"Save your money, Mr. Bell."
"I only mean to save your reputation, Mr. Delaney." said Kit, pressing the note back across the table.
"But it's perfectly respectable for a man to let a room to a fellow," Delaney insisted. "It's not as if I were a timorous widow at your mercy."
"Quite the opposite, I would say," Kit agreed. "But 'letting' implies a bit of blunt changing hands now and again."
"Then, as your landlord, it's my right to determine the rate of payment, is it not? And the kind." Delaney folded up the note and stuck it firmly back into Kit's pocketbook, lying open on the table.
"I should be paying twice as much anywhere else in Heathpoole, for far less congenial surroundings," grumbled Kit.
"I don't like to take your money," Delaney said simply. "I feel like a strumpet."
Kit was about to riposte, until he realized his friend was in earnest. He reached across the table and took Delaney's two hands in his. "Oh, my dear, I hope I have never made you feel any such thing! I am in most ways a preening ass, but I do love you."
Delaney squeezed his hands in return, and smiled, that slow-kindling smile that still took Kit by surprise and made him a trifle dizzy. Then Delaney stood up, still grasping Kit's hands, leaned across the table and kissed him, dizzying him even more. When he sat down again, the morning light just coming in the window from over the harbor turned his curly dark hair into a halo of sparkling rust.
"Anyway, consider it a form of charity, since you're unemployed," Delaney went on. "I've always had a soft spot in me heart for strays and orphans."
"Well, I shan't presume on your charity much longer," said Kit, recovering himself. "Our company reconvenes in a fortnight at the Heathpoole Playhouse for our holiday season, and then we must all labor like Hercules."
Delaney frowned. "You have no plans to take other lodgings, I hope?"
"Certainly not! But then I'll have a steady income — damned steady, if reports from the box office can be believed — and then you must have a landlord's fair share."
Their final four performances back in Kelsingham had entirely sold out; there were ot even any half-price tickets to be had after the intermissions. Especially when word got out that King George had invited Jack to give his Prince Hal in Brighton in the new year. And within minutes, or so it seemed, a letter arrived for Jack, forwarded from Drury Lane, from Alderman Norris here in Heathpoole, explaining that the lease on the Heathpoole Playhouse had suddenly become available.
And although Jack had already accepted an offer to give four more performances at Drury in November, he astonished the company by proposing to mount a holiday season in Heathpoole. Any other fellow, at least most other players of Kit's acquaintance, would be idling away their profits on the high life in London, but Jack could not wait to get back here and arrange for the company to stay together. Of course, everyone wanted to come with him; Heathpoole had been a fortunate engagement for them last summer, and in the winter months, the Wells was even busier than usual with fine folk seeking the warmth of the hot springs and other amusements in town. And no sooner had Jack secured the lease on the playhouse than Delaney decided to leave behind the bustle of Bristol and return to the sea air of Heathpoole.
Kit rather missed Delaney's previous lodging here, the poignant simplicity of that single room. That place was already let to someone else, but the landlady liked Delaney and his steady habits, and so had found him these two adjoining rooms off a chandler's shop in the same neighborhood, with a south-eastern view of the quays. Claiming the place was too large for himself alone, Delaney had promptly offered to sub-let half to Kit; he'd said the extra room might do for Kit's wardrobe.
Now Kit sat back from the table with a theatrical sigh. "Speaking of the box office, I must fly to the playhouse to see what Mr. Belair has in mind for us today." He stood up, his shirt still unbuttoned and shoeless beneath his trousers, and began to peer about for his stock. "And you, I'm sure, must attend to whatever it is boatmen do about the docks."
"Oh, aye, the usual riot and carousing," Delaney agreed, also getting to his feet. "When is Jack due back from London?"
"Another week, at least, for Jenny and Ashbrook and I to bear the full brunt of Belair's efficiency." Kit wandered into the other room and began to ransack the bureau. "For a man so sternly committed to the abolitionist cause, he's quite the slave-driver. Ah!" He pounced on the neckcloth he'd been searching for in a drawer, and moved off to the glass to tie it.
"Well, serves you right for getting yourself named stage manager," said Delaney.
"Acting stage manager. And only until the season begins and they can hire a professional. As soon as that worthy person, and a new wardrobe mistress, have signed on, Kennett and I will be all too happy to return to performing. Until then, we must abide by Belair's frugal habits."
Delaney had come to lean in the doorway, watching the last few dips, tucks, and flourishes of Kit's procedure with admiration. He claimed he was mystified by the rituals of stock-tying, although in Delaney's case, thought Kit, elaborate fashion would only be gilding the lily. Satisfied at last, he turned back to his friend.
"Belair really is a marvel, you know. He's already secured rooms for the company in two lodging houses off Prospect Square, by the playhouse, at a discount, even though it will soon be high season in Heathpoole."
"He expects your season to pay, then?"
"Well, Jack has already ploughed all his pay from Old Drury back into our coffers, so we have a bit of a cushion," said Kit. "He says he won't be this notorious forever, so we'd best make the most of it."
