Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(8)

“Just making conversation?” Rand inquired softly. He continued to lead the way to the tavern with a controlled stride and a mild frown. Colin’s gambling was a developed habit. Winning constantly made it acceptable. Losing constantly was quite another thing.

Rosalie settled into her seat with excited anticipation, clasping the round shape of her embroidered stocking purse as her gaze flew around the Covent Garden theater.

“I can’t believe we’re here, Maman. You are so good to me,” she said, looking upward to take in the breathtaking appearances of the aristocrats in their private boxes. Most of the women wore diamonds in their hair, around their necks, on their wrists and fingers. Their gowns for the most part were diaphanous, shaded in pastel or white, cut so low that Rosalie wondered how they could wear the garments without blushing. “How did you manage to get permission from Lady Winthrop?” she asked, and Amille smiled placidly.

“She is exacting but not an ogress, Rose.” Rosalie kept her opinion to herself, thinking that for tonight she would say nothing derogatory about the baroness. Escaping into another time and place, into other people’s lives for a few hours, was worth all of the frustrations that Lady Winthrop was so fond of ladling out. She sighed in pleasure as the play began. From the moment that the actor Charles Kemble stepped out onto the stage, the audience quieted and watched him intently. Although he was reputed to be a vain man, refusing to play Caesar because of the knobby knees that a Roman toga would reveal, he was also incredibly talented and chillingly dramatic. Othello was one of his finest roles, almost as good as the legendary Garrick’s Hamlet. His face was painted a swarthy shade, his hair ebony black, his very stance conveying both the bewilderment and murderous rage of the character. He portrayed Othello in exactly the way Rosalie had imagined when she had read the play. She gripped Amille’s arm tightly as Othello began to suspect that the fair Desdemona had betrayed him with another man. The entire audience witnessed his tortured countenance with horrified delight, already anticipating the fate of sweet, innocent Desdemona. “Put out the light, and then put out the light,” Othello rasped, declaring his intention to smother her, and his wife pleaded for mercy.

“Oh, how could he?” Rosalie whispered, thinking in frustration that the wretch had had no proof of her wrongdoing! Othello clutched a pillow.

“He loves her too much. He cannot see the truth,” Amille whispered back, her dark brown eyes also riveted on the stage. Pitifully Desdemona struggled under Othello, her arms flailing helplessly. Suddenly a misguided movement sent the candle on the bedside table flying to the ground, rolling to a halt underneath one of the heavy velvet curtains that framed the stage. The action onstage did not cease even though the hem of the heavy drape began to smoke ominously. Uneasy murmurs filtered through the audience.

“Maman—”

“Wait. They will put it out,” Amille reassured Rosalie as stagehands raced to the small fire with a pair of buckets. Kemble finished off Desdemona and began a lengthy speech, obviously endeavoring to turn his listeners’ attention away from the growing blaze. The buckets, however, were fast proving useless, and the lifeless Desdemona suddenly gave a scream and ran offstage.

Immediately the entire theater burst into an uproar, men and women climbing over seats and shoving past each other to escape the building. Rosalie gripped Amille’s hand tightly and pulled her out into the aisle. “Don’t let go!” Amille cried, but her voice was scarcely audible in the ruckus. The aisle was filled with the press of panicked masses, and Rosalie was pummeled with elbows and arms as people pushed their way toward the exits. The scent of smoke began to tease her nostrils. Rosalie was filled with congealing worry. The danger was not in being burned, but suffocated.

“Maman!” she cried, feeling their hands slip and separate, her fingers clutching in vain. Before she could find Amille again, several more people interceded between them. She was being carried by the crowd, jostled until her hair fell down, and it was all Rosalie could do to keep herself upright. Her eyes were wide with horror as she saw people fall and become trampled by frantic feet.

Dimly she saw the doorway and by some miracle was pushed through it breathless but unharmed. The crowd was like an uncorked bottle of champagne forced through the small opening in an uncontrollable rush. Outside, however, the danger did not cease, for pickpockets and vagrants were already taking advantage of the mass confusion. Rosalie struck out blindly as she felt a brief tug at her waist, but it was too late. Her stocking purse had been cut neatly from her waistband. “Amille Belleau!” she shouted hoarsely at the hordes of people flying right and left. There was no sign of her mother. Unconsciously Rosalie clapped a hand to her mouth and tried to focus on her next step. It was impossible to return inside the theater.

Just then she felt a thick, brawny arm encircle her waist, and she screamed in reaction as she was lifted off her feet.

“Let me go!” she gasped, digging her nails into her captor’s arm. As he cursed and dropped her, she caught the scent of a foul puff of breath. Rosalie was consumed with revulsion. It was the first time she had ever been held by a man. She fled down South Hampton Street and then took a quick left, ducking into one alley after another, all of them as rank as they were dark. When she no longer heard his footsteps she leaned against a damp wall and tried to subdue her breathing. Everything had taken the semblance of a disjointed nightmare. In the distance she could hear the screams of others who had not been as fortunate in escaping the vagrants and muggers. Tears filled her eyes as she thought of Amille, praying that she was all right. They had never been separated before; in fact, Rosalie had never been in a situation when no one knew of her whereabouts.