May 24, 1843
St. James’s Park
London, England
If Twining’s Tea Shop still stood, its doors would face the street—and the nightmare of the sidewalk—at 216 Strand.
As the horses clip-clopped their coach along the Thames, Elizabeth pictured the layout of the streets and the shop mere blocks away.
Even a decade later, they were burned upon her memory.
The sidewalk with cobblestones was just as uneven, the shop windows just as fanciful as they were so many years before. She remembered the snow. The lamppost. Even the younger version of the stoic viscount who with Franz sat opposite her on the coach bench.
Keaton peered out the glass window at the Thames and then the mass of foliage as they rolled into St. James’s Park, uttering not a word. Franz on the other hand commented on the fine array of carriages moving about in the park and on the ladies who were plucked and primped like peacocks left too long in the sun. My, but he was snobbish at times. And translucent. And for the life of Elizabeth, oblivious to the tumult of thoughts running through the minds of the rest in the coach. Her ma-ma scheduling appointments and calculating pounds in her mind. Keaton drifting from staring out the window to glancing at her and back again, offering only the occasional reply out of propriety. And Elizabeth barreling down into a tunnel of confusion at it all.
“Do you not agree, Elizabeth?”
Always to be counted upon, her mother twittered in conversation, the question a nervous discourse that snapped Elizabeth back to attention.
“Forgive me, Ma-ma. I am afraid you find me lost in the delights of our surroundings just now,” she whispered. “What was it you said?”
“Lady Davies was inquiring after the excellence of the view,” Keaton said, his voice low and weighted but not unkind.
“The view?” Elizabeth nodded, a trifle lost under the weight of his look. “Yes, it is lovely. Is your home near here, Lord Huxley?”
“Not far,” he offered. Slow. Cool. Matter-of-fact.
“It has been quite some time since we have passed these sights.” Ma-ma reached over to pat Elizabeth’s gloved hand even as she looked to the men. “How do you find London, Viscount? Oh, but then you have just returned, haven’t you? It must be tiresome to you by now, traveling back and forth on the horrid road to East Suffolk. No doubt you shall wish to take up residence here when you and Elizabeth are wed. But we must find an objective point of view. Mr. Winterhalter—is London not a wonder of innovation and pleasure?”
“Pleasure? On the contrary, I have been here many times, Lady Davies. I find the streets of London bore me to tears. Inside the palace? That is the real wonder. The queen has nothing but the epitome of elegance to boast of. Crimson carpets. Gilding in the most exquisite designs. Buffets of sugared plums, tarts, Cornish hens—all of the delicacies of taste one could imagine. But outside?” He wrinkled his nose as he gazed at a carriage, a man in top hat and a lady cloaked in haughty puff-up as they passed by. “Reprehensible wolves. As you stated to me once, Lady Elizabeth . . . I believe the air is a little weak.” He smiled, a faint shadow overtaking his lips. “Let us believe in the presence of Her Majesty there will be an abundance of elegance—all we will capture with a brush in the most animated fervor. Ja?”
Ma-ma cut in, her zeal an expected nuisance. “Quite right, sir! And then there are the parks. The opera. The theaters . . . every possible amusement and folly a guest could wish for, that is, if one had a single thought to leave the elegance of the palace. I wonder whether we should venture outside at all. My dear Elizabeth is not used to the harshness of city air.”
“Ma-ma, I believe you forget I used to visit the mill with Pa-pa. Was not Manchester City as industrial, as forward-thinking, and as bustling as London? And I suffered no ill effects from the city then.”
Keaton perked up, his attention drawn from the window like a shot. “You accompanied the earl to his mill?”
Elizabeth nodded, thinking of the puffs of cotton on the air. The workers. The horrid raking coughs that echoed through the mill floor. And the sight of children scuttling along the rows between chewing cast-iron machines. “I did on countless occasions. It was to learn of industry, but I’m afraid I learned more of the plight of the working class than I’d expected.”
