Chapter Sixteen
The trees in Saint James’ Park burst into bud and then into bloom. King Street, which passed in front of Sirena’s house, became a well-traveled thoroughfare as spring spun greenly toward summer. The ladies of London dug through their wardrobes for lighter gowns of pastel colors. Seamstresses experienced the usual rush for their handiwork. Coaches were polished to gleaming, their matched equine beasts curried to perfection. London was wearing the mantle of sunlight and flora like a new bonnet, and a sense of celebration freshened the air.
Sirena was becoming well known in aristocratic circles. When Stephan Langdon wasn’t on her arm, it was Tyler Sinclair. Many other prospective suitors sought her company and she often obliged; but when they would promise her their undying love, she would gently and thoroughly put them aside. She had no wish to enter a relationship with any of them. Tyler was a friend and she enjoyed his company; it was strictly a platonic relationship and Tyler never pressed it further. For this, she was grateful. Stephan, on the other hand, was a perfect gallant, but he never insisted on her kisses or to strengthen their companionship. He sometimes seemed intimidated by her, almost cautious, as though a false move on his part would find him cast from her society.
Stephan enjoyed being Sirena’s almost constant escort. His status in the social whirl climbed, and he did not fool himself for a moment that it was his charming self who was welcome at the balls and intimate soirées. It was Sirena and her endorsement by the Baron and Baroness and, of course, her money.
Sirena found herself in demand as every hostess requested her presence whenever they entertained. In return, Sirena repaid their hospitality with lavish balls and elegant dinners that were the envy of the entire city. She spared no expense on food and music. Her gowns were the most stylish and beautiful, and her entertainments gracious without ever being gauche.
Tyler watched her budding romance with Langdon with a cautious eye. He wanted to tell her what he knew about Stephan, but decided against it. Sirena was capable of taking care of herself, and would probably resent his interference.
“Nine more days till Camilla’s wedding,” Tyler moaned through clenched teeth. How was he to attend that bogus affair and behave as though there were never anything between himself and Camilla. For a moment he felt pity for van der Rhys. The poor man was getting it from all ends. Then he experienced a bitter bite of hatred for Regan because he was taking Camilla for his own; would share her bed and know her intimately; would learn to know how satiny those girlishly round arms would feel around his neck; would be offered those smooth, white charms and alluring lips. Tyler still loved her; there was no point in denying it. He was helpless. If his parents ever discovered his youthful marriage, they would disinherit him without a second thought. They loved him; they indulged him in all but this. He knew, without doubt, they meant what they said. Until he reached his majority, there was nothing he could do.
How often he had dreamed of proclaiming to the world that Camilla was his wife and inheritance be damned. Yet, while it would free him from this paralyzing agony of loving her and being unable to claim her, it would also be his total undoing.
The lights on the Thames reflected in the inky water like thousands of fireflies. It was the middle of May and the Royal Flotilla was a highlight of the season. Each year, according to tradition, the King, his Court and invited guests, would gather at the Whitehall Privy Stairs, where hundreds of barges and small craft took on their passengers for a leisurely cruise on the river accompanied to minstrels’ rhymes and music. All along the route torches blazed, guiding the way. On the banks the citizenry gathered en masse for a glimpse of their sovereign and his party. Finally, when the flotilla passed beneath London Bridge, the passengers would disembark for food and drink on the bridge itself and dance to the minstrels’ jaunty tunes.
Because Tyler’s parents, the Baron and Baroness, were abroad in Scotland, he took Sirena to the annual event with their invitations. The night had been warm, yet the air was fresh with the salt breeze from the Channel. King Charles had been most charming to his guests and roamed among them freely, wishing them welcome.
The cruise had been a gay affair and Sirena was still laughing at some ridiculous remark of Tyler’s when they walked along Thames Street to find Tyler’s carriage. The vehicles were lined up and down the thoroughfare, even extending up Bridge Street and onto Fish. It reminded Sirena, suddenly, of the commotion outside the Change where she had very nearly been run down by the mysterious hackney. Even as she thought of it, her blood ran cold and chills coursed up her spine. She had no reason to suspect it had been deliberate, but the occurrence had come back time and again to haunt her dreams.
