Chapter Two
The very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly to your service...
—Shakespeare, The Tempest
S tanding on the ladder, brush in hand, Maisie Gordon added more color to the columnar cedar trees on the backdrop, the cloth bouncing in its frame as she worked. Hearing voices, she glanced past the candles blazing in tin reflectors along the lip of the stage. Two people sat in front; she recognized Mrs. Siddons, her face a pretty oval in the darkness. Beside her was a tall dark-haired man. Harriet spoke and he answered, his voice deep and smooth. He sounded familiar. She felt a shock of recognition.
It could not be. The gentleman looked tall and vigorous in a fine black suit and neckcloth, a cane propped beside his chair. Many visited Mrs. Siddons at the theatre; that was it.
Just a memory resurfacing; just another drift of loneliness. Shaking her head, she resumed adding ochre highlights to tall cedar trees on the linen backdrop. Standing high on the ladder under the warmth of the overhead chandelier, she felt a bit dizzy.
The man spoke again, a low murmur. That was Colin—the Earl of Kintrie now, she reminded herself. His voice was deeper, richer, more mature. Her heart fluttered, her hands shook.
His return was a miracle and a disaster—just weeks ago she had nearly accepted Reginald Baird’s proposal. She wanted to please her family, who worried about her, and she desired a marriage that would allow her to continue working in art; Baird was an up-and-coming artist too. A marriage to Mr. Baird would stave off loneliness.
“Miss Gordon!”
And there he was. Baird’s voice was nasal, not very deep. She looked down as he approached waving two long-handled brushes. “You left these backstage!”
“Thank you, Mr. Baird.” She smiled. His cheeks were flushed and his hair straggled over his brow; his large, plumpish build was the sort that would go round with age. “I do not need them just now.”
“Be careful up there. I will stand here to keep you safe.” He set a heavy foot on the lower rung and the ladder wobbled. He made her feel less secure, not more; Baird could be clumsy.
The tall gentleman in the audience was another distraction. She needed to focus on the backdrop that would serve for the town of Verona, Juliet’s castle, and an outdoor setting.
She rose on her toes to apply the brush. Earlier, she had done much of the design in gray wash and charcoal with the cloth spread on the floor. Then she filled in broad areas with a mixture of powdered pigment and egg whites. Oil paint would take too long to dry and might be a fire hazard with the many candles and lamps needed for stage lighting. Now that the backdrops were suspended on their frames, she could add finishing touches.
Using fat brushes dipped in different colors, she applied the paint with a pouncing stroke, the ladder jouncing with the motion. Startled to feel a hand close around her ankle and snug boot, she nearly lost her balance. She looked down.
“Mr. Baird, I know you wish to be helpful, but you will tip me over!”
“A ladder is unsafe for a lady. I can finish your painting, my dear.”
“Let go, do. I am nearly done here.”
He released her ankle and stepped back, but lingered as she worked. She did not usually climb on a high ladder, but the scaffolding was in use. For years, she had assisted her father in painting scenic backdrops, though now he left that work to her, busy with portrait and landscape commissions while supervising students, including her sisters Catriona and Hannah.
Baird was often in the Gordon studio too, painting landscape backgrounds in portraits or working on his commissions. Maisie admired his talent, but like her father, she saw Baird’s limitations and hoped time would improve them.
Hearing a voice, Maisie glanced around as Henry Siddons ran across the stage. He was excited to be the snuff boy, hoisted on ropes to either snuff or light the dozens of tallow candles in the chandeliers. He and his brother had small roles in the play as well.
“Miss Gordon! Your trees are very nice! Mama will be pleased! She is over there with a guest!” He pointed toward the darkened audience, then scrambled up the scaffold to pick up a brass candle snuffer to practice.
She looked toward the guest again. As she tilted, Baird reached up. “You will fall!”
The man was simply too helpful. “I am fine. Shouldn’t you be rehearsing?”
