Moon Rising (28 page)

Carnal tastes! I might have pulled a face at that the other day, but not now. Instead, I found myself wondering at the truth behind their marriage. He said she refused him – well, if that was true,
why
did she? And if he wouldn't force her, then why would he force me? Pondering the answer to that, I was distracted by the men's voices, Bram's unmistakable tones deeper and heavier than usual, Hall Caine's lightly accented, and, dominating both, Irving's rich, well-modulated voice, busy propounding who-knows-what irrefutable solution to the present dilemma.

I longed to know what they were saying, but my skin was itching and prickling with salt. Bram had brought in some water, so I stripped off to sponge myself clean from top to toe, trying not to wince at the bruises. There was little I could do about my hair, so I swept it up with combs, donning a skirt and blouse that I hoped was more in line with the Sternes of Robin Hood's Bay than the half-drowned kitchen wench who had greeted them earlier. Peering in the glass, noting the blue-grey shadows under my eyes, I dusted my face with powder, my lips and cheeks with a hint of rouge, and was pleased with the effect. I was intending to surprise them all by marching into the kitchen, when, with a gust of wind, I heard the outer door open and close, and the heavy murmur of men's voices ceased.

Peering between the curtains, I saw Hall Caine leaving, but as I furrowed my brow, conversation in the kitchen resumed. Then I heard my name mentioned, and despite the old adage about eavesdroppers never hearing good of themselves, I paused at that with my hand on the iron sneck. The old door had a triangle of ventilation holes at eye level, and from there I had a good view of the room beyond, of Bram with his back to me, seated beside his makeshift desk, and Irving with hands locked behind him, standing before the fire.

From the silence and Irving's poised, predatory stance, I gathered that questions had been asked and he was waiting for answers. With the outer door shut there wasn't much light at that end of the kitchen, and he looked pale and bloodless in the shadows, a black and white figure shifting slightly against the cast-iron range and glowing coals behind. Yet his presence filled the room. If this man were behind me at Cock Mill, I thought with a shiver, and happened to grasp my arm, I'd be looking for the marks of a cloven hoof...

By contrast, Bram was sunk in gloom, chin in hand, elbow on the desk. When he spoke I could feel his misery. ‘I know, I know,' he said at last. ‘I do understand – I just don't know what you want me to say.'

‘But surely,' Irving intoned, ‘you must have thought of these things?'

‘Of course. The problem is, I've given my promise.'

‘And are you not
obliged,
my dear chap, to honour other promises previously given?' The voice was velvet, but the eyes probed and devoured. ‘Hmm? To me, if you recall – not to mention to poor dear Florence, who is beside herself with anxiety.'

‘Oh, for God's sake, Irving, let's leave Florence out of this, shall we? It's no use invoking her name, when you know as well as I do that you and she have been at daggers drawn ever since I brought her to England as my bride!'

In spite of what I'd just read, the depth of Bram's bitterness shook me; but I was glad to see that Irving had the grace to look discomfited. He turned away slightly, and, as he thought himself unobserved, I could see how carefully he watched and judged his quarry, how he shifted viewpoint but remained in charge; above all, how he tempered his performance to suit the situation. Now, turning back, he looked hurt, and managed to sound even more so.

‘My dear chap, please understand that Florence and I drew up terms and came to truce long ago. She and I have learned to respect each other, just as we now respect each other's needs, and the time you spend with each of us.'

It was said simply and reasonably, as though they had every right to divide him up between them. Furious at that, I felt my fists curl and had to turn away. There was a rumble of disagreement from Bram; when I looked again he had abandoned the safety of his desk and was running fingers through his hair in a distraught kind of way. ‘Florence has her own life,' he said curtly, ‘as you well know. She hardly needs me, except as part of the scenery.'