“Yes, of course. Elizabeth wished to learn of the industry she’d have brought to a marriage. A pity the mill closed down or you’d have had another venture to entertain, Viscount,” Ma-ma purred. Approving, though she hadn’t a clue as to the direction Elizabeth wished to take the conversation.
“And did you sketch at this mill, Lady Elizabeth?”
Leave it to the artist in the coach to keep his mind glued to a singular love.
“I did, Mr. Winterhalter. But industry is not the same as the artistry London boasts. Theaters, for example. There must be quite a society of theatrical establishments in London.” Elizabeth looked to Keaton, noticing the tiny flinch in his jaw. “Do you enjoy the theater, Lord Huxley?”
“Not particularly.”
Elizabeth tilted her head, questioning in body before her mind could stop her. Had she heard correctly? “Not at all? How so?”
“I haven’t any great scheme to take in a show while we’re here, unless of course you should wish it, Lady Elizabeth. And then I am but your servant in such matters. But as a pastime, no. I do not enjoy theater in the least.”
“You never go?”
“No,” he said, firm as the ground beneath the coach. “I have no desire to.”
“That is truth. Huxley allows no distractions—at least before you became his betrothed, Lady Elizabeth. The theater is an idle curiosity in his mind compared to matters of substance. Why, he’d much prefer a dreary dining room of distinguished wolves with all their dreary conversation. He indulges an acquaintance with the prime minister himself, taking up matters of politics. And the common good. And the plight of the Englishman sentenced to a cruel fate in a poorhouse. Or a Manchester mill, perhaps? Phish . . . Not colorful talk at all.”
The discourse on the theater and the seemingly harmless newspaper articles she’d found burning on her mind, Elizabeth looked down at her gown. The low-pointed waist and bell skirt were appropriate, and the deep-royal paisley was quite in fashion. It would be quite serviceable for greeting a queen. But a thought struck, and she seized the moment to ask, “Dear Ma-ma. Forgive my capriciousness. I lost sight of your request when we left Parham Hill. I am a wicked daughter!”
“What’s this? My request, dear?”
“Of course—that I visit the dressmaker to have a suitable gown made for the audience with Her Majesty. I fear you are but right. This old frock is quite unsuitable. I should hate to be a matter of disappointment to you.”
“Oh dear! Why yes, of course. But you needn’t put pain to it. We are in London—the city of most fashionable endeavors. It is not Paris, of course, but I believe we can solve this problem without the least disruption to your audience with Her Majesty. How delighted I am that you’ve changed your mind! And all this time I believed you to be indifferent on such matters.”
Keaton glanced up, his brow tipped a hair. “As did I.”
“Not at all, Lord Huxley. You’ve generously offered a dress allowance, which I rebuffed in error. I wonder if we mightn’t venture to one such shop or another—at least to inquire after whether there might be anything suitable to be fitted for. And if we haven’t time to have one made, perhaps there will be something put by in one of the shops. I’m confident we can find something to make up for this oversight and bring your household honor when I do bow before the queen.”
“It must be yellow.” Franz smiled and winked with a wickedly delighted bent. “She is quite the flower in buttercup, Huxley.”
Keaton ignored his friend and the ill-timed tease. “Of course, Lady Elizabeth. Once we reach my home and you’ve had time to rest, we may venture out at your leisure. The coach is at your disposal.”
“Oh no, I would but sooner see us tossed in the Thames than to sully your time with the prime minister for the likes of ribbons and bows. How tiresome for you, Viscount. I assume you have an audience with the prime minister, on matters of Parliament perhaps?”
Elizabeth bristled a touch inside when Keaton reacted to the sugar she was coating onto her words, as if he knew better than to find it authentic. But for Ma-ma to acquiesce, she must play the part to the best of her ability and looked to be succeeding, as Ma-ma appeared utterly delighted in the turn of events.
“Perhaps, at some point.”
“And there we are. Ma-ma and I will be quite content to see about procuring a suitable dress, without tarnishing one moment of your stay with such inconsequential matters as female frivolities. I shall enjoy the diversion immensely, and when we are summoned, we will arrive at the queen’s dining table with every possible luxury in a dress that you can afford, sir.”