Delaney smiled. "And Mrs. Lightfoot is enjoying London?"
Of course, Jack would not travel to London again without taking Tory with him. Nor would she be parted from him, not this time.
"She writes that it is noisy and dirty and crowded and full of civilization," said Kit. "But she is very much enjoying Jack's success, so I believe she is happy." He'd moved off to search the floor beside the bureau where his shoes were neatly lined up. "Although," he added thoughtfully, "we can't imagine what she finds to do with herself all day while Jack is occupied with the dreary business of the theatre."
Jack hoped nearly another fortnight playing in London had not ruined him for the business of managing the company. He loved the playing part, always had, whether on the boards at Old Drury or a barn in some rustic village, but the pomp and frivolity that came with an actor's job in London was hardly worth the effort. He'd made the best of it up to a point, for Tory's sake, accepted a few invitations to dine out, paraded her about on his arm at one or two social events where folk went to be seen. Everyone adored her, of course, she was so fresh and good-humored, without an ounce of artifice. It was all a load of rubbish, but at least she hadn't gone quite out of her mind with boredom during the long hours he was away. He hoped not, anyway.
But now, they were finally back with the company in Heathpoole. And he was once again ensconced in the manager's office at the playhouse — his playhouse, as he liked to think of it, although Alphonse had not allowed him to be imprudent enough to purchase the place outright. They were leasing it from one season to the next, and Jack knew he'd better apply himself to make this season a success if there was going to be a next season.
Gulls were circling and crying outside, riding the chilly wind currents up from the harbor out below Prospect Square. He knew he ought to shut the window and concentrate, but he loved having the sound of the sea so close. He knew Tory was delighted to be back as well, even though she was disappointed that the house she loved on Moonfleet Way was no longer offering its upper rooms to let. They were staying in rooms on the harbor side of the square that Alphonse had procured for the company in advance—most of the rest of whom would be arriving in a few days. Which reminded Jack it was time to return his thoughts to the papers on the desk before him — lists of plays, parts, wardrobe, and props, timetables, dates, rates of pay, and a thousand other details involved in getting a season underway. He had promised Tory a holiday Harlequinade, and the Dream, Prospero and Ariel, and Lure of the Indies had all been popular last summer; still, he wished he had something new to pull out of his hat that the Heathpoole public had not seen before. Of course, the Wells would be full of travelers who had not been here last —
A soft rap at the door drew him out of his papers as Alphonse came in. Kit had already brought in the morning post, but Alphonse was also carrying a parcel.
"This came for you," he said.
"What is it?"
Alphonse set it on the desk, a stack of papers bound with twine. Jack frowned. "Not another play, is it?"
Since the "famous" Mr. Dance was known to be mounting a season in the neighborhood, would-be scribes and players had been materializing out of the very air. Jack was willing to take a look at anyone and anything — after all, he had been an untested nobody once, and not so long ago — but results so far had proved mixed, at best.
"I think you should look at this one," said Alphonse.
Jack glanced at the top page. A Comedy of Marriage. "Is it any good?"
Alphonse gave a noncommittal shrug. "I don't believe you will be sorry," was all he said.
Jack peered at his friend. Alphonse claimed he was no expert in the artistic side of theatrical matters, but Jack trusted his judgment. He knew Alphonse would not be wasting his time if he didn't think this piece had some merit.
Jack sighed and reached for the playscript. "All right. I'll give it half an hour."
Two hours later, Jack still could not help grinning over the two piles of script before him; he kept paging back and forth to reread the final scenes. He had never enjoyed a thing more, a very funny farce about marriage he was sure would draw a house again and again. What a windfall that it should drop into his lap, instead of being offered up to some London patent house that would snap it up in a heartbeat. James Wallack would pounce on it for Drury Lane, and take a leading role for himself besides. There were so many choice roles, not only a trio of villains, who were always the plum parts, but full-blooded protagonists who were far more witty and interesting than the usual heroes and ingenues, parts actors would be clamoring to play.
Jack re-stacked the pile and plucked up the top page. "V. F. MacKenzie" was listed as the playwright. He had scarcely scraped his chair back before Alphonse popped his head in at the door.
"Who is this MacKenzie fellow?" Jack asked eagerly, getting to his feet.
"The playwright is just outside," said Alphonse.
He disappeared from the doorway. And Tory walked in.
"You wrote this?" Jack asked her.
"I'm entirely to blame," she confessed. "Of course, it needs work — "
Jack shook his head. "It's wonderful!"
She peered at him. "You think so?"
"Hellfire, Rusty, Wallack would commit murder to stage this. When did you find the time?"
Tory allowed herself a tentative half-smile. "Well, I got the idea while trapped aboard Hotspur. I couldn't spend all that time just fuming; I'd have exploded! Then I had the chance to write it all out when we were in London."
Jack nodded, paging through the stack of papers again. "I want to produce this for our new season. And pay you a playwright's share."
