. Only the essential elements of the novel’s plot had been retained. The three beautiful angels remained stage right at all times, cleverly bridging the scenes whilst holding their burning torches aloft until Esmée felt sure their arms must have gone numb.

Esmée remained on the edge of her chair as their intrepid hero faced down the deceit of Mr. Worldy-Wiseman, and traveled through such temporal hazards as the Slough of Despond and Doubting Castle on his journey to reach the Celestial City. But soon, the allegory lost her interest, and Esmée began to look about the theater for distraction.

She did not have to look for very long. At that very moment, Christian exited stage left, the chorus of angels stepped back, and the curtain began to descend, the mechanical protestations of its rings and pulleys even more shrill than when it had risen.

Esmée relaxed. Intermission was beginning. Behind her, the ladies began to whisper excitedly again. Wynwood stood, and bowed. “Your pardon, Miss Hamilton,” he said quietly. “I see someone to whom I must pay my respects.”

After being enjoined by his mother to fetch refreshments as he returned, Wynwood pushed his way through the heavy curtains behind them. The three ladies resumed their chatter. Alone in the front of the box, Esmée amused herself by looking about at the beautifully dressed people who sat in the boxes opposite. Just then, she heard a sharp gasp behind her. As if her gaze had been directed by the sound, Esmée looked up and to the right, and felt her heart lurch.

Alasdair.
Alasdair, who was being joined by Lord Wynwood. And Alasdair was not alone. Someone—a very beautiful someone—sat beside him. She was dressed all in red, with a red plume in her hat. It was, Esmée realized, the lithe, blond angel from the chorus. She was smiling up at Wynwood, an exultant expression etched upon her face.

Wynwood stepped past Alasdair and kissed the hand she languidly offered. The actress let the hand drop, and returned her gaze to Alasdair, seductively dropping her lashes even as she looked at him. Esmée felt a painful stab of envy. The woman was very beautiful, and Esmée was still trying to comprehend how she could have reappeared so quickly, and in an altogether different costume, when she heard Lady Wynwood again.

“And just what does he think he is doing?” she demanded. “I vow, I ought to—ought to—”

“Ought to what, Gwendolyn?” interjected Lady Kirton gently. “Spank him? Scold him? He is a grown man, my dear. And she is going to be a very famous actress someday. Besides, she is Sir Alasdair’s guest, not Wynwood’s.”

“She is his
mistress,”
corrected Lady Wynwood. “Or one of them, and everyone knows it.”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Lady Kirton. But even she sounded confused now. “I think it is the angel in the chorus who is—or perhaps
was
—his mistress. That is her sister who is sitting in his box.”

Sisters
thought Esmée. There were two? That brought her no comfort.

“Oh, dear,” said Lady Tatton. “This is very awkward.”

“Yes, and Sir Alasdair is your cousin!” remarked Lady Wynwood, as if she sought to spread the blame around.

“Well, I am not at all sure he—” Lady Tatton’s words broke off. “Well, he is not close kin, at any rate. A fifth cousin, perhaps.”

By now, Lord Wynwood had vanished from Sir Alasdair’s box. Alasdair and the blond actress—the angel’s sister—were whispering intently. Esmée sat quietly, her hands folded demurely in her lap. But beneath her ladylike gloves, her knuckles were white with anger. His mistress, was she? Or his mistress’s sister? Indeed, she would not put it past Alasdair MacLachlan to have sampled both!

She spent the next ten minutes stewing until Wynwood returned, his big hands filled with stemmed glasses. He passed them round to the ladies, glancing down at Esmée with a look of mild chagrin. She forced herself to smile, and thanked him. The lights were beginning to dim again. Wynwood took his seat just as the squeaking pulleys began their ascent, hauling the curtain back up.

Poor Christian was center stage, bent beneath his burden, and looking dreadfully glum. The chorus was stage right this time. Again, at the precise moment the curtain revealed them, the three angels stepped forward, their flaming torches in hand, their white robes swirling ethereally about their feet.

But this time, something went awry. The rightmost edge of the curtain did not rise in proper synchronization with the angels’ movements. The center angel, the taller of the three, hesitated when the curtain brushed her forehead. In confusion, the second faltered, catching her foot in her pooling skirts. The third angel soldiered on, stepping determinedly forward to hoist her torch as planned—and in the process, set the curtain afire.