“Come back here, ye filthy little sniper!” A man’s angry voice rang over the distant celebration coming from London Bridge. Tyler immediately pulled Sirena closer to him, protecting her against an unseen threat. This particular section of London was notorious for beggars and thieves. “Come back here!” the loud masculine voice sounded again.
Without warning, from around the corner of St. Martin’s Lane came a barely distinguishable form, careening at breakneck speed directly toward them. Beneath the light of flaring links, it was only possible to perceive it was a child, tattered and ragged, wild-eyed with terror, running away from a pursuer. Behind the child raced a footman, the gold braid on his livery gleaming, the light glancing off the heavy cudgel he waved in the air. “I’ll get ye, stinking little hellion!”
Unexpectedly, the hurling figure of the child ran directly into Sirena, becoming tangled in her skirt. In that one, brief instant, Sirena looked into the face of a little girl, not more than ten. Frantically, the child tried to disengage herself. Sirena gathered her close, protectively, smelling the rank odor of unwashed hair and filthy rags. The girl looked behind her, shrieking in terror as her pursuer gained ground.
“Please, Mum, let me go! He’ll kill me for sure!”
Looking down, Sirena saw a tangle of curly, brown hair and a thin petite face whose dark, shoe-button eyes were too large for it. Not only was there terror in those eyes, but a stricken expression of mistrust and loneliness, the look of the hunted animal. Twisting in Sirena’s arms, the child was gone as suddenly as she had come, running down the street on tiny feet which were bare to the elements. The liveried footman came abreast of Tyler, the expression on his face vicious.
“Tyler! Stop him!” Sirena shouted. The thought of what this burly, rough-hewn man could do to that fragile child was abhorrent to her.
Instantly, Tyler imprisoned the footman, wrestling him down to the ground. They struggled for a while before the servant realized he was resisting a member of the gentry. The footman offered no further resistance and quickly lay still beneath Tyler’s grasp. “I’m sorry, sir,” he uttered. “You can let me up now.”
When Tyler stood, the footman jumped up and began brushing at his clothes, murmuring over and over again how sorry he was to inconvenience the gentleman.
“That’s not important now,” Sirena said angrily. “I want to know why you were chasing that child?”
The footman stopped what he was doing and said, “I’m sorry to have troubled ye, milady. But the filthy little urchin was hiding in my master’s carriage and cutting the brass buttons off the seat cushions, she was. When I caught her at it, she spit right in me eye! Little trashmonger!” he said scornfully.
“Watch the way you speak to the lady,” Tyler warned.
Immediately, the footman lowered his head. It would never do to go against the gentry, that was a lesson he had learned early in life. A trough boy from the slums of Whitefriars didn’t become footman to a nobleman by bucking the classes.
“And where were you, that the girl was able to slip into the coach?” Tyler asked. “I’d be willing to wager you were visiting a nearby taproom, eh?” From the way the man shifted, Sirena knew Tyler had hit the mark.
“I was feeling a terrible thirst, milord,” the footman excused. “I merely chased the beggar to retrieve the ornaments. I’ve a wife and four young’uns to support. Them buttons are worth a half-year’s wages! My master won’t be pleased, sir, not pleased at all,” he whined, glancing off in the direction the child had taken.
“Give him five pounds, Tyler, that should more than cover the cost. I won’t have him chasing after the poor little thing when we turn our backs.”
Tyler reached into his pocket and withdrew a gold sovereign. “The lady’s being much too generous with you,” he scowled. “I, for one, would have your master discover what a sluggard you are. Here,” he said, pressing the coin into the footman’s palm. “Now, be on your way and leave the mite be. After you’ve seen to new buttons, there’s more than enough left for your trouble.”
“Yes, sir. Thank ye, milady,” he stammered obsequiously, as he bowed and turned off in the direction of his coach on St. Martin’s Lane.
In the Sinclair coach Tyler watched Sirena. Evidently, the scene with the little girl and the footman had upset her. He had seen a bit of the tiger in her as she protected the waif from the footman.
Sirena knew Tyler was concerned by this sudden silence of hers. Yet, she could not help herself. Somehow the dark, bright eyes of the small child became confused with her memories of Mikel. Mikel, her baby. Beyond the fact they were both children, there was no similarity between the gaunt, dirty beggar with her springy mop of dark curls and the plump, precocious, fair-haired Mikel. Yet, the waif had struck a long, silent chord of motherhood in Sirena and brought with it all the pain of her loss and the need to feel a child near her once more.
