CHAPTER 15
I had run out of things to do. Parker had seen to the playbills being printed over a fortnight ago, and the renovations were nearly complete. Annie was making good headway with the costumes, I imagined, and Andrew was probably doing well with the shadow theatre. He likely relished the uninterrupted free time he could spend perfecting every last string.
For myself, until I could get back to the stage and put my changes into place, I was at something of a loose end. There probably were things I could be doing, but I was too lethargic to bring myself to think of them.
I passed the hours before I intended to gather the troupe instead by looking through leaflets of our past successes, and trying not to think about Mother’s duplicity. I tried not to wonder if Father had gained his patron because his wife had been whoring herself to the benefactor’s husband. I tried not to wonder if that was why, when it all came out, he hadn’t been angry.
I found that I could no longer envisage spending my life in this building, surrounded by these people – not the people, no, rather under the roof of my parents, for all their uselessness and lies. I felt betrayed, as though the hard work I had put in to my productions, in to making sure Father met the deadlines put on his paintings, had been futile. The theatre would survive; my mother was fucking the patron. Until he let her go, as he might, once her prophecy of sagging and cracking had been fulfilled. The affair had probably been going on under my nose, even since she claimed it had been stopped. What a fool I had been to trust her with anything. She was like a child, I thought spitefully. All lies and selfishness. I supposed I could go now, but the loyalty I felt towards Annie, Andrew and Jackie stopped me. Then, I may even go to Sheffield. Andrew might come with me, but even that didn’t soften the blow.
I was pleased, then, when Michael came into my office, without knocking. I wanted a diversion from my thoughts, and as he paused in the doorway and looked at me, I smiled, and put the flyers for Midsummer and Die Zaube Flaute to one side gladly.
‘Are you busy?’ he asked. His voice sounded strange, as though it was trapped in his throat.
‘Not at all, come in.’
He stepped forward, and slowly turned and closed the door. Then he paused for a second, still holding the handle.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.
‘I want you,’ he said, still facing the door.
I blinked.
‘Sorry?’
‘I want you.’ He turned then, and faced me, deadly serious. ‘You wanted to seduce me. I want you, now. Here. On this desk.’
‘Oh.’
‘Can I have you?’
I nodded, but still he waited by the door. I rose, and went to him, taking his hand and leading him to my desk. I gently pushed him so he sat, and he just looked at me, obediently, waiting for me to have my way with him. I smiled.
‘I thought you didn’t want it like this.’
‘You aren’t angry anymore, are you?’
I shook my head.
‘Well, then.’ Michael didn’t smile, he just looked at me. ‘Then we can do this. You needn’t worry, nobody saw me coming in. I made sure of it.’
That hadn’t been my concern, but I saw then how he was there for one thing and one thing only.
He couldn’t care for me then. Not really.
So I decided that I would. It would probably be the last time, anyway. I wouldn’t be staying here after the performance.
I reached up and stroked his cheek. His stubble felt nice against my fingertips. I looked into his eyes, hoping I could memorise every detail of the pale blue flecks in his irises. Then on to the pores on his nose, the curve of his lips, covering his beautifully straight teeth. He wasn’t smiling now, merely staring back at me, and his hands rested unmoving on my hips.
I leaned forward and kissed him, firmly. He kissed me back but it felt forced and his lips were hard, the movements mechanical. It was like kissing an automaton. Then his hands moved, and his lips softened as he pulled me closer and pressed me to him. Something sparked inside me and I kissed back without restraint, dragging my fingers through his hair and grinding myself against him as best I could through layers of petticoats.
As I scattered kisses along his jaw, he reached up to pull the pins out from my hair, dropping them on the floor behind me. Finally, he pulled the end of the ribbon and my coil of hair dropped and unwound, and he plunged his fingers into it, pulling my head back. I moaned as he kissed my neck and my collar bone, pushing my hair out of his way and stroking his fingers beneath the neckline of my gown. He pulled it down as far as it would go, and buried his face in my bosom. His stubble scratched at my delicate skin, and I pressed his face closer as he fumbled with the buttons on the back of my dress.
Impatient, I pushed him away and reached around to undo them myself, watching with clouded eyes as he watched me slip the heavy fabric from my shoulders, then my hips, revealing my thin cotton stays beneath. Breathing heavily, I stepped towards him, undoing the cravat loosely tied at his neck. As I did so, he reached for my behind, caressing me through my cotton underskirt. He moved down my leg to my knee, then put his hand beneath my skirt, touching me softly, in gliding circular motions, over my knee and to the top of my stocking, where it was tied with a ribbon. Not taking his eyes from mine, he ran his finger inside the top, and I shivered. I couldn’t move as his hand then ran up the back of my thigh, those circular motions becoming tighter and more gentle as he approached my very core.
