Authors: Julia Tagan
The girl yelled louder.
“Shut up, Emmaline.” Freddie retreated on the floor in a crab-like maneuver, trying to put distance between them.
“Yell louder,” said William to the girl. “Go for help. Now.”
“What should I do?” Emmaline turned to Freddie with a whine. “Freddie?”
William turned his head for a moment to try to urge the girl on, but as he did so Freddie barreled into him. Emmaline screamed and ran and William barely dodged out of the way of Freddie's knife. The wall shook and several sconces clattered to the floor. William punched Freddie hard in the gut and the knife fell out of his hand, but the lack of a weapon only seemed to spur him on. He and William fell to the ground once more, kicking and punching for what seemed like hours before he heard the sound of footsteps.
“What the hell's going on?”
He recognized Adam's voice and looked up. With all the fighting, he hadn't noticed smoke drifting along the hallway. Emmaline had dropped some clothes in the fracas. Candles from the fallen sconces must have set the material on fire, and the flames were building, steadily climbing up the dry wood walls.
“Fire! Get out of the theater!” Adam yelled from the other side of the pyre.
The flames separated Freddie and William from the way out. And Harriet was still in the dressing room. While Freddie was momentarily distracted by the smoke and screams, William turned and staggered back to Harriet. She had crawled a few feet before passing out on her stomach, her head turned toward the door. Her mouth hung open as if she'd struggled to call out.
Freddie was already on his heels. William was trapped in a scene of utter mayhem. He heard his father's voice in his head, mocking him. Telling him he was unworthy of the family name, unloved, and unwanted. He'd show him. Blood coursed through his veins, the energy pulsating through his body.
He turned and drove his fingers hard into Freddie's neck, in the soft spot right below the Adam's apple. Freddie coughed and choked and his eyes widened. William followed up with a hard uppercut to the solar plexus. Thanks to his anatomy classes, the precision of his strikes was remarkably effective, and Freddie fell to the ground.
William scooped up Harriet in his arms. She made a feeble attempt to hang onto his neck as he stood.
“Billy,” she said.
“Yes, it's me. I'm here.”
He took a deep breath and dashed out of the dressing room, where screams echoed down the dark, smoke-filled passages.
Chapter 17
Harriet startled awake and bolted upright, her heart beating furiously. She had to escape, warn the others. She looked around wildly, in a panic. But there was no smoke, no fire. Instead, the afternoon sun poured through dirty windows and dust motes danced in the bright shafts of light. A deep breath helped to calm her nerves. She was safe and sound in the flat Mrs. Kembler had rented in Marylebone.
Earlier that morning she'd finally managed make it out to the small sitting room from her bed. Mrs. Kembler, with the maximum amount of fussing and to-do, had stationed her in the most comfortable armchair in the room, with a warm cup of tea and a biscuit on the table by her side. Exhausted from the effort, Harriet had taken one bite of the biscuit and fallen asleep to the symphony of carriages, hooves, and voices on the street outside.
She blinked several times and then closed her eyes again, hoping she'd fall back into the oblivion of sleep.
Memories from the evening of the fire tended to come back to her in snippets, and she still wasn't sure what had actually occurred and what was her imagination. She had felt horribly ill, and heard shouts and sounds of fighting. William's voice had risen above the din and she'd tried to crawl toward him, even though her belly throbbed and her throat burned with every breath. Then she was in William's arms, as he carried her into the evening air.
Freddie had also been there, in the theater. She'd opened her eyes when she'd heard him and William arguing, something about poisoned tea. She also vaguely recalled William kissing her on the temple and telling her he loved her, once they were safely outside. But she dismissed such imaginings as wishful thinking.
She missed him terribly. Why had he been at the theater? Had he sought her out in love, or in anger? He'd saved her life, according to Mrs. Kembler, by taking her to his home and giving her something to rid her of the poison. She wanted to thank him for endangering his own life for hers. There was so much she wished to say.
Mrs. Kembler bustled into the room, carrying several books and papers. “I see you've awakened, how are you feeling, my love?”
Harriet offered up a weak smile. Hot tears pricked her eyes. If it weren't for Mrs. Kembler, she didn't know where she'd be right now. The dear woman had been nursing her back to health with the patience and kindness of a true friend.
“Now don't start crying on me again,” said Mrs. Kembler, taking out a handkerchief and dabbing her own eyes. “You know, with all this tragedy, I'm liable to go off at the slightest inclination. I'll be sobbing all day if you start in. It's what made my Desdemona so memorable.”
Harriet laughed and acquiesced. If she remembered correctly, the actor playing Othello had tried to strangle Mrs. Kembler in the first act to stop her from sobbing through his monologues.