She squeezed her eyes shut and barely controlled the shudders of sorrow reborn as she remembered the touch of her son’s arms about her neck, the brightness of his smile, the warm, fragrant scent of his hair and the smoothness of his plump cheek beneath her lips. Her heart cried out, her body rebelled at this hollowness, her breasts craved the feel of a child’s head resting against it in sleep.
Thankfully, the carriage pulled into the drive; and, before Tyler could disembark and help her down onto the cobbled drive, Sirena tore out of the vehicle and ran past him into the house. The tears had welled up within her and threatened to bellow forth in a scream of anguish. Up the stairs she raced, nearly tripping on her skirts, twisting an ankle, nearly toppling over on her head, till she reached the solitude of her room where she could cry out her rage and enmity to the fates who had taken Mikel.
Jacobus settled himself comfortably beneath the sycamore tree in the garden and watched through rum-soaked eyes the progress the workmen were making. He wondered vaguely if he should offer to help. One look at the bottle clutched in his hand and his decision was made. Why work when he could drink? Completely satisfied with his decision, he brought the jug to his lips and guzzled greedily.
The sound of furious cursing woke the seaman from his half-drunken sleep. His hand still clutched around the handle of the jug, he opened a bleary eye, and grimaced. Hell’s bells, now what? He forced his other eye to open and looked around. Was it too much to ask to get a little sleep? An unsavory lot if he ever saw one, he thought virtuously. Paid to work and they spent their time arguing. He vowed to bring the matter to the Capitana’s attention as soon as he could get his land legs to working.
He was drunk, he decided, and this was no time to go to the Capitana with anything. For now all he could do was sit and hold his hands to his head to ease the pounding between his ears. Dastardly lot of men. A motion in the thick yew bushes to his left drew his attention and he squinted to see if it was Frau Holtz on his trail with another of her make-believe errands. Ever since she told him what her first name was he knew she meant business. She was not the type of person ever to reveal that fact unless she planned to marry him.
He blinked his watery eyes again. It couldn’t be, he must be seeing things, he mumbled to himself as he rubbed at his eyes to clear his vision. Dick Blackheart! Next thing he would be seeing was flying angels with harps. The Frau had warned him that when he started seeing things it meant his mind was being eaten by the liquor. What did a crazy old woman know about visions and rum?
Struggling to his knees, his hands still clutching the bottle, he tried to creep nearer to the hedges. It was Dick Blackheart and he would wager his drink against anything anyone wanted to put up against it that he was right. “Damn and blast,” he grumbled. “You there!” he yelled. “What’s your business here?”
The figure looked up, then quietly withdrew into the thicket of greenery. When Jacobus opened his eyes again the man had disappeared. He glared at the rum bottle and then tossed it into the hedge. If seeing Blackheart was what rum was going to do to him he would give it up. From now on it was the love of a good woman and strong black coffee. He grinned to himself as he cradled his head in the crook of his arm and was asleep instantly.
In the meantime, Sirena walked beside Frau Holtz, nodding approvingly at the preparations behind her mansion for the party she was holding that evening. The previous owners of the dwelling had seen to it that the grounds were a tribute to horticulture, and Sirena had hired several proficient gardeners to foul-low suit.
The weather had held and the lush grasses underfoot were dry. Early spring blooms had burst into color in neat borders surrounding carefully pruned shrubbery. Michaelmas daisies had been brought in, it being too early in the season for their delicate simplicity, and were bowing gracefully in the gentle breezes. The fruit trees and ornamentals sported new green foliage; but most spectacular of all was a strange blossomed tree which one of the gardeners had told her was a raintree. Its leaves were like feathers of spun gold and it held and reflected the sunlight like the armor of a warrior god. The bottom branches dipped in the attitude of a swan, and it was beneath this spectacular sentinel Sirena had ordered the construction of a dais for the musicians.
Long tables covered with exquisite lace cloths were placed in a row alongside the house. Later they would be laden with pheasant, turkey, breast of lamb, racks of veal and succulent hams. “I did as you asked and told the cooks to flavor the sweets with nutmeg, Mevrouw,” Frau Holtz smiled. “The Mynheer will think he is back on Java. Even the decorations you have chosen will bring him back to the East Indies. Chinese paper lanterns, the flowers, even the musicians you’ve hired.”
