Jenny couldn’t tell if she was being followed and she didn’t stop to find out. She found the staircase at the end of the corridor and plunged down it into the alley behind the tavern; she could not wait for Kit, but she knew the neighborhood very well, even in the dark. She darted down a narrow passage between two warehouses that brought her to the foot of the rise, and started to climb, keeping to shadowy walls and darkened shop doorways. She could scarcely go back to her landlady’s looking like this; she could see nothing out of her left eye and tasted salty blood in her mouth. But Prospect Square was at the top of this rise. Jack and Tory had been having a late meeting with Alphonse when she and Kit left the theatre, perhaps they were there still. They would not judge her. And she must get off the street.
Even at this late hour, there was activity about the town — drunken seamen, impromptu dice games, whining tarts. Any noise, any shadow nearby might be Crowder in pursuit, or Budge or Ben Marks or any of the legions he could buy to do his bidding. But she managed to drag herself up to the top of the rise, staggered across the broad road — damn this useless eye!— and made for the square, slinking along in the shadows until she gained the playhouse at last. She felt her way round to the side of the building and stumbled down into the little well where the private door was. But when her hand closed upon the handle, it would not give.
She rattled it fiercely, pummeled the door with the flat of her hand, then slumped against it, panicked, exhausted. Disembodied laughter wafted up from the docks, or was it closer by? Echoing all round the square. In the darkness of her mind's eye, she saw Crowder’s cold eyes and implacable expression, advancing on her again, and she pounded at the door with both fists and all of her remaining strength.
Then the door gave way and she tumbled into Thomas Ashbrook.
"Mrs. Kennett? Good God, come inside."
He drew her to one side and she collapsed against the interior wall, gulping for breath, as he pushed the door shut behind her and locked it again. He had hung a lantern in the stairwell behind him, there could be no mistaking the state she was in.
"I’m sorry," she gasped, lowering her head, ashamed. "I thought . . . is Tory . . . Jack . . ?"
"They went out with Mr. Belair." Ashbrook slipped his arm around her waist and drew her gently away from the wall toward the stairwell. "Come inside. Can you manage the stairs? Take the lantern."
Jenny did as she was told, too exhausted to resist, grateful for Mr. Ashbrook’s strong arm supporting her, his patience guiding her up the back stairs. Another, more cheerful light glowed in the paint room; it was not at all cold in August. Ashbrook led her past the litter of sketches and canvas and frames and grooves and pulleys and paints and around to a little domestic corner under a window. There was a washstand and a rumpled bed, even a little geranium in a pot on the window sill, which Jenny found both absurd and touching. He eased her down onto the bed and went to collect his water jug and basin and a clean rag, perching on the edge of the bed beside her to begin dabbing at her face very gently with the damp rag. She saw yellow stains of dirt and sweat and bigger smears of blood on the rag every time he withdrew it to dip again in the water.
"I’m sorry to cause you all this trouble, Mr. Ashbrook," she apologized again.
"It’s no trouble, Mrs. Kennett. I’m glad you were able to find your way here."
He dabbed very gingerly at her cheek below her swollen left eye and she winced. "Sorry . . . sorry," he murmured. "Not to be indelicate, but is there anything I cannot see, bruises, sprains or broken bones, that need attention?"
Jenny shook her head, slowly. "I don’t think so." Only her head and shoulders were throbbing, but shame clawed at her as Mr. Ashbrook went stoically about his work. ”Do you not want to know what happened?" she whispered, at last.
She glanced at him with her good eye. But he was studiously inspecting her cheek. "No," he said, quietly. "I do not."
Jenny stared down at her hands. He knew about her escapades with Kit; no doubt he thought this was how they all ended up. What sort of a woman must he think she was? What sort of a woman was she?
"Take this, Mrs, Kennett."
She looked up to see Ashbrook offering her a small glass of brandy. She reached for it gratefully.
"Spiritous liquors?"
"For medicinal use only, of course. To chase away the waterfront damp."