I clung to his shoulders, my eyes closed and my breath shallow, able to do no more than wait as his fingers came closer and closer, achingly slowly. Just before he touched me, he stopped. My eyes flew open and I watched as he withdrew his hand and kissed me lightly on my collar bone. I almost cried out as he pushed me away, but he rose too, and shrugged off his jacket, never once taking his eyes from mine. He untangled the mess I had made of his cravat, and my eyes dropped to the V of skin it revealed through his open collar. His skin was lightly tanned – healthy, as I have always seen him, although today the skin on his face seemed paler than usual, and I noticed he looked tired and, in spite of what was happening, sad.
Any thoughts not related to the matter in hand were soon banished though, as he reached into his waistband and untucked his shirt, pulling it off over his head. I stepped forward, and into his arms, and we kissed again and it was as though the world receded. All was hot breath and warm skin, the feeling of hair beneath my fingertips and the rough pads of skin on his hands grazing my shoulders, my back, my thighs. As he fumbled with his trousers I pushed him back onto the desk and lifted my underskirts, climbing on top of him. Desperate with need, I rubbed myself against him, and he groaned in return, reaching up and pulling the straps of my chemise down over my shoulders and dragging the neckline down over my breasts. It was all I could to stay my cries as he massaged and pulled and pinched. And there was little tenderness there and I was glad. I took one last look at him, his eyes half shut but still looking at me, his mouth slightly open as he panted, his bottom lip locked between his teeth. I closed my eyes and, reaching down, pressed him inside me.
It lasted minutes. The teasing and flirting and the anger I had felt, on and off, for weeks, all built up into a crescendo of rutting and fucking that peaked for him just after it did for me. I only remained astride him for a few moments after that. He lay back on my desk with his eyes closed, breathing heavily, and it would have been very easy to sink down onto that firm chest, slightly damp with perspiration. It would have been easy to kiss the dip between his nipples and run my fingers down over his stomach.
When he opened his eyes, I smiled at him saucily and dismounted. I turned away as I straightened my chemise, and stepped back into my dress.
‘Would you mind buttoning me up?’
I turned to him then, holding my hair up and looking at him over my shoulder. Michael sat up slowly, and blinked a few times.
‘Yes.’
He didn’t touch me as he did it, even though he struggled a little with the small buttons in his large fingers.
‘That desk is quite hard.’
‘I can imagine,’ I said. ‘But I trust it wasn’t too bad an experience for you.’
This said with a smile, too. I knew he had enjoyed it. I felt that he had, dripping down my legs.
He nodded, and looked around for his shirt. He was clearly dazed. I felt it too. It had been good – very good – but it hadn’t felt right. The ending was too abrupt, and now it seemed that neither of us knew what to say to one another. Our flirtation and my seduction had been playful, but this had been nothing of the sort. Sex driven by a need unrelated to anything else.
‘I should go. You must have a lot to do.’
He was still sitting on my desk, his shirt now back on but still untucked. The back of his hair was sticking up and half of his collar was folded the wrong way. He looked charmingly dishevelled, and I turned away again, walking around him to the other side of my desk, to sit on my chair.
‘We haven’t rehearsed since that debacle the other day.’ I kept my voice light and avoided looking at his back.
‘Oh. That must be a little worrying for you.’ He didn’t turn to speak to me. It was as though he couldn’t bear to look at me.
‘It certainly is. But usual, I suppose, for this stage in the process. I’m sure it will all be well.’
Michael hopped off the desk suddenly, and straightened his shirt.
‘Your cravat is on the floor by the side table,’ I said, picking my notebooks up from the floor beside me – I hadn’t remembered hearing them fall – and spreading them across the desk.
‘Thank you.’ He was scrupulously formal as he tied it, passably well, considering that he had no mirror. I supposed I could have offered to help, but I didn’t want to be that close to him, then.
Retrieving his jacket from where it lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, Michael made his way to the door and then paused and turned, looking at the desk in front of me.
‘There’s a week left, isn’t there?’
‘Eight days,’ I replied.
‘It’s close.’
‘Closer than it’s ever been,’ I said, still aiming for lightness but I wished to God that he’d go. I needed to clean myself. I could feel the moisture slipping between my legs and into my skirts. And I needed to make sure that it didn’t come to anything, and that was something that I was certainly not willing to do with an audience. I was sure it would be well, but as a rule I preferred to tend to it sooner rather than later. Combined with coitus interruptus, it was my preferred method of being safe, but there hadn’t been time for that. I frowned. I hadn’t really given it much thought in the heat of the moment.
