The horse at last moved forward, showing obedience, even willingness. Beau was rather pleased to see the blacksmith and his boys gazing after him, open-mouthed. ‘Which is the best way to reach Hardgate Hall?’ Beau called to them over his shoulder.
‘The track through the Ashendale Forest is quickest, sir,’ one of the lads piped up. ‘You’d best take the road for Reading—you’ll see it just past the church. At the first crossroads you turn left, and then you want to head over the bridge and follow the path into the woods—’
At that point the blacksmith interrupted him. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t advise that way at all, Mr Beaumaris, I really wouldn’t. It’s easy to get lost and there are sometimes footpads.’
‘Is this track through the forest quicker than the turnpike road?’
‘Much quicker, sir.’ The lad was still eager. ‘It takes—oh, at least a mile off your journey!’
Then that’s the path I’ll take. And Beau was on his way.
* * *
The lad’s instructions were easy to follow and Beau was pleased to discover that the big bay, once he had its trust, was an energetic and speedy mount. He was even more pleased when he looped the reins over one hand and with the other delved for his pocket watch, to find that it was not yet half past three—there was still time to arrive punctually at Hardgate Hall. The one factor he hadn’t bargained on was the rain, which drove straight into his face and was becoming heavier by the minute, slowing his pace; but he never once thought of turning round, because this meeting with Palfreyman was long overdue. Palfreyman had questions to answer and consequences to face.
Beau’s frown deepened as he remembered the day of Simon’s funeral just two months ago, when the rain had fallen as relentlessly as it did today on the cortège of black funeral carriages and his brother’s oak coffin.
Enough of that wretch Palfreyman’s feeble excuses. It’s time to meet the coward face to face. Beau urged the bay gelding on through ancient oaks, aware that the trees were growing thicker all around him; but the path was clear enough and so he was taking little heed of the dank undergrowth on either side, which was foolish of him.
Because in his haste he had completely failed to see the two shadowy figures who had watched him earlier from behind a thicket of birch when he’d stopped to check the time. Failed now to see the twine tautly stretched between two saplings on either side of the path ahead of him—until it was too late.
One moment he was making good speed along the forest track. The next—disaster. The big bay stumbled badly and, though Beau wrestled to keep the beast upright, within moments he’d gone crashing to the ground.
Loping steadily through the woods, Deb paused to brush down her kersey jacket and corduroy breeches, which had picked up a fine coating of pine needles when she’d landed on the other side of Palfreyman’s boundary wall just now.
On the safe side of Palfreyman’s boundary wall. She crammed her cap more securely over her curls and set off again towards the clearing where their horses were, weaving her way between the oak trees and the birch saplings, and even allowing herself a quick smile as she imagined Hugh Palfreyman’s face when he read that letter. When he saw the page she’d cut out.
She grinned, but she felt revulsion too. Ever since she’d got clear of that place, she’d been vigorously inhaling the fresh air to rid her lungs of the musty odours that lurked in Palfreyman’s secret room. And she found herself wondering again—why would her mother have even wanted to be reconciled with a brother whose cruelty had driven her from her home in the first place?
It wasn’t as if her mother had been unhappy with her new life. In fact, Deb remembered her as being full of love both for her daughter and for her husband, Gerald O’Hara, actor and manager of the Lambeth Players. Deb too had loved her caring and intelligent stepfather dearly; but two years ago had come a fresh blow, for Gerald had fallen prey to a debilitating lung sickness and had left the responsibility of the Players to her.
‘No. You can’t leave me in charge, Gerald. I’m too young!’ she’d pleaded as she’d crouched by his sickbed, feeling frightened and alone. Don’t die, she’d murmured under her breath to the man who’d truly been a father to her. Please. Don’t you leave me as well.
‘You can do it, my brave lass.’ Even though Gerald was desperately weak by then, he’d reached to clasp her hand tightly. ‘You’ve been holding the company together ever since my damned sickness started—don’t think I haven’t noticed how everybody comes to ask for your opinion. Ask Miss Deb, they say. She’ll know.’
‘But Francis Calladine—shouldn’t he be in charge? He’s the senior actor, and he used to perform at Drury Lane...’
‘And he never tires of telling everyone so.’ A wry smile lifted Gerald’s wan face. ‘No—Francis is a fine man for tragedy, but what the people want is entertainment, and you have an instinct for providing it. In addition, you can act every bit as well as any of those fancy ladies at Drury Lane.’
‘But to be in charge, Gerald. I couldn’t—’
‘One day,’ Gerald interrupted, ‘you’ll take London by storm, my lass. One day...’ He’d begun coughing again and Deb, distraught, had held a glass of water to his lips.
The Lambeth Players were no more than a humble travelling company. But Deb and Gerald dreamed of establishing themselves in London and a rich backer was the answer, Gerald had often told her; a rich and generous backer who would buy them a lease for one of the numerous small theatres on the edge of the city. ‘It needn’t be a fancy affair,’ Gerald said. ‘But think, Deb, of the plays we could put on, in our very own place!’
The rest of the actors were content with touring the usual theatrical circuits every year, setting up their stage at fairs and race meetings to entertain the crowds with their varied miscellany of comedies, songs and drama. Shakespeare was always a favourite of Gerald’s, but an ancient statute forbade minor theatrical companies like theirs to perform any Shakespeare play in full, so Gerald O’Hara had taught his players to pick out prime scenes only: Macbeth and the three witches, Henry V’s speech before the battle of Agincourt, and the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet. By starting their shows with brief acts of comedy and acrobatics, Gerald was able to describe their performances as ‘entertainments’ and the crowds came in droves.
‘It’s like offering an all-too-brief taste of a banquet,’ Gerald had once said to Deb. ‘But some day, when we get that theatre of our own, we’ll perform the whole play—and we’ll have all of London society at our feet!’
But then Gerald died. Losing her mother at such a young age had been heartbreaking, but now Deb had to face life without her beloved stepfather, who had been her guide and her inspiration for as long as she could remember. Kneeling by his graveside the day after the funeral, she’d whispered aloud, ‘I can’t take charge of the Players, Gerald. I know it was your wish—but I’m only twenty and I’m too young. I can’t follow you. I simply cannot do it.’
She’d tried to explain as much to the others later that evening, when the Players had gathered in a tavern to solemnly discuss their plans now that Gerald was gone. It was Francis, loyal Francis, who’d raised a cheer for her and called out, ‘Who else but an O’Hara should be in charge of us all?’
And they wouldn’t take no for an answer. The Lambeth Players had given