“I know my lines. Tybalt has fewer than some. I hoped to play Romeo instead and will offer again. Without a suitable Romeo, the play will close and our work will be wasted.”
“Mrs. Siddons will find someone.” She was sure the lady would not choose Baird for a role that needed a strong, attractive actor.
Sometimes she felt sorry for Baird, who could be earnest, pleasant—and annoying, often bemoaning his luck even as he drenched her in honeyed compliments. For years, she had gently discouraged his interest in her, seeing him often in her father’s studio, the theatre, or at suppers and other events. Though she was cool and polite, he was convinced she was being coy and prim to attract him. Two years ago, he had bought a commission in the army and had gone away, returning sooner than anyone expected, claiming injury and heroism. When he mentioned seeing Kintrie there, she secretly treasured the news—but he narrowed his eyes.
“This Earl of Kintrie,” Baird had said. “Did you ever fancy him? I must know.”
“We played Romeo and Juliet. That was all. Why?”
“He was injured. Walks oddly now.” She was silent, struck with remorse.
Months ago, Baird asked her father’s approval to propose to her. Sir Archibald Gordon had been vague, but later told Maisie she could do worse than Reginald Baird. Yet she had refused Baird kindly twice after that, claiming she must dedicate herself to her family and her art.
Truly, no suitor could ever match Colin Stewart of Kintrie, her handfasted husband in impulsive youth. Surely their handfasting did not hold now due to absence, and their parting had been the wise decision. But she was still heartbroken. Seeking solace and contentment in her work, she assumed her role one day would be looking after her widowed, aging father.
But Papa was robust and busy with three unmarried daughters, and all four encouraged her to consider marrying. She was nearly twenty-five, and Baird was the predictable choice. Yet her heart and dreams belonged to Colin Stewart.
Still, time was moving quickly, and she must step forward in life somehow. Resigned to that, weeks ago she had nearly accepted Baird’s proposal.
On Hogmanay, Maisie and her family had attended a New Year’s supper party hosted by Mrs. Siddons. Baird was there too. Late that evening, as she sat with him beside a blazing hearth, she felt content enough even as he waxed on about his talents and praised hers effusively. With a few cups of wine in him, he grew bold, took her hand, and asked her again to be his bride.
“We shall start a dynasty of actors and artists. It is a new year and we share a dream!”
She did not share his dream, but a little wine had gone to her head too—and the new year promised more loneliness. “I might,” she said. “We can discuss it after the play concludes.”
“My happiness is in your hands!” Kissing her cheek, he slid his wet lips to her mouth.
Since then, each time she saw him, dread turned her stomach. She had made a mistake in encouraging him—especially when others began congratulating her on her engagement. Then she discovered that Baird was boasting about their upcoming marriage. Either she must ruin his blithe happiness, or sacrifice her dreams for a mediocre life just to quiet her lonely heart.
Now, standing high on the ladder, she wished Reginald Baird would find something else to do. She had to finish this work. Dabbing color on the trees, she leaned away to gain perspective.
“Be careful!” Reginald Baird grabbed her boot under the hem of her skirt, startling her. “That height is dangerous for my sweet kitten.”
“Kittens have claws, Mr. Baird, and bounce when they fall. Let go.”
“Such spirit, my dear. But let me paint that part to improve it. I am quite skilled. Your father is pleased with the work I do in his studio.”
“I need no assistance.” She shook her foot until he let go.
“I must watch over my bride’s safety.”
“Mr. Baird, we have much to discuss—including that we are not engaged, sir.”
“‘The lady doth protest too much.’ That is from Hamlet . I played that role too.”
“You played Queen Gertrude, who owns that line? How very Elizabethan of you!” She slapped more paint on the cloth.
Baird sputtered. “I was Prince Hamlet, not Gertrude!”
From beyond a side curtain came a deep chuckle. Balancing on the ladder, she did not turn to see who it was. She knew. Her heart thumped, her body burned with awareness of him.
