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The Beckoning Dream
Paula Marshall
Pretend marriage…real danger!The only way actress Catherine Wood could ensure her brother's release from jail was to accompany "Tom Trenchard" to Holland on a spying mission, while pretending to be his wife! With his roguish charm Tom made no bones about wanting Catherine in his bed–after all, she was an actress. But Catherine was determined to hold him at bay no matter how appealing he was. As they traveled into danger and depended upon one another, their attraction turned to love, and then misunderstanding. Would an eleventh-hour race against death finally make this "pretend" couple reveal the truth about their love?
“You have made yourself at home, I see.”
Catherine could not help being acidic. He was here on sufferance, solely because she was being blackmailed into doing something she had no wish to do, in order to save her silly brother’s life, and Tom was already behaving like the master of the house.
He must learn—and learn soon—that he could take no liberties with her. Alas, his next words simply went to prove that he had every intention of doing so.
The Beckoning Dream
Paula Marshall
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
PAULA MARSHALL,
married with three children, has had a varied life. She began her career in a large library and ended it as a senior academic in charge of history in a polytechnic. She has traveled widely, has been a swimming coach and has appeared on University Challenge and Mastermind. She has always wanted to write, and likes her novels to be full of adventure and humor.
Author’s Note to the Reader
This novel, like all of mine, is firmly based on fact, and is dedicated to the memory of Aphra Behn, wit, poet, dramatist, novelist and secret agent, who lived the life of a free woman in the mid-seventeenth century—no mean achievement. It has taken three hundred years for her reputation to be revived and her many talents to be properly appreciated.
One of her greatest achievements as an agent in Holland was to warn the British Government in 1667 that the Dutch Navy was about to launch a major attack on the naval bases of Sheerness and Chatham on the River Medway. Her warning was ignored, as she recorded in her autobiography, and for three hundred years her biographers and critics mocked her for having claimed that, had the Government heeded her report, a major disaster for the British Navy would have been avoided.
Three hundred years later, Aphra’s claim was vindicated when her letter, giving details of the proposed attack, was discovered in the State Papers. In the same way, her right to be seen as the mother of the English novel and as the writer of a number of witty and actable plays was also derided until the Sixties of the present century when her work was looked at with fresh eyes.
Contents
Prologue (#uf9e811e8-d504-5e74-8f5b-f0ff7075d7a9)
Chapter One (#uc276fc51-1757-50b4-a05b-63997a57cd77)
Chapter Two (#u16012835-2452-5d32-b5c7-29049840b3ec)
Chapter Three (#uab58db6d-35ab-55cc-bf6e-c711b24037c2)
Chapter Four (#u049d1709-d1cf-550d-afd0-e37a534ef1d7)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
“True love is a beckoning dream.” Old saying
Two men from the court of King Charles II at Whitehall sat on the side of the stage of the Duke of York’s Theatre in the early spring of 1667. One of them was short and plump and was wearing a monstrous blackcurled wig. The other was tall and muscular; his wig was blond, and his hooded eyes were blue. Both of them were magnificently dressed and were wearing half-masks so that it was impossible to detect their true identity.
They were watching a play called The Braggart, or, Lackwit in Love, which had just reached the scene where, as the script had it, the following ensued:
Enter to LACKWIT, BELINDA BELLAMOUR, disguised as a youth, one LUCIUS.
LACKWIT Ho, there, sirrah! Art thou Mistress Belinda Bellamour’s boy?
BELINDA Nay, sir.
LACKWIT How “Nay, sir’? What answer is that?
Art thou not but just come from her quarters?
BELINDA Aye, sir, but nay, sir. Aye, sir, I have come from her quarters. Nay, sir, I am not her boy—my mother was of quite a different kidney!
So, aye, sir, nay, sir!
LACKWIT Insolent child! (Makes to strike her with his cane.)
BELINDA (Twisting away.) What is the world coming to when a man may be beaten for speaking the truth!
LACKWIT Man! Man! Thy mother’s milk is still on thy lips!
BELINDA Aye, sir—but it is not Belinda’s!
By now the audience—which was in on the joke of Belinda’s sex—was roaring its approval as Belinda defied Lackwit by jumping about the stage to dodge his cane, showing a fine pair of legs as she did so.
Master Blond Wig drawled at his dark friend, “Now that she has chosen to show them, her legs are better than her breasts—and they, when visible, were sublime. A new star for the stage.”
He took in the pleasing sight that the actress playing Belinda presented to the world in boy’s clothes; lustrous raven hair, deep violet eyes, a kissable mouth and a body to stiffen a man’s desire simply by looking at it!