She sipped and it burned her sore lip. "God’s blood, what a sight I must be," she groaned. "I can never go onstage like this."
"Well, it’s not so bad as all that. There’s almost nothing that can’t be put right with a little paint."
She cast him a dubious look and he smiled.
"I’ll show you," he said, and he rummaged among his things for a sketchbook and a stick of charcoal. He drew up a wooden stool and worked quickly while she sipped her brandy. When he handed it to her, she almost dropped her glass. The creature he had drawn had a swollen lump like a piece of rotting fruit for one eye, scratches along one cheek, a cracked and puffy bottom lip and a bruised jaw. Yet, for all the time she had spent in front of a glass, she could not help but notice what a strong likeness it was. The good eye was lively and the mouth very tenderly rendered, despite the forlorn expression. It seemed to be the work of a hand that knew its subject very well.
"And this is meant to make me feel better?"
"This is only where we begin," Ashbrook replied, sliding off his stool to collect some colored chalks. He sat beside her again and propped the sketch up on his knees. "There is nothing to be done about the eye, for now, you must enter from stage left and exit to the right. But you see, a little flesh tone will cover the scratches, and a little rose for color . . . " And he applied the colored chalks sparingly to the portrait, blending them very gently with his fingertips. “It will look better when we use real make-up, of course.“ He colored the bruise mark in with purple, neutralized it with stark white and blended a touch of pink over all.
"This hollow under your good eye will darken a bit in the next few days, but again, a bit of white will tone it down." As he worked, he added a little dash of green to the open eye in the portrait, without looking up at her; he knew which eye was which color. "And for lip rouge, you must use the darkest red, to match the split . . . " and he rubbed a dark crimson into the lips. "There, you see?"
Jenny looked at the garish thing and laughed. It hurt her lip, but she couldn’t help herself. Ashbrook grinned back, his candid, open smile.
"Fine, if I’m needed to play the Whore of Babylon," she giggled.
"But stage make-up is expected to be overdone," he pointed out. "I daresay you’ll begin a rage for scarlet mouths and lavender skin among the fashionable ladies of Heathpoole."
Jenny laughed again, great round ringing peals to chase away the last of her fears. "And cauliflower eyes," she wheezed. "Every prize-fighter shall be in fashion!"
Her eye was beginning to water and Ashbrook bounded up to bring her the wash cloth. She took it and dabbed at her eye and he crouched down in front of her.
Why do you let them do it, Jenny?" he asked her, very softly. "Is it because you think you deserve it?"
She stopped laughing. His expression was so direct, so earnest, she had to look away again.
"Not 'they.' This is merely the proper affection due me from my lawful spouse."
"Crowder? He’s here?"
Jenny shook her head no. "In town. I don't believe he followed me."
Ashbrook took her hand in both of his and she felt as if a bolt of electricity passed
between them. He held on tightly and she suddenly felt as if she might cry, but that she knew how much it would hurt.
"He meant to kill me," she whispered. "I should have let him. You would all be safe from his outrages and I would be free."
"Giving no thought to the suffering you would cause to all of us who love you?"
She glanced up at him, sharply, but it was no jest. He was still crouched before her, still holding her hand.
"Keep fighting, Jenny. Don’t let him win."
"That's all very well for you to say, you’re not the one with the smashed face. But if it’s all one to you, I’ll forgo another round with Mr. Crowder for the moment."
"There are better ways to fight," said Ashbrook. "Embrace life in all its magic and fullness. The more you make of your life, the smaller he’ll become until he shrinks away into obscurity." He gripped her hand a little more surely. "Embrace love."
"I am not made for love," she sighed.
"I don’t believe it."
"How would you know?" she snapped.
"Because I know you." He was kneeling before her, now, gazing into her eyes past all her disguises and defenses, reading her soul. "I know you," he repeated. "I love you, Jenny."
"Oh, Thomas, you cannot mean it," she groaned. "Look at me."
