A Curse of the Heart

“Shut up!” he barked, the thick green vein in his neck bulging as he flashed the knife by way of a threat. “You will do exactly as I say. Now you only have nine minutes.”

With a push in the back, he forced her into the room and closed the door, leaving her alone.

Her first thought was to look for a means of escape, but after a frantic search behind rails of costumes, behind the curtained recess and overflowing hat stands, her efforts were in vain.

In a bid to banish the feeling of hopelessness, she took a moment to breathe, to clear her head, to think of how best to proceed. An image of Gabriel flooded her mind, of him scouting under the sheets in search of the mysterious spider, his playful smile and wandering hands leaving her feeling happy and content.

“Seven minutes.”

Damn him.

“Cleopatra,” she muttered to herself, moving to browse through the rail of mismatched garments. Nothing resembled the dazzling dress her mother once wore. She spotted a white Grecian style dress with a braided belt and quickly undressed and put it on. Grabbing a yellow shawl, she draped it across one shoulder, tucking it down inside the belt.

“Three minutes.”

Panic set in, and she rushed to the door. “I need five more minutes,” she called out to him. “There’s nothing suitable, so I’ve had to improvise.”

“You have three minutes, nothing more.”

She scurried about looking for a headdress or a crown and finding nothing suitable settled on threading a beaded necklace through her hair. After powdering her face and applying rouge, she pulled the belt through the drawstring on her reticule and disguised it with the shawl.

There was no danger of the pistol blowing a hole in her foot, or in anything else for that matter, yet it might prove to be a useful deterrent.

“Time’s up,” he shouted flinging the door open as she scurried back, ready to face him.

“It’s the best I could come up with,” she said throwing her hands in the air.

His beady eyes scanned her from head to toe, the look of disappointment evident. “It is not as I imagined,” he grumbled, “it is too virginal. It is nothing like the vibrant image hanging on your wall.”

How did he know what hung on her wall?

Rebecca’s hand flew to her chest, and she gasped. “It was you. You were the one who ruined my mother’s painting. You broke into my home with Frederick and scared me half to death.”

“It was a shame you missed the fun,” he snorted. “Freddie thought you were making a fool of yourself with your Egyptian scholar and so came to snoop. I was merely hoping to cause you some distress. Discovering the painting of Dorothea Carmichael was a pleasant surprise.”

Tears threatened to fall, yet she managed to hold them at bay. How could he be so callous, so cruel?

“You might have ruined my mother’s portrait, but you will never ruin her memory.” Then another thought struck her. “Does Frederick know what you did to the painting?”

He laughed though his face remained impassive. “The boy’s a fool and often struggles to place one foot in front of the other. He has no idea I plan to destroy him. Although that was before a far more rewarding prospect presented itself.”

“You mean me?”

With a wave of his knife, he gestured towards the corridor. “If I were to reveal all to you now it would spoil the performance. The climax of a tragedy is far more dramatic when merged with suspense.”

Moving behind her, he maneuvered her back to the auditorium and forced her to stand opposite him at the front of the stage.

“We will begin with the entrance of Anthony and Cleopatra, or as I prefer to call it, the entrance of Lord Wellford and Miss Carmichael,” he said sounding like the narrator. “In the play, Philo explains that Anthony is ‘transformed into a strumpet’s fool’ and so that will be the basis for my story.”

Rebecca stared at him, baffled as to why he intended to compare the relationship of her parents to those of characters in a Shakespeare play.

“You will play your mother,” he said, his lip curling upwards to show his disdain. “You will play a harlot, a deceiver, a consummate actress whose emotion lacks any genuine warmth.”

The insult caused her chest to tighten even though his description bore no resemblance to the mother she knew.

“Allow me to set the scene,” he continued. “Your father is a man of prominence; a man sought after to offer guidance by the manager of a playhouse, who wishes to give an authentic portrayal of Egypt.”

Rebecca frowned. “You obviously know that is how my parents met. My father helped explain the history and culture to the performers.”