Winter Blockbuster 2012 (61 page)

‘Why, Mistress Barrett, I see you are a secret romantic,’ a deep, velvet-rough voice suddenly said, dragging her out of her dream world.

The book fell from her hands to clatter onto the stone hearth and she twisted round in her chair. It was Robert who stood there in the sitting room doorway, watching her as she read. He leaned his shoulder on the doorframe, his arms lazily crossed over his chest. A half smile lingered at the corners of his lips, but his eyes were dark and solemn as they studied her.

How long had he been standing there?

‘You startled me,’ she said, hating the way her voice trembled.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you,’ he said.

‘I didn’t even know you were here. I heard no knock at the door.’

‘I have only just arrived. Madge let me in.’ Rob pushed away from the door and moved slowly to her side, loose-limbed
and as deceptively lazy as a cat. As Anna watched, tense, he knelt by her chair and picked up the dropped book.

He took her hand in his, very gently, his fingers light on hers, and carefully laid the book on her palm. But he didn’t let go of her. He curled her hand around the leather binding and held his over it.

It was a light caress, cool and gentle, and Anna knew she could draw away whenever she chose. Yet somehow she just—couldn’t. She stared down at their joined hands as if mesmerised.

He stared down at them, too, almost as if he could also feel that shimmering, heated, invisible bond tightening around them, closer and closer. The crackle of the fire, the laughter of the company—it all seemed so far away. There was only Robert and herself here now.

‘Are you enjoying the travails of poor Demetrius the shepherd?’ he asked.

‘Very much,’ she whispered. She stared hard at the book, its brown cover held by their joined hands. She feared what might happen if she looked into his eyes. Would she crack and crumble away, vanishing into him forever?

What spell did he cast over her?

‘The poetry is beautiful,’ she went on. ‘I can see every ray of sunlight, every summer leaf in those woods—I can feel Demetrius’s grief. What a terrible thing it must be to feel like that about another.’

‘How terrible
not
to feel that way,’ he said. ‘Life is an empty, cold shell without passion.’

Anna laughed. It seemed she was not the only ‘secret romantic.’ ‘Is it better to burn than to freeze? Passion consumes until there is nothing left but ash. Demetrius is miserable because of his desire for Diana.’

‘True. Diana can’t love him back. It isn’t in her nature.
But if she could, it would be glorious beyond imagining. It is glorious even without her return, because at least Demetrius
knows
he can love. He can feel truly alive because of it.’

She smiled and gently laid her free hand against his cheek. The prickle of a day’s growth of beard tickled at her palm. Beneath it his skin was warm and satin-taut. A muscle flexed under her touch. ‘I believe
you
are the secret romantic, Robert. Do you envy the shepherd, then?’

He grinned up at her, and turned his head to press a quick kiss to the hollow of her palm. ‘In a way I do. He gets to be alive—truly alive—even if it’s only for a moment.’

‘Until that love kills him.’

‘Until then. I see you have peeked ahead at the ending.’

Anna sat back in her chair, finally breaking their hold on each other. But though not touching him, not physically close, she felt bound to him.

‘Are you not alive, then, Robert?’ she asked.

He sat back on the hearth, resting lazily on his elbows as he stretched his legs out before him and crossed his booted feet at the ankles. He had charged that morning’s rumpled, stained shirt for one of his dandyish and expensive doublets of burgundy-red velvet, slashed at the sleeves with black satin and trimmed with shining rows of gold buttons. His boots were fine, soft Spanish leather, polished to a glowing sheen, his breeches of thin, fine-spun wool. A teardrop pearl hung at his ear.

He was dressed to impress someone tonight, and Anna suspected it was not meant to be her.

‘Sometimes I feel I’m already cold in the grave, fair Anna,’ he answered. His tone was light, teasing, but she thought she heard a hard ring beneath it—the tinge of truth. ‘The true, deep feelings of Demetrius are lost to me now. I just counterfeit them onstage.’

‘Aye,’ she murmured. ‘I think I know what you mean.’

His head tilted to the side as he studied her. ‘Do you?’

‘Aye. My life is not one of deep emotions, as the poor shepherd has. It is quiet and calm—cold, some might say. But I prefer its chill to the pain of burning.’

