Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
A week later
Scene rehearsal finished for the day, Delilah’s mouth watered at the prospect of the mince and potato pasty in her hand.
She took the caravan steps two at a time—a benefit of her long legs—and poked her head inside, her eyes adjusting quickly to the gray light within.
Her gaze immediately found Flora and Dorie, who went instantly quiet.
They’d been in conversation…about her. That was what the cut-off silence and the funny smiles they were casting in her direction said.
In an instant, she knew why, her heart beating out a few extra thuds as her gaze shifted toward her bunk.
There, arranged upon her homespun pillow, lay a single flower.
Not a rose or peony or the sort of flower that would require cultivation in a conservatory or formal garden.
A wildflower—the sort plucked directly from a field.
And this wasn’t the first wildflower. Every day a different one appeared. Yesterday, it had been a pale pink milkmaid, and the day before a cheery purple columbine.
Today, it was her favorite: a simple white daisy.
She lifted the flower and held it to her nose. A light scent of grass and country air. Lovely.
Today, however, she noticed something new on her pillow alongside the flower. A folded square of paper.
Beneath the watchful, knowing eyes of Flora and Dorie, she took it between forefinger and thumb, only just thinking not to bring it to her nose, too. It would smell of citrus and cedar, that much she knew.
“Got yourself a man who can read and write. That’ll be a keeper,” said Dorie on a broad laugh.
“And I wonder who that man might be,” said Flora with a suggestive waggle of her eyebrows.
Seb.
No one needed to say it. In a theater company who spent most of their waking hours together, there were no secrets—and not much need for any, either.
Seven mornings ago, after Sebastian had walked her to the caravan and kissed her breathless at the steps, Dorie had let out a long, low whistle and Flora had giggled like a schoolgirl.
And when Delilah had laid her head down on her pillow and closed her eyes, she heard, “A lass doesn’t let one like Seb go. ”
And that had been the end of it. There was no shame. No imposing Society’s rules of propriety upon her. She was allowed to be—and if she wanted to be with Seb, then that was her business.
Now, she opened the note.
Meet me at the village path at one o’clock.
She consulted her pocket watch. That left her fifteen minutes.
The fact was she hadn’t spoken to him since that night—morning.
She hadn’t been avoiding him, per se. It was simply that the company had been so occupied with packing up camp and moving inland, at first. Then they’d been busy making camp. Then it was on to practices, performances, and sleep.
Which wasn’t to say she hadn’t been keeping half an eye on him. Seb—a man she hardly knew.
And yet knew so well.
A man her body couldn’t forget.
A man an inconvenient part of her wanted to know better.
He’d been giving her room to know her mind. She understood that. But the wildflowers on her pillow…
He’d also been letting her know she wasn’t far from his.
Determination seized her, and she scarfed her pasty in five unladylike bites and swiped the crumbs from her mouth with the back of her hand.
She caught a quick glance of herself in the mirror and gave her cheeks a few pinches for color.
She took the daisy and tucked it behind her ear.
Gentle laughter met her back as she clambered down the caravan steps.
At the edge of camp, she found him. Seb. Waiting.
For her.
That this handsome man with a seriousness in his eyes should be waiting for her…
It sent a thrill through her.
How attractive he was in his plain workman’s clothes. Tall. Broad of shoulder. Dark blond hair streaked with summer sun. Moss-flecked, golden eyes intent upon her.
She’d never known a man’s serious gaze to be an aphrodisiac.
But this man’s serious gaze was.
She could ravish him here and now—the rush of desire was so strong.
He pushed off the tree he’d been propped against.
“Seb,” she said, only half ironic. That Ravensworth was Seb, well, it still took a bit of getting accustomed to.
“Lilah.” A smile twitched about his mouth. She wasn’t the only one adjusting to this new reality of them.
Them?
How was it possible there was such a thing as them?
He held out his arm for her. As she twined her hand through, a shiver of warmth traced through her. Such latent, tensile strength beneath layers of shirt and coat.
They fell into quiet cadence on the path that led away from the camp. The only sounds were of crunchy footsteps, birdsong, and a light summer breeze rustling through the leaves of the canopy above.
“Have you been to the village?” he asked, the first outlying buildings coming into view.
She shook her head. “I haven’t had the chance yet.”
“Morgan gave you the role of Amelia, I heard,” he said. “A good deal of new lines to memorize, I reckon.”
“I don’t mind in the least.”