Franz flipped the talk from the tiresome exchange to another sight out the window, drawing attention to a lady’s fashionable hat as they rode by. He’d switched back to jovial conversation, noticing hue and shape, commenting on the way the light trickled through space between the trees to illuminate the artificial bird flapping fake wings on her crown.
Elizabeth might have thought nothing was amiss in those moments as the carriage pulled to a stop at the front stoop of a Georgian townhome in crisp, gleaming white. Windows boasting high arches looked down on the street. And ivy bedecked with glorious red and pink roses climbed up to dress the sky.
Alighting from the coach proved to be quite a production, with greetings from the butler and housekeeper and the curtseys of maids in a neat little line as Keaton presented his bride-to-be. But as he reached for her hand to help her from the carriage, something shifted. He’d removed his glove so his fingertips held hers and lingered a breath or two longer than necessary for her to find her footing on the sidewalk. And he kept his fingers on hers. Bold. Deliberate. As the service staff bustled around them, and as Ma-ma and Franz broke away to direct the activity in concern for their own trunks and the unfortunate outcome of wrinkling should any unnecessary jostling take place.
Keaton held fast, gray depths with a jagged line of gold searching her face, ignoring everything in that moment but her.
In a gaze far more open than she’d expected, he sought connection somehow, as if he was not afraid to hide his eyes from her this time. As if they both recalled the same London connection and that was why, all these years later, he wouldn’t do her the disservice of trying to hide it now.
“Forgive me,” Keaton whispered, as if holding her hand too long had been the trigger of an apology.
But she knew better. They both did. For in the depths of those eyes she’d hated for so long, she read the astonishing emotion of unmasked pain. And an apology for an offense she couldn’t determine the root of.
Whatever the moment had been, it was whisked away on a blink. Keaton released her, breezed up the steps, and disappeared into the depths of his London world, leaving her shocked and breathless on a sidewalk for the second time in her life.
* * *
May 26, 1843
Drury Lane
London, England
For days Elizabeth had been up to her eyebrows in satins of rich royal blue and cottons in bright primrose and chartreuse, in addition to the elegant simplicity of ivories in wool, linen, lace, and silk that felt like water to the touch—all of the fabrics in reams so that they might choose whatever tickled their fashion fancy most.
Ma-ma wasted no time in summoning the carriage the moment they’d settled in Keaton’s townhome. Poor, wretched horses—they’d had a rest of only minutes before they were off to cart them away again, seeking out the most fashionable spots in the heart of Mayfair and Covent Garden and venturing to shop after shop for four days in succession.
Most recently they’d stopped at a two-story establishment the name of which she couldn’t hope to remember, with high ceilings plastered over with gold rosettes in evenly placed domes, street-side windows that stretched two stories tall with displays of chapeaus in pinks and lavenders for spring, and an interior that looked as though it had spawned an army of children in brocade, crinoline, and lace on all surfaces.
Elizabeth submitted as best she could to being plucked and pulled, measured and fitted for an endless wardrobe of fashions fit for a queen, always smiling but watching for that slim moment of time in which she might slip away to the grand Theatre Royal they’d passed a block down on Drury Lane. Questions plagued her about the inconsistency in Keaton’s character—particularly why he wasn’t forthright about his connection to the theater.
A stack of crinoline skirts and gowns of all manner of pattern was fluffed on the counter at her side, creating a wave of perfume in the air when it was set down.
“Elizabeth, dear. Which one do you prefer? Or perhaps more than one . . . ?” Ma-ma’s fingertips already trekked a journey through the pile like an expert tracker.
“I’d thought yellow, Ma-ma.”
“Yellow? Indeed.” She laughed, tossing whites and blush pinks and ivory tones about like blankets of snow. “Why not one of the new colors? Look at this sapphire!”
