Henry seemed to take her hint, and he laughed merrily, as if that instant of seriousness had never been. Perhaps she had merely imagined it. It had been a long, strange day, after all.
‘And my mother will never come to London,’ Henry said. ‘She is quite certain villains lurk on every street corner, ready to cut an unwary throat. So perhaps you will never meet, after all.’
‘Perhaps your mother is right to keep her distance,’ Anna murmured. And far wiser than she was herself, living in the very centre of such a perilous world. But she had no desire to leave; this was her home, the only place she could belong. A quiet country hearth was not for her.
There was another knock at the door, and Anna left Henry at the table with her father so she could hurry and answer it. More of the actors waited for her there, far more than her father claimed to have invited. They greeted her exuberantly, kissing her cheek and lifting her from her feet in fierce hugs, before they dashed into the house looking for food and drink. It seemed her father’s ‘some people’ invited to dine included the whole company, along with their always voracious appetites and endless need for wine.
Anna was accustomed to such evenings. Her father’s hospitality was boundless, and his memory for such practical matters as how much food to serve was non-existent. Anna sent the servants for more dishes and jugs of wine from the tavern, and the evening passed in a swift, happy blur as she made sure everyone was served and there was enough bread and stew.
Finally she was able to collapse by the sitting-room fire with her own goblet of wine. She tucked up her feet on her father’s footstool, listening to the shouts and laughter from supper. Her father would be busy until dawn, and then some of the actors could carry him up to his bed.
Anna reached into her sewing basket for the new volume of poetry she had bought at one of the stalls at St Paul’s churchyard just that day. It was an anonymous sonnet cycle about the deep love of a shepherd for an unreachable goddess he’d once glimpsed at her bath, called Demetrius and Diana. Everyone was reading and talking of it, and she could see why. The words and emotions were beautiful, so filled with raw longing and the sad realisation that such a love was impossible. Life was only what it was—lonely and cold—and there was no escape from that, even through passion.
She lost herself in that world of sun-dappled sylvan glades and passionate desire, that need for another person. The noise from the company, which grew ever louder as the night wore on, vanished, and she knew only the poor shepherd and his impossible love.
‘Why, Mistress Barrett, I see you are a secret romantic,’ a deep, velvet-rough voice suddenly said, dragging her out of her dream world.
The book fell from her hands to clatter onto the stone hearth and she twisted round in her chair. It was Robert who stood there in the sitting room doorway, watching her as she read. He leaned his shoulder on the doorframe, his arms lazily crossed over his chest. A half smile lingered at the corners of his lips, but his eyes were dark and solemn as they studied her.
How long had he been standing there?
‘You startled me,’ she said, hating the way her voice trembled.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you,’ he said.
‘I didn’t even know you were here. I heard no knock at the door.’
‘I have only just arrived. Madge let me in.’ Rob pushed away from the door and moved slowly to her side, loose-limbed and as deceptively lazy as a cat. As Anna watched, tense, he knelt by her chair and picked up the dropped book.
He took her hand in his, very gently, his fingers light on hers, and carefully laid the book on her palm. But he didn’t let go of her. He curled her hand around the leather binding and held his over it.
It was a light caress, cool and gentle, and Anna knew she could draw away whenever she chose. Yet somehow she just—couldn’t. She stared down at their joined hands as if mesmerised.
He stared down at them, too, almost as if he could also feel that shimmering, heated, invisible bond tightening around them, closer and closer. The crackle of the fire, the laughter of the company—it all seemed so far away. There was only Robert and herself here now.
‘Are you enjoying the travails of poor Demetrius the shepherd?’ he asked.
‘Very much,’ she whispered. She stared hard at the book, its brown cover held by their joined hands. She feared what might happen if she looked into his eyes. Would she crack and crumble away, vanishing into him forever?
What spell did he cast over her?
‘The poetry is beautiful,’ she went on. ‘I can see every ray of sunlight, every summer leaf in those woods—I can feel Demetrius’s grief. What a terrible thing it must be to feel like that about another.’
‘How terrible not to feel that way,’ he said. ‘Life is an empty, cold shell without passion.’
Anna laughed. It seemed she was not the only ‘secret romantic.’ ‘Is it better to burn than to freeze? Passion consumes until there is nothing left but ash. Demetrius is miserable because of his desire for Diana.’
‘True. Diana can’t love him back. It isn’t in her nature. But if she could, it would be glorious beyond imagining. It is glorious even without her return, because at least Demetrius knows he can love. He can feel truly alive because of it.’
She smiled and gently laid her free hand against his cheek. The prickle of a day’s growth of beard tickled at her palm. Beneath it his skin was warm and satin-taut. A muscle flexed under her touch. ‘I believe you are the secret romantic, Robert. Do you envy the shepherd, then?’
He grinned up at her, and turned his head to press a quick kiss to the hollow of her palm. ‘In a way I do. He gets to be alive—truly alive—even if it’s only for a moment.’
‘Until that love kills him.’
‘Until then. I see you have peeked ahead at the ending.’
Anna sat back in her chair, finally breaking their hold on each other. But though not touching him, not physically close, she felt bound to him.
‘Are you not alive, then, Robert?’ she asked.
He sat back on the hearth, resting lazily on his elbows as he stretched his legs out before him and crossed his booted feet at the ankles. He had charged that morning’s rumpled, stained shirt for one of his dandyish and expensive doublets of burgundy-red velvet, slashed at the sleeves with black satin and trimmed with shining rows of gold buttons. His boots were fine, soft Spanish leather, polished to a glowing sheen, his breeches of thin, fine-spun wool. A teardrop pearl hung at his ear.
He was dressed to impress someone tonight, and Anna suspected it was not meant to be her.
‘Sometimes I feel I’m already cold in the grave, fair Anna,’ he answered. His tone was light, teasing, but she thought she heard a hard ring beneath it—the tinge of truth. ‘The true, deep feelings of Demetrius are lost to me now. I just counterfeit them onstage.’
‘Aye,’ she murmured. ‘I think I know what you mean.’
His head tilted to the side as he studied her. ‘Do you?’
‘Aye. My life is not one of deep emotions, as the poor shepherd has. It is quiet and calm—cold, some might say. But I prefer its chill to the pain of burning.’
‘Your husband?’ Robert asked, his voice low and steady, as if he didn’t want to frighten her away.
As if Charles Barrett could frighten her now. His black soul was dead and buried. But before that, before they’d made the mistake of marrying and it had all gone so horribly wrong, she had once longed for him. Those feelings had clouded her judgement