‘Your husband?’ Robert asked, his voice low and steady, as if he didn’t want to frighten her away.

As if Charles Barrett could frighten her now. His black soul was dead and buried. But before that, before they’d made the mistake of marrying and it had all gone so horribly wrong, she had once longed for him. Those feelings had clouded her judgement and led her far astray.

‘I never want that again,’ she said firmly.

‘So you are like Diana now?’ he said. ‘Above the maelstrom of human emotion and desire?’

Anna laughed. ‘I am no virgin goddess.’

Suddenly there was a crashing sound in the corridor, a burst of drunken laughter. Someone bumped into the wall outside, making the painted cloths sway.

Robert held his finger lightly to his lips and rose to his feet.

‘Shh,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s walk in the garden for a time, where they can’t find us.’

‘The garden?’ Anna asked, confused. To be alone with him, in the dark of night, with no one lurking outside the door? It was—tempting.

Too
tempting. Who knew what she might do there? She didn’t even seem to know herself when she was with him.

But as he held his hand out to her, she found herself reaching for it.

‘There is a beautiful moon tonight, my Diana,’ he said. ‘And I find I am in no fit mood for company.’

She nodded, and together they tiptoed down the corridor and out of the front door into the night. Once they were outside,
the raucous roar of the gathering faded away to a mere distant hum.

The garden that lay between the house and the darkened theatre was quiet and full of shadows from the shifting of the moon’s glow between drifting clouds. A tall stone wall held back the flow of Southwark life beyond—the taverns and bustling brothels, the shouts and shrieks and the clash of steel and fists. It all seemed very far away in that moment.

Anna sat down on a stone bench and tipped her head back to stare at the silvery-pale moon in the blue-black velvet sky. It was nearly full, staring down impassively at the wild human world below.

‘It
is
lovely,’ she said softly. ‘I don’t look at the sky enough.’

‘Our lives are too frantic to remember such simple joys,’ he answered. He rested his foot on the bench beside her and braced his forearm on his knee—so, so close, but not yet touching.

‘Your life is terribly busy, yes?’ she asked. She held tighter to the cold, solid stone beneath her, to keep away the temptation to lean against him. ‘Writing, acting, dodging demanding theatre owners, assignations with admiring ladies—fights with their husbands …’

Rob laughed. ‘Such a great opinion you have of me, Anna. I would have you know I work hard for my coin every day. And if I choose to enjoy myself when the work is done—well, life is too short
not
to seek out pleasure.’

Anna smiled up at him. He was so good at seeking out pleasure, it seemed, at drawing out every hidden morsel of joy in their striving, heaving existence. What was that like? What would it feel like to let go of control and duty for one mere moment and just—
be?

She feared the cost of that one moment would be too high.
But it was tempting, nonetheless, especially when he looked at her like that under the shimmering moonglow.

‘Perhaps we do need to stop and glance at the stars once in a while,’ she said. ‘Lest we forget they are even there at all.’

‘It’s difficult to see them in the city,’ Rob said. He sat down beside her, his shoulder pressed very lightly against hers. He did only that—sat beside her—and yet she was so very aware of the hard, lean line of his body, the heat of his skin on hers through the layers of their clothes, the raw strength of him.

‘I’ve never lived anywhere but London. Not for long anyway,’ Anna said. ‘This is the only sky I know.’

‘When I was a lad I lived in the countryside,’ he said. His voice was quiet in the darkness, as if suddenly he was far away from the garden. Somewhere she couldn’t quite see or follow.

‘Did you?’

‘Aye, and often on summer nights I would slip out of my bed and go running down to the river, where there was only the water and the sky, perfect silence. I would lie down in the tall grass at the riverbank and stare up at the stars, making up tales for myself of other worlds we could not see. Wondrous places beyond the stars.’

Anna was fascinated by this small glimpse of Rob’s past, his hidden self. She had never thought of him as a boy before; he seemed to have just sprung up fully formed onstage, sword in his hand, poetry on his lips.

‘You must have been the despair of your mother, running away like that,’ she said.