“Aye,” agreed Black Wig, who was also appreciating Belinda. “And a new playwright, too. The bills proclaim that he is one Will Wagstaffe.”
“Will Wagstaffe!” Blond Wig began to laugh. “You jest, Hal.”
“Nay, Stair, for that is what the playbill saith. And the doxy who affects the boy is none other than Mistress Cleone Dubois, who made a hit, a very hit, as Clarinda in Love’s Last Jest by that same Wagstaffe whilst thou were out of town.”
“Did she so? I do not believe in Will Wagstaffe, and nor should you,” exclaimed Blond Wig. “But I have a mind to play a jest of my own.”
The action of the play had come close to them whilst they spoke, as Belinda and Lackwit sparred. Blond Wig picked a fruit from the basket that the orange girl had left before them, and threw it straight at Belinda, whom nothing daunted, either as Belinda playing a boy on the stage or in her true nature when not an actress. On seeing the orange coming, she caught it neatly and flung it back at Blond Wig as hard as she could.
He retaliated by rolling it across the stage towards her as though it were a bowling ball. Mr Betterton, the doyen of all Restoration actors, who was playing Lackwit, jumped dexterously over it, so that it arrived at Belinda’s feet.
She bent down, picked it up, and examined it before beginning to peel and eat it, segment by segment, exclaiming as she did so, “Why, Sir Lackwit, I do believe that the fruit thou hast refused is better than the wit. For that is dry, and this orange is juicy. I shall tell my Mistress Belinda that whilst you may have pith and self-importance, you lack the true Olympian oil which the Gods bestow on their favourites.
“But for the orange peel, this,” and she threw the shards of the peel straight at Blond Wig, who was on his feet applauding her improvisation, as were the rest of the audience.
“The doxy is wittier than the man who writes her lines,” exclaimed Blond Wig after bowing to the audience, who applauded him as heartily as they had rewarded Belinda. “And if you and the audience cannot see the jest in a man who writes plays calling himself Will Wagstaffe why, then, you and they are duller than I thought.”
“Enough of this,” whispered Betterton to Cleone as they grappled together in a mock and comic wrestling match. “Improvisation is well enough, and one of Rochester’s Merry Gang interfering with the action on stage may have to be endured, but you need not encourage him.”
“Need I not? But the audience, who is our master, approved.”
“Aye so, but we risk every fool in town wanting to be part of the play.” He turned himself back into Lackwit again in order to declaim in the direction of the pit, “Why, I vow thou art as soft as a very girl, Master Lucius. You need some lessons in hardening thyself.”
“Dost think that thou are the man to give me them, Sir Lackwit?”
The pit roared again. Some of the bolder members threw pennies on to the stage at Belinda’s feet. Blond Wig had produced a fan and waved it languidly in her direction.
“I vow and declare, Hal,” he whispered to Black Wig, “Master Wagstaffe is as bawdily witty as his master, the other Will.”
“And what Will is that, Stair?”
“Why, Shakespeare, man. Will Shakespeare. He who wags the staff. Is all the world as thick as a London fog in winter, these days?”
Black Wig couldn’t think of a witty answer to that. He might be Henry Bennett, m’lord Arlington, King Charles II’s Secretary of State who ruled England, but his wit was long term, carefully thought out, unlike that of his friend Blond Wig, otherwise Sir Alastair Cameron. Stair Cameron was known for his cutting tongue as well as his reputation for courage and contempt for everything and everybody. He was also known for his success with women.
And now, if Lord Arlington knew his man, his latest female target would be the pretty doxy on the stage who was back in skirts again, teasing and tempting Lackwit—as well as every red-blooded man in the audience. Her charms were such that she might even attract the attention of the King himself.
The pretty doxy on the stage was well aware that Blond Wig was making a dead set at her, as the saying went. At the end of the first Act, he bought a posy from a flower girl and tossed it to her as she left the stage.
She tossed it back at him.
In the second Act, he kissed his hand to her whenever the action on stage brought her near him.
Halfway through the third Act, Belinda pretended to woo Lackwit, and to allow him to woo her, her true lover, Giovanni Amoroso, being concealed behind a hedge to enjoy the fun. At the point when Lackwit had worked himself into a lather of desire, Blond Wig drew off one of his perfumed gloves and slung that in Belinda’s direction at the very climax of her scene with Lackwit.
“Why, what have we here?” she extemporised, holding up the glove. “What hath Dan Cupid sent me as a love token?” She sniffed at it. “Fie upon him, it hath a vile stink. He may have it back.”
And she slung it back at Blond Wig, who rose and bowed to her.