"I look at you all the time. You are the face in all my dreams."
"Then you need better dreams. I am no use to anybody, can’t you see that? Not to my son, not to my friends. I poison everything I touch."
"Don’t you ever believe that," he said fiercely.
Jenny gazed into his grey-gold eyes behind the spectacles, framed by unruly wheatstraw hair. Such a rational-seeming face.
"What can I offer you, Thomas?" she murmured. "I am no great beauty. I’ve no particular gifts as an actress. I am three and thirty years of age. I’m barren and I’ve a madman for a husband into the bargain. Forgive me if I fail to understand what you think you see in me."
"Those are all things that have happened to you," said Thomas. "They’ve nothing to do with who you are. I have never before met anyone with more spirit, more life. You have so much to give, if only you knew it, so much to discover in yourself."
She might almost believe it, he was so certain. In truth, she had never cared to look too deeply within herself, for fear of the emptiness she would find there. But Tom Ashbrook was half-witch, at least he communed with the fairies; his paintings were the proof of that. Perhaps he knew something she did not. Then she noticed he was still kneeling before her, like a swain.
"Oh, do get up," she half-smiled. "Poor Thomas, you are a fool."
"I know," he agreed, climbing up to sit beside her. "I hope you won’t hold it against me. I never meant to bore you with this outburst, especially at such a moment, but I could not help myself. I can’t bear to see you hurt and I can’t bear to see you hurt yourself. But I do love you, Jenny. I can’t stop, but if you find me ridiculous, I swear I will trouble you no more about it."
Jenny had never met anyone more sensible, more competent. She had never met any man with less interest in power or pretensions. She had never known anyone else who could make magic out of the thin air.
"You are the least ridiculous man I have ever known," she told him. "It’s only . . . well, I never expected to be here. With you. In these circumstances. I’ve never played such a scene. I’m the bawd, not the innocent."
"But still innocent in love, I think." Thomas said gently.
Jenny opened her mouth for another weak, helpless laugh, but she found herself crying, instead. It hurt, but she could not stop. She hid her face in her hand, but she saw Thomas approach her very cautiously on her less-battered right side. His arm came carefully round her shoulders and then she was sobbing against his shirt. The smell of old paint rose from the heat of his body.
"No one’s going to hurt you any more," he murmured into her hair. "I won’t let them."
She could feel his strength in the way he held her, his tenderness in the light, soothing way his fingertips stroked her hair and caressed her cheek beneath her bloated eye. And something more. She had been held by dozens of men; she was a connoisseur of the embrace, but this was different. She had kissed scores of men, men and kisses she had greatly enjoyed. But when she felt Thomas Ashbrook’s lips touch her hair and then her forehead, she was not prepared for the riot inside her—paralysis, awe, dismay, delight. Terror. Disbelief. Complete, abject surrender. Was this what fools called love?
She never even noticed when she stopped crying, rocked gently like a child in Thomas’ arms. When she finally dared to lift her face, he was gazing down at her in quiet wonder, the same way she felt.
"How can you want me?" she whispered. "Your world of dreams is such a beautiful place."
He touched her cheek again, very softly.
"Let me share it with you." He smoothed back a strand of her dark hair. "I’ll press my suit no further tonight," he went on. "You’re tired and you need your rest. But don’t go back to your lodgings, you’ll be safer here."
She nodded and sat up slowly, disengaging from him. But he kept hold of both her hands a moment longer.
"Of course, I shall retire discreetly to the corner," he added, with a grin. Then he kissed each of her hands and Jenny felt another thrill in that long dormant part of her heart.
"Quite right," she agreed. She let her fingers trail gently into his blond-streaked brown hair and stroked his cheek. This man was warm and solid. He was no dream. His smile warmed at her touch. She smiled slowly back.
"When I kiss you, Mr. Ashbrook, I intend to have the full use of my lips."
Top: Scene-Painters’ Room, Booth Theatre, by OB Bunce, 1870
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