She held the striped blue up to Elizabeth’s collarbone, then laid the fabric over her shoulder and nodded. “This is far more suited to your coloring. We’ll take a dress length and a half, and then let’s see what we’d have you do with it.”
“I should think yellow, Ma-ma.” Elizabeth swallowed hard, knowing she hadn’t a true care for whatever hues they walked out with. “It is the viscount’s preferred color.”
Ma-ma froze, began a slow nod that built to an eager one, and turned to the shopkeeper. “My daughter is right, madame. The viscount does favor yellow. I’ve heard that in conversation. Pastel . . . Gold. Or buttercup, perhaps? Did not Mr. Winterhalter mention that when we were in the carriage?” She flitted behind the counter like she was the owner, then disappeared behind a curtained doorway, her voice trailing off into the depths of the modiste’s world. “What do you have in a deep saffron satin for evening . . . ?”
Elizabeth tugged the striped sapphire from her shoulder and laid it over the counter, and as the other shopkeepers bustled to find hats in every shade of sunshine imaginable, she slipped through the front doors.
The street was alive with carriages and drivers and working lads bustling about in tweed suits and woolen caps. A repair crew labored about a hole in the street. Shoeshines worked on the sidewalks, polishing gentlemen’s boots until they shone like mirrors. And little scamps wove in and out of the crowd, pickpocketing the wealthy perhaps and running off to enjoy their spoils on a different side of town. A nearby bookshop boasted posters on a brick wall—Charles Dickens back in form!—indicating that the famous author had lately returned from an American tour and was penning a ghost story of Christmas tradition that would be available closer to the season—Post orders now! It predicted a rousing success of the author’s next penned work before a page of it had been printed.
Elizabeth hadn’t any luck attempting entry by the front doors of the other theaters she’d stopped at, so she kept a keen eye on the side of the multistoried Georgian theater, watching what appeared to be a stage door on the corner of the bustling Catherine Street.
With a quick breath and a confident air that said, Of course I belong in a theater. Whyever would I not? Elizabeth eased through the door after a gentleman had stepped out.
A man in a red vest with gold pinstriping, with thinning salt-and-pepper hair and an impressively groomed mustache, bent over a wooden crate, then rose carefully, as though his back had a crook that had worsened with age and a lifetime of backstage theater work. He took a candle knife from his pocket, scraped the wax from an iron wall sconce, and replaced the melted candlestick with a fresh one.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Oh, miss,” he said, not with a curt tone but certainly one of surprise. He gazed beyond her, finding no one else in the shadows.
Yes, yes. I haven’t a husband. Not a father or a lady-in-waiting either.
It’s just me, and I haven’t time to dicker about it.
“Are you lost? The ladies’ services are just down the hall—”
“No. Thank you. I’m looking for a . . .” She paused, memory tripping over which name to choose out of the ones she’d committed to memory in the viscount’s study. “I’m looking for someone who may work here. A Thomas Whittle?”
The man was quite unaffected. “No, miss. Isn’t a name known around here. Might I ask if you’re lookin’ after the owner?”
“The theater owner . . .” She raised her chin. Confident. Clearheaded. “Yes. Of course. I’m seeking the owner. His name? My apology—I’ve stopped in to inquire after a business matter, and I seem to have misplaced his name.”
“It’s Mr. Churchill, miss.”
Elizabeth nodded, brightening with a smile that would encourage the tale to keep on its present course.
“Yes. Of course. Mr. Churchill. That’s his name. I need to speak with Mr. Churchill, please. Is he here?”
“Oh, he’s always here. Churchill doesn’t go out much.”
The man set the extra candlesticks and knife in the belly of the worn wooden box, wiped his palms against each other, and held an arm out for her to follow down a red-carpeted hall to an open area. The hall was a bit dark and grainy to look at, but it was better than standing in a back hall with no option but to be ushered back outside.
“This way, miss.”
Backstage, sets and ropes and wooden backdrops were piled against a high brick wall. A workman bustled by, calling up to a man on scaffolding. He tossed a coil of rope to the floor and hurried on his way without noticing them. And then, breathless, Elizabeth stepped out onstage.