He smiled at her, a flash of his usual careless grin, but it swiftly faded. ‘Not at all. My mother died when I was very young. Our aunt then stayed with us for a time, but she cared not what we did as long as we didn’t dirty her nicely scrubbed floors.’

‘Oh,’ Anna said sadly. ‘I am sorry.’

‘For what, fair Anna?’

‘For your losing your mother so young. My own mother died when I was three.’

Rob studied her so carefully she felt a warm blush creeping stealthily into her cheeks. She was very glad of the cover of darkness—the moon was behind the clouds. ‘Do you remember her?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘Not very much at all. She would sing to me as I fell asleep at night, and sometimes I think I remember the way her touch felt on my cheek, or the smell of her perfume. My father says she was very beautiful and very gentle, that there could be no lady to compare to her and that is why he never married again.’ Anna laughed. ‘So it seems I inherited little from her, having neither beauty nor gentleness!’

‘I would disagree—about the beauty part, anyway,’ Rob said, his old light flirtatiousness coming back, encroaching on their fleeting moment of intimacy.

‘I am not gentle?’

‘Gentleness is quite overrated. Spirit—that is what a man should always look for in a female.’

Anna thought of the weeping whore in her tattered yellow dress. She had not seemed especially spirited, but then Anna hadn’t seen what had come before the morning quarrel. Maybe the night had been spirited, indeed.

Had it all only been that morning? It seemed like days ago, so very distant from this quiet moment.

And she felt a most unwanted twinge of pleasure that he might think she was spirited—and beautiful. Even though she knew very well it was only a mere flirtatious comment—a toss-away he no doubt said often to many women. But she
had long ago lost her youthful spirit. It was buried in the real world.

‘Surely
spirit
can cause more trouble than it is worth?’ she said sternly. ‘For instance—how is your shoulder tonight?’

He flexed his shoulders as if to test them before answering her. His muscles rippled against the fine fabric of his doublet.

‘Better, I thank you,’ he said. ‘I had a very fine nurse.’

Anna waited to see if he would say more, tell her how he had come to be wounded in the first place, but he did not. A silence fell around them, heavy and soft as the night itself. She let herself lean closer against him, and didn’t even move away when his arm came lightly around her shoulders.

‘Tell me about those worlds you saw beyond the stars,’ she said. ‘Tell me what it felt like to escape there.’

‘Escape?’ he said. She could feel the way he watched her in the night, so steady, so intense, as if he wanted to see all her secrets. ‘What do you want to escape from, Anna?’

Everything
, she wanted to say. At least for that one moment she wanted not to be herself, here in her workaday life, her workaday self. She wanted him to be not himself, either. If only they were two strangers, who knew nothing of each other or of what the world held beyond this garden.

‘It’s more what I want to escape
to
, I think,’ she said. ‘Something beautiful, clean and good. Something peaceful.’

‘Something beautiful?’ he said. ‘Yes. I think I’ve been looking for that all my life.’

Anna felt the sudden gentle brush of his hand against her cheek. His touch was light, and yet it seemed to leave shimmering sparks in its wake across her skin. She reared back, startled, but he didn’t leave her. His palm cupped her cheek, holding her as if she was made of the most fragile porcelain, and she swayed towards him.

Slowly, enticingly, his hand slid down her throat to the ribbon
trim of her neckline. He toyed with it lightly between his fingers, his dark gaze following his touch. He didn’t even brush the bare, soft swell of her breast above the unfashionably modest bodice, yet she trembled as if he did. She felt unbearably tense and brittle, as if she would snap if he did not touch her.

‘Why do you always wear grey?’ he asked, twining the bit of ribbon between his fingers.

‘I—I like grey,’ she whispered. ‘‘Tis easy to keep clean.’ And easy to fade into the background. It was a suitable colour for a woman who spent her time hovering behind the scenes.

‘In my star kingdom you would wear white satin and blue velvet, sewn with pearls and embroidered with shining silver thread.’

He stroked one long strand of her hair that had escaped its pins and trailed over her shoulder, tracing the curve of the curl. She felt the heat of his touch against her skin.

‘And you would have ribbons and strands of jewels in your hair.’

Anna laughed unsteadily. ‘That would not be very practical as I went about my tasks. I would be always tripping over the satins and pearls and getting them dirty.’