“Now Lord Abingdon insisted you only eat bland foods for the next two weeks. How are the biscuits going down?”
“The biscuits are delicious.” She took another small bite to show compliance. “Did he say anything else?”
Mrs. Kembler folded up a blanket and laid it carefully on the arm of the sofa. “No rushing about, either. You are to take it slowly until you feel well enough.”
“Right. Did his lordship mention if he'd be stopping by?”
“I don't remember.” She sat and gave Harriet a pat on her knee. “But he seemed to think you'd make a full recovery, thank goodness.”
“Yes.” From the way Mrs. Kembler avoided her gaze, it was obvious William would not be paying her a call. “I'm doing fine. There's no need to stay with me all afternoon. You ought to attend the service.”
The older woman glanced at the clock on the mantel. “It's almost over by now. I'm sure the turnout was quite good, as your father had a lot of friends.”
“Freddie didn't though.”
Mrs. Kembler spoke gently. “He was a good boy. Got into some trouble, but a good boy. I'm glad they're being buried near one another. St. Mary's is a charming resting place.”
“I'm not sure how father would feel about the proximity.”
“All's forgiven in the end. And you'll be happy to know there's nothing in today's paper about Freddie or Lord Abingdon. Just more about the fire.”
It had been a relief to confide in Mrs. Kembler and Adam about her brother's misdeeds. She knew she could count on their discretion, as they also understood more than anyone the true nature of Freddie's and her father's failings. Harriet picked up the paper and scanned the headlines. One article spoke of the many firemen who had been killed when a portion of the building had suddenly collapsed. Another included accounts from the patrons who had escaped, guided by the actors to the quickest ways out.
Inside was a drawing of the smoldering ruins. She stared hard at it, imagining what it was like for her father in his final moments. Had he tried to reach her, not knowing she'd escaped the flames? Did he come upon Freddie and attempt to get him to safety? Or had he succumbed to the smoke before he had a chance?
She shut the page and let the paper drop to the floor. “How horrible.”
“I know, love. Try not to think about it. On the bright side, there've been many cards left for you.”
How strange. Harriet didn't have many friends, and doubted very much the duchess or Marianne would pay a social call to inquire about her health. Or would they? “Marianne?”
“No. Not Lady Marianne. The theater owners want to talk to you.”
“Why? I didn't go on, the production never happened.”
“Doesn't matter. You're the darling of the town now. At this point you could charge a pretty penny to appear at Drury Lane. Everyone is clamoring to have you star in their shows.”
“I should think they'd reconsider, considering disaster follows in my wake.”
“Oh, they don't think the fire had anything to do with you. They say the ghost of Mrs. Ivey set it.”
She dropped her head heavily back into the pillow. “Dear me.”
“But you're right, probably best to stay put until you're stronger and properly healed.”
“I'm never setting foot on stage again.”
Her caretaker, who could never imagine anyone saying such silly thing, laughed out loud. She perched on the side of the armchair and gave Harriet a squeeze. “I know it's been hard, losing your brother and father, but you have the rest of the company and we'll take good care of you.”
Harriet nodded but her heart sank. None of the Farley Players had been paid for coming to London. Mrs. Kembler had barely a penny to her name. They couldn't stay here indefinitely, and Harriet was back to square one. She had neither income nor home.
A solid knock on the door sent Mrs. Kembler scampering across the room.
Perhaps William had come after all? Harriet sat upright and tucked her wayward curls behind her ears. She was pale and her cheeks were thin, but there was little she could do about that now.
She plastered a bright smile on her face to hide her disappointment as Adam entered the room.
“Harriet, you're looking much better than when I last saw you.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek before sinking down on the sofa. The afternoon's events had taken a toll on him. His movements had a heaviness that belied his true age, much to her dismay.
“You look exhausted. Mrs. Kembler, would you be kind enough to bring Adam some tea?”
Mrs. Kembler blew them both a kiss and scurried off.
“How was it?” Harriet asked.
“Not easy. But the church was quite full and everyone came out to pay their respects to your dad. He would have loved having such a large audience.”
She smiled. “I'm sure he would. Did anyone say anything about Freddie?”
“They did, but only in the fondest of terms. No one knows the truth.”
No one knew her brother had tried to poison her, then inadvertently burned down one of the grandest theaters in London, killing dozens. Part of her wished she'd died as well, so she wouldn't have had to live with such dark, terrible secrets.
All week she'd half expected her father or Freddie to walk into the room and tease her. Or complain about each other. But no. They were both in the ground. She missed them and despised them, and the paradox made her burst into tears. “How awful. I should have been there.”