“And you’ll never know how difficult it was, Frau Holtz, to find them. Jacobus was the one who suggested trying the wharf for ships coming in from the Indies. He says most sailors are fair musicians. Luckily, a ship arrived carrying several Javanese sailors and two from Bali. I should think their performance will offer a touch of the exotic to the affair.”
“Not to mention making the Mynheer homesick,” Frau Holtz snorted, plainly indicating she did not think Regan worth the trouble. “All this foolishness! If the people in England would put their mind to work instead of play there wouldn’t be so many beggars roaming the streets. All I ever hear is parties, balls, dinners! And now this!”
Sirena laughed. “I take it you don’t approve of masquerade balls?”
“Bah! As if these people need the excuse to pretend to be something they’re not! And what will the Mynheer appear as? A sheep? And that child he intends to marry, will she dress as a shepherdess? Bah!” Suddenly Frau Holtz was sorry she had mentioned Regan. Sirena’s eyes took on a pained expression and the anticipation of being in Regan’s company showed in the strained lines surrounding her mouth.
The smile left Sirena’s face. “Regan will marry in just six days,” she said softly. “I thought for a time he wouldn’t go through with it, but he is. I’ve heard of the lavish preparations being made for their wedding. It’s said no expense is being spared. Tell me, Frau Holtz, how can I attend this ceremony and behave as though it meant nothing to me? I’ve lost him completely,” she whispered, “forever.”
The old housekeeper’s face was bitter. “You will do what you must do. Just as you have always done.”
Tears glistened in Sirena’s bottle-green eyes. “It was different in the past. I had a hate and vengeance in me then. It was what kept me alive. And when Mikel was born, I had my babe to clasp to my breast and give me comfort. Now it’s all gone and I have nothing.”
“You will always have me, Mevrouw,” the elderly woman said haltingly, trying to keep the tears from her voice. “There are still comforts I can bring you.”
“You are my friend, and whatever would I do without you and Jacobus and the others,” Sirena said softly. “Frau Holtz, I’ve been thinking. After Regan’s wedding would you like to return to Batavia? Once the marriage takes place I will know there is nothing left for me here.”
“Mevrouw, I am an old woman, but I know that it is not possible to run away from life. You’re only tormenting yourself. What will you do in Batavia? There’s nothing there for you now.”
“I could help rebuild the island. There is still much to be done since havoc struck when the volcanoes erupted. But, you’re correct, there’s nothing there anymore. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I’m a wanderer without roots, no ties. What good is all the wealth in the world if there is no one to share it with? What use beauty and jewels if there is only emptiness? Even Caleb has deserted me. He has not even come to see me once since I last saw him in Spain. I know he’s here in England. Jacobus told me the Rana is berthed at the wharf.”
“Perhaps he feels he would only upset you by visiting here. Don’t doubt that Caleb loves you, Mevrouw,” the housekeeper soothed.
“Yes,” Sirena sighed dejectedly. “After the miserable way I treated him aboard the Rana, I can’t really blame him for staying away.” Suddenly, Sirena gripped Frau Holtz’s wrist, a world of emotion brimming from her eyes. “All I ever wanted was for Regan to love me! When he needed me, after Mikel died, did I really turn from him?”
Frau Holtz gathered Sirena close to her, patting her gently, clucking soothing noises. “Hush, Mevrouw, if you did fail him, the same could be said for the Mynheer.”
“How can I face Regan again? Each time I see him, my heart breaks all over again!” The scene in Regan’s room when she had waited for him, bubbled up within her. She knew if she gave in to her desolation, it would destroy her, resign her forever to a place where life had no meaning and the needs of the heart were buried beneath a legion of regrets.
Frau Holtz felt Sirena’s spine stiffen beneath her ministering hands. And when she looked into her Mevrouw’s face, her generous, mobile mouth was pinched with determination and the emerald eyes were flashing with resolution. “Ja, this is better. Tonight you must be in his company and your paths will often cross. You will not wear your heart on your sleeve; you will keep up this charade as long as you must!” The housekeeper’s voice became gruff as she led her mistress back to the house. “A little nap, you will take, to make your eyes sparkle.”
Through the house and up to her room, Sirena walked on leaden feet. She lay staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep, and her thoughts strayed far away to another time and another place. Regan’s face flashed before her, and she threw up her arm to cover her eyes as though warding off a blow.