It was her first lead role, and her inaugural performance was tomorrow night. She wasn’t about to muck it up.
“You’ll knock them all dead, Lilah.”
A shy smile found its way to her lips. How could it not?
“So, what do you know about Stratford-upon-Avon?” he asked, changing the subject.
She shrugged and glanced around. “A lovely, little village perched upon a river, it would appear.”
Incredulous eyes met hers. “You truly don’t know its significance?”
“Should I?”
A pleased, enigmatic smile tipped about his mouth. “You’ll see.”
The path ended on the high street, and they entered the mellow hustle and bustle of the village returning to their labors after midday tea. It truly was a lovely, slow-moving village, but nothing about it particularly stood out to Delilah. What was Sebastian on about?
He brought them to a stop before a slightly dilapidated square building done in the wattle-and-daub style of a few centuries ago. She didn’t understand the self-satisfied look on his face. This building was nothing to look at. “I think you’ll have to explain.”
He extended an arm. “Behold, the birthplace of William Shakespeare.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in before an astonished, “What?” flew from her mouth. “How is that possible?”
Sebastian shrugged. “Even extraordinary men have to be born somewhere.”
“But here?” Her gaze shifted toward the man beside her—the man who had given her this gift. “You are an extraordinary man.”
He shrugged, but didn’t deny it.
He was an arrogant man, too, lest she forget.
“Shall we go inside?” he asked.
“We can?”
“I’ve made arrangements.”
Delilah snorted. Of course, he had. Seb was still Ravensworth.
He produced a key and turned the lock. Three steps inside the empty house, Delilah sneezed.
Murky, dust-riddled light poured in through mullioned windows encrusted with the grime of a hundred years.
The atmosphere was close and dark, the sort produced centuries ago when plague still roamed the country and light was meager.
Different times, those of Shakespeare, when life felt wobbly and precious and abbreviated.
It was Shakespeare with his words and genius for entertainment who helped pull people out of those medieval years of darkness and uncertainty and into a more modern age.
And here he’d been born. Here he’d strained against leading strings and learned the letters that would become words—words that would transform literature.
Sebastian cast his gaze about. “This place has potential,” he said, his voice a hollow echo.
Delilah’s head whipped around to find him inspecting the wide hearth framed with soot-encrusted brick. “Potential?” Surely, she couldn’t have heard him correctly.
“It could be altered here and there to—”
“Altered?” Her brow crinkled. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”
“Why not?”
A possibility occurred to her. “You cannot be thinking of buying Shakespeare’s house.”
“Why not?” he repeated.
Oh, the overweening privilege of this man. Knew it no bounds?
“I forbid it,” she said, firm.
“You forbid it?”
It did sound ludicrous when he said it like that. Who was she to forbid the Duke of Ravensworth anything?
But she’d chosen this hill to make a stand, and she would hold her position. “I do.”
He laughed.
From the pit of his stomach.
Another possibility occurred to her… “No one’s ever forbid you anything, have they?”
“I can’t say they have.” He crossed his arms over his chest and propped a shoulder against a hearth beam. “And what wouldn’t you change about this house?”
“The smell,” she answered without hesitation.
“The smell?”
“It needs to smell exactly as it does now.”
“Like soured apples?”
Delilah nodded. “We are breathing the same air as Shakespeare.”
A few ticks of time beat by, and he nodded. In his eyes, she saw understanding.
Was it possible that Sebastian, the Duke of Ravensworth, understood her?
Deep down—improbably—she knew the answer.
Sebastian’s step several paces behind Delilah, he followed as she took the lead in exploring the house.
Around the great room. Down a narrow corridor with low ceilings, close, dark, rife with whispered conversations past. Into the kitchen, stale and dank from years of disuse—a room that longed to be the warm beating heart of a household.
Through the door that led into the kitchen garden overgrown with weeds and herbs alike.
Delilah pinched a leaf of thyme and brought the fragrant leaf to her nose, emitting a coo of delight.
“Shakespeare’s thyme,” he couldn’t help saying.
She smiled and tucked the leaf into her skirt pocket.
She returned to the kitchen and found the narrow, steep staircase. Up creaking rungs she climbed, him behind her, until they reached a loft, low-ceilinged and just wide enough to accommodate a few cots and perhaps a small writing desk. This would’ve been the children’s room.
“Shakespeare would’ve slept here,” she tossed over her shoulder.
“Likely.”