‘Well, I beg to disagree there,' Irving said, with what seemed to me his first ounce of real sincerity. ‘She says she loves you, and in that respect I believe her... I know she can be difficult, Bram, but she is a woman, after all, and which of us can begin to understand the workings of a woman's mind?' He shook his head, and for the first time looked away, into the darker recesses of the kitchen. ‘You're lucky, you know – at least your Florence has learned to be accommodating. In my opinion, most of them are destructively and certifiably mad. Look at Tom, for goodness' sake! Rossetti I was almost able to understand, but this – this
child
he's involved with now. Blackmailing him, for heaven's sake, at the age of thirteen!'

The great actor paced the width of the hearth, looking genuinely bemused. ‘What is it about young girls, Bram? One can hardly call it innocence when they're up to sordid little tricks like that!'

I was still trying to work out what he meant about Hall Caine and blackmail, when he paused to look at Bram again. ‘And this one,' he said quietly, ‘that you're involved with – is she blackmailing you?'

For a solitary moment which seemed to stretch on and on, I felt my life was suspended. Even the blood paused in my veins, only to pound afresh with Bram's indignant denial. I fell back against the wall, barely able to hold myself up.

A scatter of rain against the window brought me to my senses; when the brief flurry passed I opened the casement, gulping at the damp, chilly air. How could this man, knowing nothing, suspect such a thing of me? I felt like a child, wounded, ignorant and helpless, and wanted to hurt him in return. I had visions of abandoning him on the cliffs at dark of the moon, or far out at sea in a small boat; but Bram always spoke of Irving's enormous nerve and courage... Anyway, I found it daunting enough to think of him travelling all those miles – apparently overnight and presumably after a performance on stage in London – simply to see Bram face to face. That spoke of great stamina and determination. And friendship? But Hall Caine – why had he come? As Florence's emissary, I imagined, although I wouldn't have trusted a man with eyes like that. But perhaps she had no idea about the thirteen-year-old blackmailer? No doubt ladies were protected from such unsavoury details.

Suddenly, I was so cold by the open window, my teeth were chattering. I didn't want to hear any more, but as I dragged a shawl around my shoulders I was drawn back to my position by the door. In the next room Irving was doing his best to persuade Bram that Whitby was just a backwater, picturesque perhaps, but nowhere near big enough for a man of his talent and ambition.

‘There's no scope, no cultural life, no -'

‘Don't you think I've had enough of cultural life in the last eight years?' Bram snapped. ‘That's all I have had. There's been no room to breathe, to expand – no room even to
think,
for heaven's sake! Here at least I'm able to be myself – no one knows me, no one expects anything from me, and that's more of a relief than you can ever know.'

‘Relief?' the other man echoed, with just a suggestion of contempt in his tone. ‘You mean the relief of stepping off-stage, removing the make-up, taking a brief respite? Well, that's fine, my dear chap, as long as you remember that we need demands and expectations to draw out the best in us. Without expectations we merely exist, we do not
strive
– and without the striving, what are we? Animals, creatures, what you will – if we do not strive, we are not
men
.'

‘I have striven, Irving – you know that. You, above all, have had my
best...
'

His voice was muffled but the emotion was clear. I saw that he had moved to sit beside the range, and that Irving was in the other chair, leaning towards him. ‘I know,' he said, so softly that I had to strain to hear, ‘and that is why our partnership has been so successful – because we have
both
given our best, and at all times. We've never stinted, never short-changed. We've worked harder in the last eight years than most men work in a lifetime – and we've
succeeded,
Bram. And why? Because you and I –
you and I
,
Bram
– have led, bullied and cajoled the best company in London. More than that, we've
made
them the best company.

‘I beg of you,' he went on softly, ‘now we're established, don't let me down.'

He was poised for a long, long moment, not moving, just waiting for a reply.

Bram sighed and shifted and shook his head. ‘That's just it,' he burst out at last, ‘you are established now, the Lyceum has a reputation second to none, and because of that you've been able to attract the best people – accountants, secretaries, press agents – to do all the jobs I used to perform single-handedly. You can afford to commission your own plays, and even to employ writers to straighten out the old ones. You don't need me, Irving, any more than Florence does. If I thought you did, I wouldn't have -'

Irving threw up his hands. ‘Oh, my dear chap, you couldn't be more in error! It doesn't matter who or what I can afford! No one can edit a play like you – no one sees the essence of a plot as you do, and I swear no one else has your flair for pace and timing and the perfect dramatic impact...'