Fitfully, she thrashed about on the bed. Her slender arm lashed out and knocked the lamp from the nearby nightstand and the tinkle of the shattering glass reminded her of that night, long ago, when Regan had stormed into her bedroom.
It had been after a party at the Spaniard’s, Chaezar Alvarez. He had come to her door, demanding to be admitted, demanding an answer to his question. “Is Chaezar Alvarez your lover?”
“I refuse to answer you, Regan, you’re drunk!”
Regan’s face had shown his uncertainty. Then he reached out and pulled her against him. “I want you,” he had murmured huskily, his lips seeking hers.
Sirena had fought his embrace, but her struggles were useless against his powerful arms. Ignoring her protests, he had picked her up in his arms and cradled her head to his chest, all the while whispering soft, indistinct phrases.
Almost tenderly, he had laid her on the bed and began to remove her gown. Head reeling, Sirena gasped. “Please, Regan, don’t do this. Don’t do this to either of us. We won’t be able to face each other in the morning.”
His lips had found hers again; his hands worked at her gown. Lost in the moment, Sirena could only surrender to the emotions engulfing her. All the anger and bitterness was forgotten and she had felt herself in the cabin of her ship, the Rana, surrounded by the isolating fog. “Regan, stop!” she had cried hoarsely, pushing him away from her as she rolled across the bed to escape him. He said nothing, his eyes said it all. She was his wife and he meant to have her.
Drunkenly, he had stumbled toward her. She knew if he got his hands on her she would be powerless against him. She had backed away, groping behind her for a weapon to stave him off. Her hand had closed over a silver-backed hairbrush. “Don’t come any closer, Regan,” she threatened.
In the end Sirena had found herself once again on the bed. She had lain there wild-eyed, anticipating his next move. And Regan, still glaring at her, had knocked the glass chimney from the bedside lamp and extinguished the flame with the palm of his hand.
He had come to her, locking her kicking legs between his knees. He had torn the clothes from her body, leaving her naked. Sirena remembered the feel of the hard network of muscles beneath his sun-ravished back.
Despite her struggles, his hand had grazed her body, his fingers had woven in her hair, and his lips had sought hers, parting them and seeking out the warm recesses of her mouth.
His kisses had covered her lips, her cheeks, her eyes, her throat. In spite of herself, Sirena had been aware of a building response. This was Regan, her mind had cried. Regan who had taught her about lovemaking aboard the gently rocking frigate. She had closed her eyes and imagined she could smell the thick, pungent salt tang that rolls in with a sequestering fog.
Like the sea, Sirena had felt her resistance ebb to be replaced by a surging tide of passion. Her lips had answered his, her body had arched against him. She had pulled his head down and pressed her warm, passion-bruised lips to his.
Even now, years later, Sirena could taste his mouth against hers, feel his hands on her body, relive the response he evoked in her. And when she reached out her arms to bring her lover closer, the pain of loneliness clutched her heart like sharp talons.
Frau Holtz looked in on Sirena and found her preparing her hair. The Mevrouw’s eyes were wounded and hurt. The sparkle she had hoped to see was missing. “Are you ready for your gown, Mevrouw? Do you need help with the fasteners?” The woman hoped her voice was light and cheerful.
“Yes,” Sirena nodded dully. Her reminiscing had left her drained of spirit and life.
Frau Holtz removed several wide petticoats from Sirena’s wardrobe. “Will you need three or four, Mevrouw?”
“None,” Sirena stated simply, steeling herself for the Frau’s disapproval.
“Your gown has its own petticoats attached,” the housekeeper declared confidently.
“No, as a matter of fact, it doesn’t,” Sirena said, “and I don’t want to hear any of your objections. Just help me dress and not a word out of you! Now, if you’ll come over here and help me with the pins for my hair.”
Frau Holtz snapped her mouth shut. It was rarely the Mevrouw worked herself into a black mood like this, but at those times it could be outright dangerous to displease her. If the old woman didn’t want to find herself back aboard the Sea Spirit, cooking and cleaning for the crew, she knew she’d better do as she was told. It was also possible to make an excuse that she was needed elsewhere in the house, but her inborn curiosity prevented her from doing so. If the Mevrouw was up to something outrageous, it would be best to know it from the first.