“No, you're far too ill. I would have never allowed it.”
“I should never have left London in the first place.”
“Then you can blame me, as I was the one who sought you out. You have to remember, Freddie would have gotten into serious trouble even without us. He was bent on self-destruction.”
Adam was right. Freddie courted disaster at every turn, that much was true.
“Adam, I never was able to thank you for inscribing the book of sonnets to me.”
He lowered his chin, looking slightly abashed. “I thought you should have something to remember us by. Perhaps I shouldn't have signed it from your father, but I could see how confused you were. He refused to tell you the truth, that you wouldn't be coming back. I hoped it would ease the transition.”
She reached over and lifted his hand to her lips. “You are a kind man. I'll never forget that.”
Mrs. Kembler brought in a cup of tea for Adam then trotted back out in search of more biscuits, humming to herself as she left.
“She's enjoyed taking care of you,” said Adam. “I've never seen her so content.”
“I don't know what I'd have done without her. But we can't afford to stay here much longer.”
“Don't worry about that right now. We'll all take care of each other, it's what we've always done in the past.”
She couldn't help herself. “And how is Miss Entwhistle?”
He blushed, like a schoolboy. “She's worried about you. Have you heard from Lord Abingdon? He was in a terrible state the night of the fire.”
“No. Tell me what happened. I only remember bits and pieces of that night.”
Adam rubbed his chin. “I was backstage, waiting to go on when I heard the shouts. By the time I got to the dressing rooms Freddie and Lord Abingdon were at each other's throats, and a fallen sconce had set the place ablaze. The fire spread quickly. There was little we could do.”
“Did you see my father?”
“The last I saw he was dragging Freddie out. Lord Abingdon shouted to me he'd attend to you, so I ran back onstage to clear the house.” He shook his head. “I've never seen anything like it. The actors swept into the audience, still in character, cajoling folks out of the theater, which I think helped prevent a panic. From what I gather, your father and brother were overcome by smoke before they could make it to safety.”
“And all those firemen were killed.”
“That came hours later. The fire was smoldering by then, but the roof had been weakened and part of it caved in. Such a shame. Once I'd made it out, I ran around to the back of the theater and came upon Lord Abingdon lifting you into a carriage.”
“Did you go with us back to his residence?”
“Yes. We attended to you through the night and the next morning we brought you here.”
She had to ask. “Did William, I mean Lord Abingdon, seem angry?”
Adam shook his head. “He was sick with worry. As was his sister. She seemed like a kind-hearted woman. Unfortunately Lady Marianne showed up the next morning and made a fuss, saying you couldn't stay there. If I remember, Lady Marianne and Lady Claire exchanged words, but Lady Marianne prevailed.”
“I'm not surprised. And I couldn't have remained there. Marianne was right.” Harriet wished she could remember anything about that evening. Other than a fleeting kiss, which might or might not have occurred, her mind was a jumble. She recalled being in terrible pain, but little else.
“What's next for you?” asked Adam.
“I don't know. I'm not good for much, other than being a companion.”
“That's not true. I saw the way you ran the Farley Players. Why not do more of that?”
“First off, I was speaking about positions in polite society. Not theater. And secondly, you know as well as I do there are no women theater managers. Unless I wore breeches and worked as Harry, I doubt I'd have much success.”
“Times are changing. Look at the likes of Sarah Siddons and Dorothy Jordan. They decide what shows they'll do and when they'll do them. They get top billing.”
“I don't want to act. I don't have the stamina for the histrionics required, both onstage and off. Besides, the minute I set foot onstage, I'd be known as the queen of disaster.”
“Why not embrace the notoriety? Make the papers and the gossip work for you.”
“No, Adam. I couldn't.”
He took a sip of tea and carefully replaced the cup on the saucer. “You have to ask yourself several questions before dismissing it out of hand.”
“Is that so?” When he didn't answer right away, her curiosity took over. “What questions?”
“What has made you happiest in your life? When have you most been alive? My guess is the answer to both is when you're in a theater. Or performing or planning a performance. I know because I feel the same way. Dozens of times over the years I've considered chucking it in, doing something else. But nothing else is like it.” He spoke deliberately, carefully. “I couldn't walk away, and my guess is you can't either. Not once you move beyond the tragedy of what befell your father and brother. This is about you, your life, your desires. I can't help but think when you're old and gray like me, and you look back on your life, you'll realize this was a turning point.” He paused. “Choose wisely.”
She stayed still, letting the resonance of his words wash over her.
She'd run from the arms of one family into another and back again, and had lost them all. Now she was accountable to no oneâno father, guardian, or lover to whom she must please or obey.
Which meant she could do anything she wanted.