Well, I thought sardonically, you should know... But I believed him, and thought Bram would too. I was astounded when he denied it. ‘Use Tom,' he declared, ‘he's better.'

‘No. No, no – you miss my point. Hall Caine is a fine fellow and a perfectly competent novelist, but he lacks the quality I'm speaking of. How can I describe it, except as a question of rapport? You and I have it, but with other people, I spend so much time explaining what I mean and what I want, it's generally quicker to do it myself! Anyway, with whom should I air my ideas but you?'

He had such fire, such sincerity, it was impossible not to be moved by those claims. Even I was convinced.

When he reached out a hand and said: ‘I can't do it by myself, old chap, I need you,' I expected Bram to be inspired, to offer emotional thanks for the honour and the vote of confidence. I was almost ready to give him up in such a cause. But I was not prepared for the force with which Bram flung himself out of the chair and across the room. Expecting the door to fly open I cringed against the wall. When I dared to look he was leaning forward over the desk, his face contorted; I could hear him taking harsh, rasping breaths that shook me almost as much as they racked him.

Eventually, with great effort, he brought himself under control and said to Irving, ‘And is that
all
I am to you? We were
friends,
once.'

There was such agony of emotion in those few words that I had to jam my fingers into my mouth so as not to make a sound. Knowledge ripped through me like a butcher's knife. He wasn't afraid of
London –
it was
Irving,
Irving he was running from, hiding from, battling with in the secret recesses of his mind. Irving who made his heart pound and lungs heave, who could wring that effort from him and edge his voice with such distress.

As he came out of the shadows, I saw concern in the older man's eyes, and heard it, thankfully, in his voice: ‘I hope we are still – I hope we will be, always...'

Bram took a deep breath and steadied himself, but I could see the glint of tears on his cheek. ‘That's been my hope too – but you know, latterly...' He broke off, shook his head, unable to go on.

‘I know. I'm sorry. It's been my fault. We must set things right – make a return to our old style – what do you say?' Irving asked with a charming, almost puckish smile. Again he reached out, but this time Bram did not flinch away. At Irving's touch he turned and, with a single, wordless exclamation, they embraced.

The gesture was as brief as it was emotional, but the intimacy – even to Bram's lack of embarrassment as he dried his eyes afterwards – spoke of a closeness I'd never suspected. I felt shocked, jealous, excluded. I wanted to tear open the door, knock Irving out of the way, enfold Bram in my own protective arms. But I wanted to shake him too, bring him back from tears and the marshy depths of sentiment to his former position of anger and resistance. I wanted him to stand firm.

Irving's voice was like silk. ‘You've had a difficult time of it, I know, and I feel dreadfully responsible. The thing is, you have such a genius for organisation, you make everything look easy. I tend to forget how much is involved. In future, you must remind me.'

In future!
He speaks, I thought furiously, as though all were settled, as though only his wishes were of any account, as though there had never been any real question as to the ultimate decision. No doubt he was accustomed to achieving his own ends, to using whatever means came to hand – from cold professionalism to this warm cloak of sympathy and charm.

I willed Bram to reject that, to withdraw from the actor's seductive aura; but although he continued to voice words of protest, they lacked conviction. Somehow, in Irving's embrace, he had lost that wonderful energy and vibrancy which had been so much a part of him. I saw him become clumsy and slow, even physically diminished, as though the very marrow was being sucked from his bones.

I had been so sure that Bram was in love with me, that it was possible to ensnare him with passion while his cold-hearted wife stood no chance at all. But standing there, clinging to the door, spying on my lover with the man who had ruled his life for the past ten years, I knew with absolute certainty that my rival was not Florence Stoker. By comparison with Henry Irving, Florence was almost incidental, and Bram's truancy with me was no more than an escapade that might linger in the mind, but sooner or later would be forgotten.