The man led her across what seemed like miles of polished wood flooring, with gaslights flickering on the side walls and an entire auditorium of plush seats and empty aisles—four stories of balcony space for London’s greatest plays to debut before crowds of thousands.
“’Tis the first London theater with gaslighting innovation throughout the entire building—save for the actors’ corridor, which we keep up wit’, as it saves a pretty penny to light with candles. Quite an expense. But this view is worth it, no?”
“I believe it is, sir. Very worth it.”
“Your husband has never brought you here then?”
He chuckled while he led her down the stairs to the center aisle, as if he had a secret delight in asking a question he must have known the answer to.
She straightened her spine. “No. Not yet. I haven’t had the pleasure.”
He laughed again, under his breath. “Perhaps you need to find a real husband first?”
Elizabeth walked along behind, holding her skirt a shade higher off the ankle, in case she had to make a run for it if her inquiry went poorly. Who knew where he was leading her? Being at the ready was wise. “I’m not certain that’s any of your affair, sir.”
“No. ’Tis not. But I assure you that none round here care to meddle too much in affairs that aren’t our own. We theater crowd don’t care much for backstory. It’s what happens under the lights and on the stage that matters most. So if’n you see fit to nose about the back halls and tell a tale to gain audience with our Mr. Churchill . . . well then, I thought you might like the grand tour. You might be a storyteller yourself, eh?”
Heavens. What was she to say to that brash?
“Just through here, miss.”
They came to a hall—the entry by the look of it, with the grand portico on Catherine Street shadowing the front through the windows. The central staircase was nearly as wide as the stage itself, with gold spindles and chandeliers dripping teardrops of crystal from lofty arched ceilings. The man brought her to an alcove tucked behind velvet curtains and a frosted glass door that read Churchill in stark block letters.
He tipped an imaginary hat and smiled under that trimmed mustache as he tapped the glass.
“Enter,” came the bark from inside.
“I’ll just be out front, miss, should you need an escort to see you safely back to the street.”
Whatever the man had thought of her or the mystery of her obviously manufactured story, Elizabeth had somehow managed to win favor with him. She smiled and nodded, turning her hand to the brass knob.
She hung in the doorway, waiting to be acknowledged.
“What is it?”
Mr. Churchill was no stodgy old thespian, attracted to hard drink and harder living. It was what her mother had always said with a lip curled in disdain—it was proper to wear an appropriate gown and attend a show on occasion, but never, ever was one to associate with the likes of the theater crowd. It just wasn’t done. They were the absolute degenerates of society’s bottommost rung. But the picture Elizabeth had built in her mind was one of an underworld character with a toady smile, a smelly cigar, and perhaps the most uncultured of sensibilities.
Not so of the gentleman before her.
He was young—entirely too young to own a grand theater. He mightn’t have had but ten years on her at the most. But he seemed at home in his hideaway.
A starched shirt, black satin tie, and double-breasted waistcoat of red to match the velvet in the entry hall pegged him as a gentleman of means. Honey-brown hair tipped over his forehead as if a touch of him liked the unruly side, and he looked down a pert nose, with eyes of what color she didn’t know—just scribbling something with fountain pen to paper without care that a woman perched in his doorway.
Elizabeth cleared her throat and he looked up, a slight air of impatience sneaking out through a grimace. “Who are you?”
“I am—” Oh dear. She hadn’t thought of that. Elizabeth couldn’t give her real name. And couldn’t very likely tie anything to the viscount.
The clock was ticking on her story.
Think, Elizabeth. Think.
“. . . Mrs. Eleanor Davies.”
He paused for a breath, then replaced his pen in the wooden holder on the desk with marked intention and stared back. “Mrs. Davies, is it? How may I help you?”
“I’m sorry to trouble you, sir. But I am in a hurry, so I’ll get to the point. I’m looking for an employee of yours—or someone who may have been employed by this theater some years ago.”
