The play was indeed excellent, and the players well-rehearsed. Annabel was captivated by the opening act and immediately sympathized with Desdemona, whose papa turned against her for choosing love. She likened the evil Iago to her nemesis, Lord Craventhorp, and by the end of the third act, her anxiety was so great that she sat with her gloved fingers digging into the bare wrist of the opposite hand.
“If you wish to leave, I will not object,” Henry whispered during a brief intermission when the curtain lowered.
“Leave?” She frowned. “Never! Imustsee what happens. I am certain that good will beat evil; it always does, doesn’t it?”
“All will be right in the end but not before a costly price is extracted from those involved. It’s a tragedy, remember—”
“The curtain’s rising. It’s starting again!” She edged toward the front of her seat and gripped the railing that bordered the box.
Nausea rose in her throat as Iago’s false whispers flamed Othello’s doubt, and she shrank back in her seat when, consumed with jealousy, he struck Desdemona across the face for the first time.
Henry shifted in his seat beside her. She straightened her back and forced a smile at him, determined to prove that her emotions remained unaffected. But nothing could have prepared her for Desdemona’s murder. Watching the actress struggle for air as her stage husband pinned her under a pillow brought back the helplessness she’d felt when Lord Craventhorp pinned her in place in Lady Dawley’s Garden. She recalled his tight grip on her arm and spiteful whisper in her ear and could easily imagine herself under the pillow, pleading for her life. The viscount had trapped her using one hand as easily as a child trapped a butterfly’s wing between two fingers. If he’d wanted to murder her, she’d be as helpless as Desdemona.
She inadvertently sought comfort, reaching for Henry’s hand in the darkness.
He took hold of it and clasped it in his.
As soon as the shock wore off, she retracted her hand, grateful for the theater’s darkness.
“I’m sorry,” she said when they were outside, walking toward her lodgings. “I don’t know what came over me. I behaved…I hope you can forgive me.”
“Forgive you? There’s nothing to forgive,” he said. “It’s a difficult play to watch. I’m not surprised it scared you.”
“You tried to warn me.” They stopped outside the seamstress’s shop on Orange Street. “But…Well, I can be insufferably opinionated sometimes.” Despite the darkness and stillness of the street, she lowered her gaze to hide her embarrassment.
Henry lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Don’t apologize for voicing your opinion—not to me, anyway.”
They stood so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her lips, and her mouth trembled in response.
“Anne,” he leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers.
She arched toward him, wanting more of him—more of his fresh scent, more of his touch, and more of his lips against hers.
Chapter Twelve
Sweet, baby, sleep; what ails mydear,
What ails my darling thus tocry?
Be still, my child, and lend thineear,
To hear me sing thylullaby.
My pretty lamb, forbear toweep;
Be still, my dear; sweet baby,sleep.
—George Wither,A RockingHymn
Slipping inside Mrs.Taylor’s dark and silent shop, Annabel closed the door as quietly as she could and then leaned against it to catch her breath and steady her drumming heart. Clutching Rupert’s wrapped gift in one hand, she touched her lips with the other, still in awe of the kiss and the tingling sensation that had awakened them to a new purpose. Henry’s mouth had become one with hers—so smoothly and effortlessly that she doubted her lips would ever be whole without his again.
She floated, rather than walked into the darkness, grateful that Mrs. Taylor and Rupert had already retired for the night upstairs. It wasn’t unusual for Mrs. Taylor to keep a fire burning downstairs while she stayed up late, hunched over her sewing. And Annabel was grateful to see Mrs. Taylor’s empty chair and the dying embers in the grate. The darkness would keep her secret and let her relive and relish the kiss in private. She put down Rupert’s parcel and hummed to herself as she picked up scraps of material from the floor and deposited them in a small mound on the table.
Mrs. Taylor’s shop isn’t usually messy.Annabel eyed the mountain of scraps and frowned. Scanning the room, her gaze fell on a half-sewn dress pinned in the sewing machine.
It’s not like Mrs. Taylor to leave her work half finished.
She stepped closer to the sewing machine. A basket of needles lay turned over on the floor, and the normally neat pile of clothing waiting to be mended lay scattered nearby. Gooseflesh rose on Annabel’s arms.
