Page 48 of Two Rogues Make a Right
“I’d refuse it.”
“I’d offer you money,” she repeated, “but I haven’t any. I have my pin money and Lord Bermondsey pays my bills,” she went on, “but I haven’t any money of my own. However, if you fall on hard times, understand that I wish to help you. At the risk of trading in maudlin sympathy, it’s the very least your mother might have expected of me.”
“My mother died when you were in leading strings and you never laid eyes on me until last year, so you needn’t pretend it was my mother’s dying wish that you look after me.”
“You’ll permit me to decide what and who I care about, thank you,” she said. “And you’ll allow for the possibility that I’ve become fond of you in your own right. My point is that if you fell on hard times, my pin money is not insubstantial. Twenty or thirty pounds would not even make a difference to me. Just assure me that you’ll come to me before you get to a desperate state. Meanwhile, what do you plan to do? For money, I mean, if you don’t mind my asking so crass a question.”
“My solicitor tells me I can likely get fifty pounds a year for Friars’ Gate if I let it on a repairing lease. That way I wouldn’t be responsible for its upkeep. I can live on fifty pounds.”
Lady Bermondsey blanched. Her gown almost certainly cost more than fifty pounds. “Where, darling?”
“Either the dower house at Lindley Priory or the cottage at Friars’ Gate. They both belong to me.” He had no intention of going back to Lindley Priory unless he absolutely had to, but he mentioned it because he thought the dower house would sound more appealing to his aunt than the tiny cottage she had had seen at Friars’ Gate. He was tense with the anticipation of her response. He knew that she couldn’t actually control him, couldn’t shove him in his bedroom and lock the door. But he still expected her to try to persuade him to do as she told him and he was braced to resist her arguments.
“I can’t say that would be what I’d choose myself, but I’ll assume you know your own needs, Martin,” she said. He waited for the rest, but all she did was take a sip of tea.
“Yes,” he said. “And I thank you for that, ma’am.”
It might have been the persistent rain, or it might have been the sunless sky, but Will was becoming nervous. For over half an hour he had huddled under his umbrella, waiting at the stage door for Martin’s arrival. He had long since concluded that Martin had either forgotten the appointed time, been waylaid by his aunt, or met with some horrible fate. The distance between the Fox and Bermondsey House in Mayfair was less than an hour on foot; the distance between the theater and Mayfair was even shorter. But when Martin was at one end of that span and he was at the other, even a couple of miles felt insurmountable, and Will couldn’t know any peace.
In the play, he had written a pair of young lovers who couldn’t bear to be apart. But he had modeled them on Romeo and Juliet, on Tristan and Isolde, thinking more of the concept of mutually pining lovers than on any actual experience of his own. He was vaguely appalled to discover that he was acting that way himself. It would have been even more mortifying if he hadn’t known that Martin was in the same state. And that, the thrill of knowing that Martin had feelings as soft and stupid as his own, only made Will miss him more.
They had parted the previous morning with lingering kisses and murmured promises to meet the following afternoon, Martin’s back against the door to keep it shut, Will’s mouth skimming over the invisible, pale stubble on Martin’s jaw. Will had wanted to haul Martin back upstairs and lock the door and never let Martin out of his sight.
Finally a carriage pulled up in front of the theater. It was not the same traveling chaise in which Lady Bermondsey arrived at the cottage, but rather a lighter and narrower conveyance, but it bore the same coat of arms on the door. Martin alighted, spotted Will, and made his way across the cobblestones to duck under Will’s umbrella.
“A sinkhole opened on Oxford Street,” Martin said. “Or, if not a sinkhole, something vast and muddy and very alarming to horses. It took ages to wend our way through the side streets.”
They were standing close, close enough that Will could smell Martin’s soap. It might have been the dreariness of the weather, but Martin looked paler than he had the previous day, washed out, a bit drawn. “You look tired,” Will said.
“Well, you’ll have to take me to bed as soon as we finish here,” Martin said, arching an eyebrow. “Unless you have other plans.” He spoke the words dispassionately, casually, and there was something about the coolness of the delivery that made Will want him even more. This act of putting a public face on their friendship somehow made the private reality that much more precious.
“Come in,” Will said. “They started the dress rehearsal, but you’re in time for the second act.” He folded his umbrella and shook it out, then held the door open for Martin.
As soon as they walked through the door, Will could hear actors repeating the lines he had long since committed to memory. He didn’t think he would ever tire of it. There was a chance the play would only last a few nights, that everyone would hate it, that nobody would ever again stage any other play he wrote, but for now he was pleased and proud. That pride was an unexpected sensation, fluttering inside some dusty and forgotten part of his chest.
“Oh,” Martin said, a little sound that was hardly more than an exhalation. They had just reached the corner of backstage where they could see the backs of the actors and an expanse of empty seats beyond.
“The woman in the red gown is supposed to be Cecile, the widow,” Will whispered. “The man in black is the wicked uncle, and he’s—”
“I know who they are,” Martin whispered back. “I recognize the lines. I just didn’t realize how big this theater is.”
“It seats three thousand,” Will said, a wave of nausea passing through him as it always did when he contemplated three thousand people watching his play. Hartley had been in agonies for weeks, but Will hadn’t quite caught up until opening night was excruciatingly near at hand.
“I’ve never been to the theater,” Martin said.
“What?” Will asked, loudly enough that one of the stagehands shot him a dirty look. Then, softer, “Your father did take you to London a few times. I remember it.”
“I was always too ill to accompany him to the theater. Or, at least he told me I was. I’m not certain.”
Sometimes Martin would allude so casually to his father’s mistreatment of him that Will would momentarily wonder whether Martin knew the gravity of what he was saying. But now he glanced over at his friend and saw the set of his jaw, the tightness around his eyes. He squeezed Martin’s arm.
“I know,” Martin said, not turning his head. “You’d feed him to wolves.” One corner of his mouth quirked up in the beginnings of a smile.
“Wolves are too good for him.”
When the manager called for a rest, one of the actresses noticed Will standing there, and the next quarter hour was spent in a flurry of introductions and explanations. Martin was fascinated by the Argand lamps and the hanging transparencies, awed by the enormous chandelier that hung over the stage, but flustered and embarrassed while meeting the members of the cast and crew who came up to Will. Martin was always a bit aloof with strangers, though. In fact, he was aloof with almost everyone. It was easy for Will to forget, because Martin wasn’t like that with him. And it was even easier to forget when Martin was dressed fashionably; the price of his clothes somehow transformed his stiltedness into something that passed for snobbery.
“Just say that you’re very much looking forward to seeing the play opening night,” Will whispered. “And say you’re honored to visit backstage and everything is so interesting.”