M’lord Arlington applauded him vigorously, whispering to his friend as he did so, “The wench will serve us well, will she not? Old Gower hath the right of it again. A pretty wit and a quick one. As quick as thine, Stair, I do declare.”
“But shallow, like all women’s wit, I dare swear. But I agree, she will do as well as another—and better than some. And mayhap she will tell me who Will Wagstaffe is, and where I may find the fellow.”
“Hipped on Wagstaffe, Stair?”
“Aye, hipped on any pretty wit—particularly one of whom I do not know.”
“Make the doxy thine, friend Stair, and she will tell thee all. Look, Lackwit hath learned that he truly lacks wit, and that Amoroso and Belinda are about to sing their love duet to signify that the play is over, and that he was cuckolded before he even wed his Mistress and made her wife!”
The play was, indeed, ending. Belinda was reciting the Epilogue, a poem in which she averred that she had followed the beckoning dream which led towards true love, and might now marry Amoroso.
“Truly a dream, that,” Stair whispered to Arlington. “But not the kind one of which the lady speaks. I can think of no nightmare more troubling than that which ends in marriage.”
The Epilogue over, Mistress Dubois, Betterton, and the pretty boy who played Amoroso linked hands and were bowing to the audience, which was on its feet again, applauding the actors. Blond Wig was shouting huzzahs at Belinda, who refused to look at him.
“To the devil with him,” hissed Belinda, or rather Mistress Cleone Dubois, to Betterton. “He tried to ruin all my best scenes. Another courtier come to entertain himself by destroying us.”
“He got no change from you, Cleone, my pretty dear. On the contrary, your quick wits had them laughing at him as much as you.”
“And who the devil is he? I know his friend, Sir Hal Bennett, late made Lord Arlington, but not the human gadfly in the blond wig.”
Betterton smiled and bowed, his head almost touching his knees before he led the company offstage, before saying, “Sir Alastair, known as Stair Cameron, Baronet. Rochester’s friend—everybody’s friend, aye, and enemy, too, gossip hath it. Avoid him like the plague that hath just left us. He would be no friend of thine, Cleone—or of any woman’s. Mark me this, he will be in the Green Room this evening, to pursue you further.”
“May God forbid,” Cleone shuddered. She trusted no man, least of all those who infested Charles’s court. “I want naught of him.”
But he wasn’t in the Green Room. Sam Pepys was there, and Lord Arlington, who bowed at Cleone and said in a butter-melting voice, “My felicitations, Mistress Dubois. You have grown since I last saw thee at Sir Thomas Gower’s when you were Mistress Wood. A very child, were you not?”
He tittered a little behind a fine white handkerchief edged with lace. “You look about you, mistress. Is it my friend you seek?”
The violet eyes were hard upon him. “Nay, m’lord. Unless it is to teach him manners—if indeed it were possible to teach him anything.”
Sam Pepys, standing by them, gave a jolly guffaw. “Come, come, mistress, you are too harsh. Stair Cameron is a right good fellow.”
Cleone rounded on him, shaking her fan in his direction, Belinda’s fan. She knew who Sam Pepys was. The Secretary to the Navy, a womaniser and a gossip—but there was no harm in him.
“Fie upon you, too, sir. What, I wonder, would you say, if Stair Cameron entered your office and upset the contents of your inkpot on your newly written letter to your master, the King, ruining it? Would you think the destruction of your work a jolly jest to be applauded? For such were the offences he committed against me!”
Lord Arlington clapped his hands together, and even Sam himself joined in the joke. “Why, madam,” m’lord offered, “you are as spirited a lady as you were a lass. I should introduce you to Sir Stair. How the fur and the feathers would fly, for I vow that in spirit you are well matched.”
Cleone stared at him, nothing daunted by his name or his position, something that pleased the man before her mightily. Oh, he had plans for Mistress Wood, also named Mistress Dubois, great plans. And now he could go to Sir Thomas Gower, his spymaster supreme, to tell him that Cleone Dubois was a lass of spirit who would serve them well.
What she said next had him laughing again behind his lace-gloved hand. “For,” smiled Cleone, “it would please me greatly never to see Sir Stair Cameron again, either on stage, or off it. Unless it were to hand him such a congé from a woman as he has never received before. But enough of him. To talk of him wearies me. What thought you of the play, m’lord?”
Graciously, m’lord Arlington told the lady that he had enjoyed it, his smooth face even smoother than usual.
And all the time he was laughing to himself as he thought of the delightful possibility that the spirited lady and her tormentor might soon meet again—and wondered which of them would come off the best, as the fur and the feathers would inevitably fly like the orange, the posy and the perfumed glove!
