Prologue
Edinburgh, Scotland
February, 1811
“S hall we go through our lines again?” Marjorie Ellen Gordon whispered to Lord Colin Stewart. “But soft! What light—” she prompted, touching the purple satin sleeve of his costume.
He seemed distracted and out of sorts, shortly before they were to step onstage. But it was unique for a duke’s son and a painter’s daughter to play the leads at Edinburgh’s Theatre Royal, and Maisie wanted to savor every moment. Unique, too, she thought, for Juliet and her Romeo to have fallen in love. She smiled.
“No need to go through our lines, Maisie. Er, Juliet.” Colin gave her a wan smile. “We both know what is expected of us.”
His oddly cool remark puzzled her. She tilted her head, sensing something was off tonight. Lord Colin Stewart, second son of the Duke of Rothes in the northeast Highlands, was just twenty-two to her eighteen years. Due to their fathers’ friendship, they’d become friends as children. When she was younger, she’d dreamed of marrying him someday—now her dream could come true.
Tall, dark-haired, quiet, wry yet kind, Colin Stewart had emerged from his years at Edinburgh University with a striking, almost princely beauty that took her breath away. She prayed their true love might never end. These weeks of rehearsing Shakespeare’s tragic romance had been like a fairy tale; they used their characters’ names teasingly at first—then, shy stolen kisses in shadowy corners became magical and progressed to more.
Sir Archibald Gordon’s eldest daughter had always been more adventurous than her father liked, even in an artist’s unconventional household. Playing Juliet to Colin’s Romeo freed her spirit to discover joy, passion, and a future filled with love.
They found a secret space in the gloomy recesses of the old theatre to privately rehearse, which led to delightful explorations inspired by their characters’ timeless love. Sometimes Colin drew back first, kissing her even as he tactfully righted her gown. But she felt such eagerness for those kisses and more that they would tumble together again, sweetly laughing, kissing, delving into each other’s secrets.
Only a week ago, he had taken her hands. “I want to marry you, Maisie Gordon. I will talk to my father and yours. But we are Scottish—we could easily elope.”
That thrilled her. “Just like Juliet and Romeo! My Highland grandparents handfasted secretly when they were sixteen and eighteen. It was legal and they were happy all their lives. This is how it is done,” and she explained it.
Rehearsing Romeo and Juliet’s secret wedding, they mixed Scottish and Italian traditions by performing a handfasting, wrapping their wrists with ribbon and speaking Shakespearean vows to fix a marriage of hearts and hope. Their romantic secret made her heart soar.
Tonight would be their last performance; afterward, they would reveal their union to their parents. Yet something had changed. Colin, her Romeo, was troubled.
Smoothing her red velvet gown, she tugged at the pearly net that caught back her dark hair. Voices drifted from the raised wooden stage, a reminder that soon they must take their places onstage. Black side curtains shielded them from the bright stage, where backdrops painted by her father and rows of candles and reflectors created sunny Verona.
“What is it?” she whispered, drawing him into darker shadows. “Tell me, Colin. Though soon your father will give you his earldom of Kintrie, and I will have to call you Lord Kintrie.”
“I will always be Colin to you. Father says he has not decided if I will be Kintrie.”
“What do you mean? Ever since he came to the city, you have seemed distracted. You even missed some lines—so unlike you! I know your father disapproves of acting—is that it?”
“No. I reminded him it is a privilege for us to play these roles. Mr. and Mrs. Siddons could have picked seasoned actors, yet they chose us. I love doing this play with you.”
“And I, with you.” The theatre’s owners, her father’s friends Henry and Harriet Siddons, wanted young actors to bring authenticity to Shakespeare’s iconic play. “Is it that hateful Reginald Baird? He is a pest, behaving like Romeo’s enemy offstage too, just because he plays Tybalt.”
“He’s an oaf. We called him Bear in school for his size and his clumsiness. And he is smitten with you. That does annoy me.”
“He was one of Papa’s students and now he hopes to run the studio with my father. But my sisters and I are all artists too, so Mr. Baird has no chance. Give him no mind.”
“Romeo will just slay Tybalt again tonight.” He gave her a crooked smile. “It is not Bear. Last night my father insisted on discussing my future.” Though his tall, lanky form blocked the light, she saw him frown over beautiful whisky-brown eyes. “He is here tonight, seated in his box with your parents.”