‘You should be careful,’ Michael said quickly, interrupting my silent self-chastisement.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Just – in the run up. As it gets closer. Just be careful. Won’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I said, taken aback slightly. ‘Yes, I will. And when,‘ – against my better judgement, I asked, ‘when will you be back?’
Michael looked at me for a moment.
‘I’m not sure. It’ll be in the next day or two. Perhaps longer. I have some business I need to attend to. It takes me to Manchester. So I’ll be away for a night or two.’
‘Another story?’ I aimed for lightness again, but it seemed to come out sounding accusatory, as though I was angry with him for thinking anything else could be more important than our ridiculous play.
‘No,’ Michael looked away again. ‘Personal. But whatever happens, I’ll be here for opening night. Just, be careful, that’s all. Won’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I said again. Then, impulsively, ‘You, as well.’
‘Yes.’ Michael nodded. ‘Goodbye, then.’
‘Goodbye.’
Andrew came to find me an hour or two later. My little room was almost in darkness, but I hadn’t lit any candles. I was just looking, unseeing, at my bookcases, letting the titles of the plays I loved soothe my mind as I tried to tie together the strands of chaos that surrounded me, when there came a tap on my door.
If Andrew thought it was strange to find me sitting in the darkness, he said nothing about it. Instead, he came and sat opposite me and laid a newspaper on the desk, twisting it round so the headline faced me.
‘Have you seen this?’ he asked, with a voice so devoid of emotion that I could barely recognise it.
It took a few moments for my brain to understand what I was reading.
‘Augustine is dead,’ Andrew said, but I still couldn’t quite believe it.
‘What does it say? I can’t seem to read it.’
Andrew reached across the newspaper and took my hand. His skin was so dark compared to mine. It always had been, but it seemed more so than ever before in the grey light of dusk. It was easier to think about that than try and understand. I squeezed his hand tightly. At that moment he was my favourite person in the world. We could run away to Sheffield together and all would be well.
‘It looks like another burglary, but he was in his studio at the time.’
‘Oh. How awful.’
Andrew nodded.
‘Is it off, then?’
‘The exhibition?’ He shrugged and squeezed my hand. ‘I don’t know. I hope so.’
I nodded, and looked down at my desk again. I wanted very much to tell him that I wanted to leave, that we could run away and either do plays again or not do plays, but then I wasn’t sure that I wanted to go with him, as it happened.
‘We were the only ones who haven’t been targeted,’ I said.
‘There were a few others – minor contributors, I suppose, but yes, you’re right.’
‘It looks awfully suspicious, on us, doesn’t it?’
I withdrew my hand from his, and he frowned.
‘Surely you don’t think any one of us would have been involved.’
I stared at the open pages in my notebook. Father’s sketchbook, I had scrawled in the top corner, underlined twice and with three question marks.
‘I just don’t know anything anymore,’ I said. ‘I hope it’s cancelled now. It must be, surely. Out of respect.’
‘Perhaps.’ Andrew rose then and reached to pick up the newspaper.
‘No – leave it. Please.’
He nodded and took a long look at me before leaving. He shut the door behind him, and the room was shrouded entirely in grey. I couldn’t read the article, but I didn’t really want to then. I just wanted it to be there when I was ready.
Parker called us all together the next day, and we gathered slowly, arriving in the sitting room in dribs and drabs. Mother and Annie sat together, and I suppose that if the circumstances had been different, I would have been pleased to see them talking again. Now I wondered if they were strangers conspiring against me.
Father was sitting in the corner by the window, staring at the floor. He was desolate. Andrew and Jackie had sat one either side of him, and were exchanging concerned looks over his head.
Parker cleared his throat, and we all looked at him. I was just waiting for the confirmation that the exhibition and play were cancelled. I had packed together a few of my things and what little money I had, and from there I was going to get on the next coach which would take me, I didn’t care where.
‘You’ve all heard the sad news about Augustine.’
Nobody made a sound, so after a brief, respectful pause, Parker continued.
‘We don’t know all the details of what happened, but the rumour is that he was strangled.’ Father made a small yelping noise, and Andrew reached over and patted him on the shoulder.
‘Oh, how awful,’ Mother said. She was decked out entirely in black silks and bombazine, like a scraggly crow, waiting and preying on the weak and the mournful. She held a handkerchief edged with black ribbon to her lips. How fortunate for her that she looked so well in black. How she must be enjoying this.