Sirena sat at her vanity table, hairbrush in hand, sweeping the bristles through her long, thick tresses. When Frau Holtz picked up the curling iron to heat it in the lamp’s flame, Sirena said tersely, “We won’t be needing that.” She brushed her hair severely away from her face, catching it at the back of her crown and tying it with the Frau’s help. Dipping her fingers in the pomade jar, she rubbed it vigorously between her palms and smoothed it over her hair, the light oil bringing out glistening blue-black highlights. The remaining tail of hair was twisted into a full coil at the back of her head and secured with pins. Into it she pierced long, decorative sticks with jeweled tips.
“Mevrouw,” the Frau whispered, “you’ve done your hair like a Chinee!”
“Chinese,” Sirena corrected. “If I’ve done the gardens to remind Regan of the exotic Indies, why should it end there? He always had a taste for Oriental women and I intend to whet his appetite. Now hold your tongue, Frau Holtz, and help me.”
From the jars and pots on the dressing table, Sirena produced a vial of Indian kohl and a tiny, pointed brush. With it, she lined her eyes with delicate, thin strokes, sweeping the ends out toward her temples. When she had finished, the effect was startling. The natural tilt of her eyes was enhanced and produced the oblique slant of the Asian eye. A blending of powders, a touch of Spanish paper to her high cheekbones and a gloss over her lips created the effect she sought. The delicacy and piquancy of her features lent themselves perfectly to her artistry.
Frau Holtz was stunned at the reflection in the mirror. “Mevrouw, you look like ... like—”
“Stop stammering. I know what I look like. It’s just as I intended. I look like the Eurasian girls in Clarice’s brothel on Java. Since Regan was such a loyal patron of that establishment, I thought he would appreciate this small touch of home.” Sirena stood and walked away from the vanity table, unable to meet Frau Holtz’s gaze. From the interior of the clothespress she withdrew the gown Mrs. Wittcomb had created for her. The serpentine silk overlayed a heavier, dazzling green satin. When the old housekeeper saw the gown Sirena had commissioned, she gasped.
“Mevrouw! What can you be thinking of? You’ll be a scandal!”
“I’ll live with it!” Sirena said sarcastically.
“You’ll live to regret it, you mean!” the Frau shot back.
“Whatever. Now bring me the new slippers I ordered from the cobbler. Remember, I told you to hold your tongue, I meant it. Hurry.” Even as she spoke, she cast off her dressing gown, revealing she wore nothing beneath it save long silk stockings held up by diamond-studded garters. Frau Holtz nearly swooned and was about to ask where Sirena’s chemise and underwear were but cautioned herself not to comment.
The shoes the housekeeper found, still in their wrapper, matched the gown and sported ridiculously high heels. “You’ll break your neck for certain in these,” she muttered.
“That’s my worry, not yours,” Sirena answered as she slid the shoes on her feet.
“Harrmph! You’ll see over every man’s head! You—” A wicked look from Sirena snapped the Frau’s mouth shut.
Sirena held her arms up so the Frau could slip the gown on. The bodice fit snugly, the wide, open neckline dipping to a point between her breasts, revealing their lush fullness. The sleeves were long and tight, showing the smooth, round curve of her shoulders and the elegant length of her limbs. The long, narrow, sheathlike skirt hugged her body and looked wet, pouring over her hips and down her legs like the tail of a mermaid. The hem in front was slashed and cut away so, when she walked, the length of her silk-clad leg was exposed halfway up her thigh. Frau Holtz gulped. “Mevrouw! The flesh above your stocking shows when you move!”
“It does, doesn’t it,” Sirena said casually, wondering where she would get the courage to appear like this in public. Refusing to dwell on it, she reached for the jewel box on her dressing table and opened it to reveal the royal dragon pendant. When she slipped it over her neck, the jade rested high on her breasts, drawing the eye to her seductive cleavage. In her ears she hung dangling jade earrings which accentuated her long neck and heightened the ebony of her hair. When she turned to Frau Holtz for a comment, she thought for a moment the woman was going to throw herself against the door to prevent her from leaving. Instead, the Frau pursed her lips and looked down her nose, scowling.
“After tonight, we’ll be leaving this damnable country sooner than I imagined! You won’t be able to show your face after you make your appearance in ... in that!”