“What was in those drinks?”
“I need more people for my experiments. You see, they are not completely useless.”
“Oh Martha, you didn’t give them your drugs! Not without them knowing!”
“Do not feel bad. It will not hurt them. Remember, it merely makes them behave as they truly are. Watch the theatre now,” she added brightly, and disappeared into the crowd.
Thea was starting to feel as though someone had slipped something into her drink too, for this evening was becoming like one of those dreams populated by everyone she knew. Her parents, Percy and Francis, Martha, and there was the Bishop of Dartford, dressed as Puck, and she finally placed the man on stage as William Dudley, the actor who had pretended to be the zealot outside Rafe’s house, and whom the bishop had seen performing on the road.
Then an unseen drum began to beat, slow and heavy, like a heartbeat late at night. Whispers started and faded, as a figure stalked onto the stage, face and body hidden under a black, shapeless cloak.
The drumbeat quickened. Another drum joined it, and then another, all in overlaying rhythms. The figure began to spin. The drums beat faster. Harder. Filling the room, until Thea felt her skin and bones vibrate. A flute sounded over the top, its fast, high trills weaving through the beats.
On the stage, the figure was whirling and whirling, whirling off the black cloak, whirling so that her skirts flew out, whirling so that the candlelight lit the jewels woven through her bright red hair, and her gold-colored gown glinted, and her gold satin gloves gleamed.
The drums and flute rose to a crescendo. And stopped.
The woman stood still, her arms raised in a V, her face glowing with triumph.
Stunned silence fell.
With unsteady hands, Thea yanked off her mask and stared. A moment later, England’s finest were gasping and applauding and calling the woman’s name.
Sarah Holloway had returned to the London stage.
That confident manner that Thea so admired was in full force tonight, as Sally—the world could call her Sarah Holloway but to Thea she would always be Sally—took command of the awestruck audience. They might rule the country, but in this moment, Sally ruled them. Ventnor had forced her to hide, but she was hiding no more. She stood before the cream of society, proud and compelling, and they loved her, whether they wanted to or not.
“My lords, ladies, and gentlemen,” Sally said, her rich, melodious voice filling every corner of the cavernous room. “I present myself tonight for one special performance only.”
The audience chorused their disappointment. Thea remembered that Sally had performed alongside William Dudley. That William Dudley’s traveling theatre troupe had been performing on the road to London.
“A special performance for the entertainment of the Prince Regent and his esteemed guests. Tonight’s play uses false names to hide its truth, for this is a true story, and the true actors walk among you in this room. Here is the puzzle and the riddle and the game: Can you unmask the truth of this story? And guess whose tale we truly tell?”
That set them all whispering. Thea’s breath caught, as her eyes strayed back to Percy and Francis. The bishop had said William Dudley’s troupe was performing The Tale of Rosamund. Excitement jolted through her.
“My lords, ladies, and gentlemen,” Sally said over their murmuring. “We present a short play titled ‘Win Some, Lose Some’.”
Oh. Thea forced a smile. Not her play, then. Never mind. She was happy to see Sally anyway.
But in the next breath, Sally added, “Also known as: The Tale of Rosamund. A winsome lass who was cruelly wronged by two dastardly knaves.”
Chapter 27
Up on the stage, the actors took their places, and the play began. Thea inched back into the alcove, using the velvet curtain to cover her face to her eyes, expecting the whole crowd to turn, to boo and hiss and toss her out.
No one turned. No one even noticed her, for all were transfixed by the drama unfolding on the stage. Thea let herself relax, and take in what was happening.
Despite everything, her story was being told.
One night in a coaching inn, a man had asked to hear her story, so Thea had stood on a chair and told her tale to a tipsy crowd. That tale had somehow assumed a life of its own, picked up by traveling theatre companies and performed, over and over, so that even as her pamphlets burned and rained ash down on London, her story lived on. To be told to the people she most needed to hear it.
Yet not to the person she needed most.
Rafe.
Thea looked at the actors on the stage, and at the cream of society watching, at Percy and Francis and Ma and Pa. She realized she no longer cared what any of them thought of her. The performance of this play was a victory for her, but a hollow one, for even this she would sacrifice, if it meant she could be with Rafe. Finally, she had figured out what she wanted, and she had already lost it; finally, she had grown up and now it was too late.