Tory laughed. "Oh, don't be silly — "
"I've never had a less silly thought," he told her. "You did the work, Rusty, and you shall be paid for it. I don't believe Alphonse will object, not this time. In fact, I'm sure he planned the whole thing, barging in here with a playscript of unknown origin by a mysterious author."
"Not so mysterious, as that is my given name. Victoria Faith MacKenzie." After all their time together, Tory suddenly could not remember if she had ever told Jack her real name before.
Jack smiled. "It's lovely." His gaze dropped down to his desk again, and he made as if to straighten the script pages. "But as your manager, I'm afraid there is one other condition I must impose on you before this goes into production."
"I know there's some rewriting to be done, the middle is a bit saggy — " Tory began, but Jack cut her off with a shocked look.
"Don't change a word!" he exclaimed. "I only ask one thing. Marry me."
"What?"
"Be my wife. Take me for your husband. Join me in lawful matrimony," Jack explained patiently.
Tory felt her head shaking. "But . . . why?"
"I'm entirely besotted with you, Rusty. Have you never noticed?"
"I mean . . . why now?"
Jack sighed, and his expression sobered. "Because it's high time I married you like a man, and stopped dallying with you like a boy. I know I promised you once that I would never ask you. This is the only promise I will ever break."
Tory was so taken by surprise, it didn't even occur to her to try to pull her expression into something more sympathetic. Here she was scarcely done congratulating herself on her narrow escape from Matty.
"Come, is the idea all that hideous?" said Jack. "Everyone thinks we are married already."
"It's just that . . . a woman in my position is expected to make a fortunate match. And you know how I hate to do what's expected of me."
"Well, you would be marrying me," Jack pointed out helpfully. "I'm not entirely respectable, if that's any consolation. Perhaps not so fortunate either, once this wave of infamy has passed."
"I am not asking you to marry Crowder." Jack said quietly. "Or Matty. But I won't force you to the altar," he added, with such a wistful look that Tory was stung to the heart.
"Oh, hombre, it's not you!" she exclaimed. "You know how much I love you! The only place I've ever felt at home in the world is here, by your side."
Jack drew a breath, and placed his hands on the desk as if for support. Neither of them had thought to sit down. "Any enterprise, any union, can be as good or as bad as the partners in it. You and I have had a great deal of experience in being partners. I am incomplete without you, Rusty; you are my other half in every way that matters. Mi vida. Mi alma. Mi companera. I know all too well what you think of matrimony, in general," he added, glancing again at her playscript on his desk. "But don't you think, after all we've been through together, we might make something more of ours?"
Tory gazed across the desk at this man she had loved for so long, dark hair spilling over his collar, his dark eyes so full of the devil. She could scarcely remember her life before Jack, but since then he had been her anchor, her mentor, her best friend. The other half of her soul.
"I suppose we might," she said guardedly. "If only to show the others how it's done."
Jack grinned. "Marry me, Rusty. Let's make it official. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, eh?"
Tory laughed, and her fears of marriage whirled away like the gulls on the wind. This was her Jack. Anything was possible. "We've weathered far worse," she agreed. "If you can bear it, so can I!"
"Alphonse, we're going to get married!" Jack said gleefully, waving him in.
"About time," said Alphonse, peering up from one to the other, as implacable as ever, although Tory thought she detected the ghost of a smile at the corners of his mouth and his eyes. He shook Jack formally by the hand, and when he grasped her hand in turn, she bent down and threw her arms around him. When Alphonse stepped back, he mustered a folded paper from the breast pocket of his jacket and handed it to Jack.
“What is it?" Tory asked, watching Jack's surprised expression as he read.
"It's a notice about the house on Moonfleet Way," he said, glancing at her. "It's for sale."
"Oh no!" said Tory. "I hope nothing has happened to Mrs. Cross?"
"Moving inland to live with her daughter and escape the damp sea air," said Alphonse. "I have made inquiries."
"So the house is available?" asked Jack.
"It was," said Alphonse. "Until I made an offer."
Jack frowned. "Can we afford it?"
"We are not buying it," Alphonse informed him. "You are." Tory thought they must still look perplexed, the way Alphonse sighed and went on. "The street is narrow, steep, and inconvenient. The garden is a ruin and, by all accounts, ferocious storms off the sea buffet the place in winter, as you are soon to discover. The family was glad to come to an arrangement."
"But those are all the things I love about it!" Tory cried.
"Exactly so," Alphonse nodded to her. Glancing again at Jack, he added, "So long as you do not wear out your welcome at Drury Lane too soon, you might scare up a payment or two." He paused, and then sighed again. "Victoria deserves a home," he said plainly. "And so do you, mon ami. You have been vagabonds long enough."
Top: Instructions in folding a neckcloth, 1818
Above right: Harlequin and Columbine, John Crockett, 1948
Above left: This could be the house on Moonfleet Way! 19th Century house from the Craiyon AI-generated images website.
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