Audience laughter rose as Mercutio and Benvolio engaged in horseplay onstage. “We will see them later,” she said. “They are such good friends, ever since Papa began painting portraits of your family. You and I met because he sometimes let me assist.”
“Not much of an assistant at just five! I was only nine, but I thought you were charming. Your father values your talent. You are already a gifted painter.” He smiled, but it was rueful somehow.
“He let me paint scenery designs this time—the balcony and roses are all mine. But tell me quickly. What did Lord Rothes say about your future?”
He sighed. “He bought me a captaincy in the 42nd Regiment of Foot—the one they call the Black Watch. Soon I must go to England to await orders. I may be sent to Spain or France.”
She gasped, stunned, fearing he might never return. “Con—congratulations. But you might be gone for years.”
“Perhaps.” He took her hands. “I would practice engineering in the regiment since I studied it at university. I told Father I love acting and the theatre and want to do that too. I also told him that I intend to ask for your hand. I did not tell him the rest,” he added.
“That we made a handfasted marriage?” Happiness went through her like sunlight and honey as she leaned forward to kiss him. “I am glad you told him. We will tell my parents too. Romeo and Juliet will have their happy ending after all.”
“They should—but Maisie, he disapproves. He forbids me to marry you.”
“But it is too late,” she whispered.
“He likes you, and Sir Archibald is his friend, but—”
“A painter’s daughter is unfit to be a countess.” Twisting her hands away, she stepped back. “My father earned a baronetcy from the Crown for his work. He is not a mere artist!”
“I argued that. Father is adamant that I join the regiment and give it time. If we marry, I will forfeit my inheritance. My older brother will have Rothes, Kintrie, and the rest of my portion. Father says actors and artists contribute nothing brave or useful.”
“He is wrong!”
“Nonetheless,” he said. “He thinks of the estate and the tenants who rely on us.”
Her breathing came fast. The voices on stage were distant. She could hardly think. “What will you do?”
“I must accept the commission. And I cannot lose the inheritance. Let me explain,” he said as she moved back.
“No need. I—understand.” She did not, entirely, and it hurt terribly. They had gone far beyond kisses, committing hearts and lives; she was not with child but could have been. Foolish to hope. Foolish to love.
“I love you so much.” He reached out, his voice low, earnest. “And I care about Kintrie too. Father has done his best after the Clearances ravaged the region, but resources are low. I have an engineering plan that could help, but I must inherit to have the influence to carry it out.”
“You will do good things there.” She lifted her chin, straightened as if the pride of her Highland ancestors woke in her. If a painter’s daughter was not good enough for a duke’s son, she would not beg.
“Wait for me, Maisie. I will come back and we will marry.”
“You would lose everything! And if Papa knew what Lord Rothes said, he would forbid our marriage too. They would become enemies instead of friends. Like—”
“Romeo and Juliet,” he finished.
She turned away. “Mercutio is calling for you. Go onstage.”
“Wait for me, Maisie. I love you.” He reached out. She did not move.
“I love you. But I will not wait years only to learn you married someone…more worthy.”
“There is none more worthy.”
Her heart hurt. But she knew what must be done. “We must end it. ‘If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well ’twere done quickly.’”
“That’s Macbeth . You are mixing plays. You are upset.”
“ Macbeth suits my mood now!”
“Do not say that name here. It brings bad luck. I told you this in case Father mentions it tonight. I promise we will marry someday.”
“‘O, happy dagger!’ Now the tragic ending of this play suits us too.”
“Maisie, please—”
Dashing at tears, she whirled and ran behind a painted backcloth to wait for her scene. Colin watched her, then turned and stepped onto the bright stage to call out in a hearty voice.
She felt diminished, insulted, her hopes in tatters. She was in love and could not bear to lose him. But she could not wait for him. She had to refuse him, not for her sake, but for his.
Their marriage would ruin his future. He dreamed of helping the people of the glens, but if they married, she feared he would regret it.
The rest of the performance was a blur, some lines faltered, some so poignant that she felt her heart break again. As she kissed Romeo gently and collapsed over his chest, she heard his heart beating fast beneath her cheek.
In a daze, she took bows beside him, smiling though she felt turned to stone.