“The gentleman’s name?”
“Thomas Whittle.”
“Thomas Whittle, you say?” His eyes narrowed a cinch. He stood, taking his time about slipping shirtsleeves into his coat. “And why would you believe Thomas Whittle would be employed at this establishment?”
“I’m not certain he is. I’m seeking a gentleman who may have had a business association with someone close to my family, and all I know as of yet is a name and that he may have worked in London theater at one time.” Elizabeth felt small under his scrutiny, clearly able to see his eyes in a cool blue staring straight through her. “It is a business matter of great importance.”
The man adjusted his waistcoat and coat and smoothed wrinkles from his cuffs as he walked toward the door. “I have a Royal Patent on file, miss. Nothing illegal goes on in my theater.”
“I’m not inquiring after your operations, sir.”
“Aren’t you? Now that Her Majesty has seen fit to culture the urban masses, I hold no argument with the smaller theaters that they, too, should try their hand at the stage. You may go back to your employer and report that Christopher Churchill will not be bullied. Not by anyone—especially with a manufactured name sent to stoke my temper.”
“Which name?”
He started like she’d smacked him. As if she should know the name Thomas Whittle would have lit a fire within him and anger was a completely natural reaction.
“As if you don’t know?” He smiled. Grinned with arrogance that he’d peeled back enough layers of her story and wasn’t buying a fraction of it. “Eleanor Davies? Please do try to be more imaginative than that.”
Eleanor Davies . . . That’s what this was about?
How in the world would he have recognized a conjured form of her mother’s name—Eleanor Meade, Dowager Countess of Davies, was somehow known to him?
“I’m sorry if I—”
“You are not sorry, miss. And I pity you your present task. Sent here to ferret out more information. Or more money, which you will not receive.” He crossed his arms over his chest, confident. Irritated. With eyes that stared at her as though she were the scourge of London. “How much is she paying you to come here and dig into my business affairs?”
“You know someone by the name of Davies?”
He laughed—booming enough to shake the glass panes in one of the bookshelves against the wall.
Something in Elizabeth said to ask more. Find out what manner of fate brought her to a theater—of those she’d stopped by in the city already and hadn’t the faintest luck—and all of a sudden she’d selected a name that generated some sort of vitriol in a complete stranger.
“I don’t understand. Do you know the Countess of Davies?” When he didn’t budge, Elizabeth felt something awaken, and she took a desperate step forward. “How do you know her?”
A miscalculation seemed to have caught him off guard, for something shifted in his face. A furrowed brow, a deep swallow, and a terse line forming at the jaw—they combined in a manner that left him almost crestfallen.
What had just happened to change the temperature of his persona from the edge of enraged to backtracking now in wide-eyed fear?
The sounds outside were amplified by the silence that had swept in and flooded the space between them. A breeze caught white gauze curtains, shifting them out like a specter had entered the room.
“You should go, miss.” He flitted a glance to the busy street beyond the glass. “Surely you are expected by someone.”
The incomparable flutter of boldness—the need for answers—rippled through her. “And do you know a Viscount Huxley, perhaps?”
He stood still, staring her down in her afternoon dress of blush satin as if weighing something in his mind. It was only a moment, but a long one. And after she’d braved mentioning the name of a onetime street urchin with rare eyes who’d grown up in ten years, followed the activities of London theater, and then professed an aversion to it at the same time . . .
It was a rare secret, of which they both seemed to know something.
Churchill stepped past her to the theater alcove, then shouted through the door to the gentleman who’d allowed her entry. “Dorchester?”
“Aye, sir!” the man shouted back from his post washing windows. He dropped his towel in a bucket at his feet and scrambled in their direction.
“Show this lady out. Now.” He gave the command in control. “If you allow her entrance here again, it will cost your position. Do you understand?”
“Aye, sir. Of course.”
“Good. Then we understand each other,” Churchill said, then turned to her, the same cool veneer showing upon his face that said all he wanted was for her to be gone. “Go. And do not ever come back.”