‘Well, yes. Like the papers said, if you’ve been following it, it looks like a burglary gone wrong. He was strangled with one of his own scarves – that he was wearing at the time, they think. It is a very sad time, indeed.’ Parker paused for effect. ‘Very sad. But out of the darkness must come some light, and while of course we mourn the loss of one of this century’s finest painters, we may take consolation in the fact that his newest work was not – indeed, no paintings were – in the studio at the time of the attempted robbery.’
I sat up, then. I think we all did.
‘What do you mean?’ Andrew asked. ‘Was nothing taken?’
‘It does not appear that way. Although, you know, sketchbooks and so on. It was very messy, I am told. The Duke’s envoy tells me. They give so much more detail than the newspapers do, you know. Most interesting. Apparently, he had turned quite purple in the face, but one doesn’t know if that can be true or not. Look of absolute terror on his face too, apparently. One can only imagine. Ah.’ Parker suddenly seemed to catch himself being a gossip. ‘Well, that’s beside the point. The new painting had been moved from the studio, having been finished only the day before. It was all packed up and ready to be transported here, and was – well, it was in the stable, apparently. Covered with an old horse blanket in one of the stalls. Took them two days to find it.’
‘How odd,’ Annie murmured. I couldn’t have agreed more. To hear Parker tell it, it was almost as though the painting had been hidden.
‘Where is it now?’ Andrew asked.
Parker shrugged.
‘The Duke has men guarding it. I asked them if they wanted it to be stored here, ahead of the exhibition, but they said not.’
‘You mean the exhibition is going ahead?’ I could barely credit it.
‘Oh yes, don’t worry about that, Evey. All our hard work shan’t be for naught! It’s going to be a tribute, now.’
‘Even the play? They still want us to perform the play?’
Parker swayed onto the balls of his feet and clasped his hands with pleasure.
‘Well, as luck would have it, Pope was a particular favourite of Augustine’s. I know, I couldn’t believe it myself when I heard. His studio was full of his books, and they said they spoke to his son and he confirmed it. So it’s to be a tribute. Isn’t that lucky?’
‘Isn’t it,’ I murmured, as Parker congratulated us all on our good fortune. There would be no hopping on a coach today. It appeared I must see the thing through to the end.
I gave it until the next day – six days before the exhibition – to hold the next rehearsal. It wasn’t awful. It was melancholy, and I wondered how the black arm bands Parker had decided we had to wear would come across to the audience. Our farce, for all its heavenly battles and beautiful shadows, could only appear crass with our bright silk costumes. Nothing would come of this, I was sure. We could only ever after be associated with our inappropriate mourning. Perhaps they all realised that it was all for naught. I considered changing it to something more appropriate. Something more sombre. A reading from Pope’s translation of Homer’s Odyssey, perhaps. But no. To change it now would require more effort on my part, rather than just going along with what we had already. I would have to talk to them, to explain my reasoning, and tell them that we were never going to be good enough to carry this off well enough for it to be seen as a fitting tribute. I didn’t have the energy.
So we rehearsed, and we all just wanted it to be over, and I said as little as I possibly could, and disappeared to my study as soon as it was finished. And when I got there, instead of being alone I was greeted by Michael, who was sitting in the chair opposite mine, waiting for me. I wasn’t sure if that was better or worse than being alone. I closed the door without a word, and took my seat. I looked at him for several moments, noting his unshaven face, his creased collar and cuffs, and the black jacket and waistcoat he wore. He had worn the same colours when I had seen him last. Finally, when it was clear that he wasn’t going to begin the conversation, I spoke.
‘Did you know?’
He didn’t reply, only looked away from me briefly.
‘Did you know that Augustine had been killed before you came to see me the other day?’
Michael nodded.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I asked.
There was a long pause while he stared at the grain in the wood on my desk. The desk where we had been two days earlier.
‘I didn’t know what to say.’
‘You thought I had something to do with it.’
‘I don’t know what to think any more.’
I leaned back into my chair.
‘That makes two of us.’
He looked at me, then, finally.
‘I’ve been thinking about it for the past few days, and I just can’t put it all together. I don’t know how you’re involved.’
‘I’m not involved,’ I snapped.
‘You might not know it, but you are. And I don’t know if you’re telling the truth but-‘
‘But you wanted to fuck me anyway. So what are you doing here?’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ Michael said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
‘It was exactly like that, and you know it. You were angry, and you had me. I wasn’t allowed to do that with you, but you were with me. Not that I mind particularly. We both got what we wanted, didn’t we? And it’s like you said,’ I continued as Michael steadfastly refused to meet my eye. ‘It’ll never happen again now.’