For an instant, everyone froze. Then the first angel looked up, and screamed. The curtain burst into full flame, which hastened its way in all directions, snapping and crackling as it consumed the fabric. Pandemonium exploded. “Fire! Fire!” someone screamed.

Christian tossed down his heavy knapsack and hurled himself into the pit. The angels followed, white skirts billowing as they leapt from the stage. In the audience below, men and woman ran screaming for the doors. Wynwood had seized Esmée’s arm. “I realize Mr. Bunyan wished to warn us of the perils of hellfire,” he said. “But this seems a bit much.”

“Oh! Oh dear!” cried his mother. “Oh, Quinten, we are going to die!”

Lady Kirton had the curtain drawn back and was pushing Lady Tatton through.

“Esmée! Where is Esmée!” Lady Tatton shrieked. “I shan’t leave without her!”

“I have her, ma’am,” Wynwood shouted. He had his mother by the arm now, too. Smoke was beginning to roil in the air. “Press on, ladies, please. Quickly.”

“Oh, Quinten!” his mother wailed. “You haven’t an heir! Oh, oh! I told you to get married! Now look! We are going to die!”

“Mamma, for God’s sake
move!”
he insisted, propelling her forward as he dragged Esmée behind. “Follow on Lady Tatton’s heels. Go! Go!”

They worked their way toward the upper balcony, the crowd thickening as they went. Shouts and screams were everywhere. Lady Tatton looked back periodically, her face white with panic, as if to ensure Esmée followed. Lady Wynwood was still shrieking above all the other shrieking women.

“Oh, all shall be Cousin Enoch’s now!” she cried. “Vile, odious man! Oh, we are going to die!”

Inside the upper lobby, the crowd was near impenetrable. Ladies were pushing and shoving to get down the narrow twin staircases, while gentlemen—the true ones, anyway—stood to one side. Wynwood was frantically pushing the women closer. The stench of burned fabric filled Esmée’s nostrils. True panic edged near, but she fought it down.

When they reached the top of the steps, Wynwood stood aside. “Urge them on, I beg you,” he said to Esmée. “Keep Lady Kirton in front—she won’t lose her head—and keep the others between you!”

Nodding, Esmée started down the stairs, coughing against the smoke. But she could feel a little air stirring in the stairwell, a good sign, she prayed. Urgently, she pushed the ladies toward it. But halfway down, the smoke became almost impenetrable. Suddenly, as they neared the bottom, Lady Wynwood froze. “Quinten?” she cried. “Oh! Where is he? I won’t go on without him!”

“Please, ma’am,” said Esmée firmly. “Move on, then the gentlemen may follow.”

Lady Wynwood’s face was stark with fear. “No! No! I cannot leave him!”

“Move on, you damned cow!” shouted an angry voice. In the roiling smoke, a man’s arm thrust over Esmée’s shoulder, giving Lady Wynwood a violent shove.

Situated perhaps four steps up, Lady Wynwood pitched forward into the haze, practically taking the others down with her. Esmée tried to catch her, but the man shoved Esmée from his path, too, slammed her hard between the shoulder blades. She stumbled, fell, and a terrible pain shot through her left leg. Everyone was screaming and tumbling.

Esmée rolled to one side at the bottom of the steps, skirts tangling about her knees. The crowd continued to trample past. Chaos was everywhere. More men were thundering down now. Everyone was shouting out orders and directions.

“The door! The door!” someone cried. “It’s that way!”

Esmée rose onto her arms and called out. No one heard. She tried to get up, but a shaft of pain stabbed her knee. The thundering footsteps went on. Somewhere in the distance, glass shattered. In the haze, she seized hold of something—the stair rail, perhaps—and debated whether to drag herself up, or try to crawl beneath the smoke. Suddenly, a ghostly shadow moved from the opposite stairwell toward her.

“Esmée?” She would have known his voice anywhere. “Esmée! Good God! Are you all right?”

Strong, solid arms slid beneath her, lifting her almost effortlessly from the floor. “Oh, Alasdair,” she said. “Oh, I am glad to see you!”

“And I you,” he said, glancing over one shoulder. “Ilsa, I have her!” he shouted. “Go on, get out! Find Inga!”