“Soon I will step into my finest role,” Baird continued, “as your husband, my dear. Your father heartily approves.”
“He is leaving the decision to me. You should too.” She reached higher to touch up a cloud. Her hand shook with annoyance—and distraction.
“Here, let me do that!” Baird stepped on the bottom rung. The ladder quaked.
Jostled, Maisie grabbed a scaffolding strut beside the ladder, but the paint pot in her hand sloshed over her apron and spattered forest green over Baird.
“How clumsy of you!” he snapped. She had seen his sharp temper at odd moments. “I will fetch the boy to clean it up. Henry!” He strode away.
Balancing on the ladder, she mopped paint with her apron and stepped down. But her boot met a paint slick and she juddered downward.
An arm snugged her around the waist and lowered her to the floor like a feather. She whirled. “Thank you, Mr. Baird, but—oh!” she gasped. “Colin! Lord Kintrie,” she amended.
“Miss Gordon. How good to see you.” He released her and stepped back.
She was struck speechless, heart slamming. He was taller than she remembered, and even more handsome—strong, virile, and rugged, the young man gone. His familiar whisky-brown eyes, crinkled in a smile, were etched with new depth.
“I thought you were with the regiment, far away,” she blurted.
“Did you want me to stay far away?” His smile faded, his lips full and tender.
“Forgive me—I am just surprised. I am sorry about the mess.” Flustered, she stepped back, bumped into the ladder, and sent another paint pot tumbling. Yellow ochre dumped over her arm and hand and spattered his coat sleeve. “Oh, no!”
“It is nothing.” Reaching into his coat, he withdrew a pocket square and extended his hand, palm up. “May I?”
Tentatively, she set her hand in his. Cradling her fingers to wipe them with the soft cloth, his touch was warm, solid, so thrilling that she felt it to her toes. She caught her breath. He glanced at her.
“There is paint on your cheek.”
She tilted her face in permission. He dabbed, fingers gentle. Entranced, she watched him.
“You are here,” she breathed.
“I am,” he murmured.
“Sir!” Baird rushed forward. “Unhand my fiancée—what! Kintrie! What are you doing here?”
“Mr. Baird. I might ask the same.” Stepping to the side, Kintrie grabbed the cane propped against the scaffold and leaned on its ivory head. Maisie frowned, remembering Baird had mentioned Colin was injured. But he was straight and strong despite the cane.
“I am in the play, sir! I take it you are just visiting?”
“That was my initial intention,” Kintrie replied.
“There you are!” Mrs. Siddons came toward them. “Miss Gordon, Mr. Baird, you will be happy to know we have found our Romeo. The play will go on!”
“Romeo?” Maisie stared at Colin. His subtle nod was just for her.
“Lord Kintrie has graciously agreed to play Romeo again for us,” Mrs. Siddons said.
Baird huffed. “You, Romeo? Surely an earl has better things to do than playact.”
“Not at the moment,” Kintrie said.
“When word gets around that an earl plays the lead, the seats will be filled. It will be glorious!” Mrs. Siddons went on.
“It will be good for the theatre,” Maisie said, seeing Baird’s scowl.
“Was paint spilled here?” Mrs. Siddons asked.
“A slight accident,” Kintrie said before Maisie could admit to spilling it.
“I told Henry to clean this mess, but he ran off,” Baird said.
“My son is not at your beck and call,” Mrs. Siddons told him. “Lord Kintrie, Miss Gordon, come to the costume room with me. We will find a clean apron, my dear. Kintrie, Romeo’s costume may need tailoring.” Maisie followed, keenly aware of the man behind her.
Baird came too, but Mrs. Siddons waved him away. “Mr. Baird, you can clean up the paint if you have nothing else to do.”
Maisie’s heart pounded. Colin Stewart, now Earl of Kintrie, playing Romeo again! Ironically, her dream had come true—too late. After so long, he had surely forgotten their past together. And Baird seemed to believe she would be his wife.