‘No,’ he said, finally. ‘It won’t.’
‘So I ask again, what are you doing here?’
‘They killed Augustine.’
‘Who?’
Michael shook his head.
‘Then get out,’ I said. ‘Tell me what you know or I won’t tell you a damned thing, and I won’t help you with whatever it is that you’ve come here for.’
‘Fine. Fine. It’s something to do with the Fitzroys. I’m sure of it. But I don’t know what. It was something to do with that painting Augustine was working on, but I don’t know what it was. And nobody will until the unveiling, unless you can get a look at it for me.’
‘Me? Why on earth should I do that for you?’
Michael shrugged.
‘I thought it was important to you that this endeavour was well-received by the newspaper.’
I stared at him, unable to believe what he was suggesting.
‘You’re threatening me with bad press? How low, how loathsome.’
‘Take it as incentive. I know the subject of the picture, you get a good review, and The Advocate’s readers don’t realise that they were tricked into watching the rambling visions of a little girl. We roll like pigs in the mud of our mutual happiness.’
My fingers curled into claws against the edge of my desk. I wanted to claw him and rip his carefully, smugly expressionless face off. My strength seemed to ebb and flow, seeping from my arms and washing through to my brain. For all that I wanted to leave, I needed a good review. It was all I could salvage from this debacle. Michael had it in his power to ruin me, to ruin the troupe. I might wish them to hell but Andrew and Annie at least were my friends. I couldn’t doom their careers in the theatre too.
‘You don’t even trust me,’ I said weakly. ‘I might lie.’
‘I’ll know. And you’re the first, and likely only chance I have. It’s going to be delivered here just before the exhibition opens. The Duke’s convinced there’s going to be a robbery attempt but I think it’s more than that. It has to be. Julia Fitzroy could afford this painting if she really wanted to. There’s something more going on here.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know,’ Michael said. ‘But the more I think about it, the more I think we need to know the subject of the painting.’
I rubbed my hand across my forehead.
‘Someone must know what it was. He must have had sketchbooks or studies or something, planning it.’
‘All stolen.’
‘They never said that. Parker said nothing had been taken.’
‘That’s what the authorities were told.’
‘But why?’
Michael shrugged again. I cracked my knuckles the way Mother always hates.
‘Wait a moment – Augustine has a son.’
Michael sank lower in his seat.
‘What about him?’ he asked.
‘Won’t he know what the painting was?’
‘Apparently not,’ Michael said. ‘They hadn’t seen one another for months. Estranged.’
‘How odd,’ I said, slumping back in my seat, exhausted. ‘How common such estrangements seem to become.’
‘Quite. So will you do it? Will you try and get a look at the painting?’
‘I don’t have a choice, do I? Although I don’t see why we can’t wait until the exhibition. If I could get a look at it – and that’s if, because I will have a lot of other things to be doing at that time, you know, then we’d only know about an hour before the exhibition starts. And only two or three hours before it’s unveiled to the public.’
‘I need to know before then. Find out, tell me what it is, and then chances are you never have to see me again.’
‘That does sound tempting,’ I said, trying to remember the man who had held me as I cried, and trying to discern just how he was related to this stranger who stared at me dispassionately. ‘You’d really publish my identity? You’d really slander the troupe? Annie and Andrew haven’t done anything to deserve this.’
Michael shrugged, expressionless.
‘Seducing you might work instead, but I find that I haven’t the energy.’
I began to feel dizzy as my brain swam with questions and hurt.
‘Fine then,’ I said, wanting him to leave as soon as possible. ‘As you wish it.’
‘Good. The painting will arrive here at six o’clock.’
‘Doors open at eight, and it’s curtain up at nine.’
‘The painting is unveiled after that? Shall we say ten?’
‘Four hours,’ I said slowly.
‘Plenty of time,’ Michael said with a smile, so different from those sunlight ones I had seen earlier. ‘I’ll be here, then. Come here once you’ve seen it, and tell me what it is.’
‘And if I can’t?’
Michael rose and stood over me.
‘You will,’ he said. ‘Failure to do so is not an option. Just think of the reviews, darling.’
‘But it will most likely be guarded, given the security the Duke has put around it at the moment.’ I was aware I sounded desperate, and hated myself for it.
Michael smiled again.
‘Oh, I shouldn’t think that would be a problem for you. You can just seduce them.’
The door had closed behind him before my ink pot hit the place where his head had been. The glass smashed and black ink sprayed over the bookshelf and dribbled and pooled onto the floor. I found that I couldn’t move.