Wednesday dawned with a clear day. A promising omen and Kate needed it.
Today, she would either be a success or ruined. She’d know by nine that evening which one it was.
She and friends arrived at Drury Lane by ten. The performance would be at six and the doors opened at five. She was surprised that there was already a crowd gathered in front of the theater.
“Do you suppose this many people are anxious to seeThe Tempest?” she asked Silas.
“I’m looking for turnips,” he answered.
Kate was herself.
Nor was Mr. Arnold particularly relaxed. “It is the publicity,” he said as if trying to convince himself. “All the talk has people interested.”
“Of course that is true.” Kate tried to sound confident.
Another actor did not show without word. It was late afternoon before they realized he wasn’t coming.
Robbie claimed he could don a wig and play the very small part before returning to Ferdinand. Kate agreed, thankful for the courage of those who did show up for her. No actor liked being attacked while on stage. London’s audiences could be the most hostile in the world. They considered themselves part of the entertainment if they weren’t happy. It took courage to play before angry people.
Certainly it was going to take all the courage Kate had.
As the hour approached five, she put on her costume. She always felt there was a bit of ritual to taking on a character and the costume was the most important part.
She and Mary had refashioned one of her Juno gowns into a fairy dress by sewing layers of gold, blue, and green ribbons. Mary had created a crown of greenery and Kate wore her hair curling down around her.
When they had both finished dressing, Mary as Miranda left to go over one of her scenes with Robbie. “He’s nervous. I am as well,” she confessed before slipping out the door.
Kate relished this moment alone. Ariel was one of her favorite characters. Shakespeare referred to her as an “airy spirit.” He also referred to Ariel as a male, but Kate was ignoring that direction. She also chose to play Ariel as a reluctant, almost rebellious collaborator with Prospero. She believed her changes gave the character more depth, which could be troubling if the audience expected a more traditional playing of the role. What had seemed bold two weeks ago now appeared foolhardy.
“One week,” she said to herself. That was all the time she was committed to this role. She needed good houses for one week. Then she could pay off the theater and have enough to decide what she wanted to do in the future... because she discovered she was losing her taste for the stage.
For years, she’d battled petty rivalries, small jealousies, and disappearing actors. She’d slept on a cot and gone without eating. She’d endured insults—and for what? Because she liked to playact?
She looked at her fairy reflection in the glass and wondered if perhaps there wasn’t something else out there for her? She’d never asked that question before—
A knock sounded on the door. Assuming it was Mr. Arnold to tell her how full the house was, she said, “Come in.”
The handle turned. The door slowly opened and in the glass she saw Brandon Balfour standing behind her.
Kate stood paralyzed. He looked good. Too good.
He was dressed in black evening attire. He held a bouquet of roses. Lush, vibrant roses. The scent swirled through the air.
She turned. Her first impulse was to run into his arms, and then she remembered how cruel she had been at their last meeting. He’d offered his heart and she’d refused him.
“Hello,” she managed. It was hard to speak past the shame in her throat.
He appeared to feel as awkward as she did. They both acted rooted to the floor. “I wanted to let you know I was here,” he said. There was a beat and then he added, “I bought these for you.”
She nodded without looking at them. “They are beautiful.”
They both stared at the flowers. She found it was easier than meeting his eyes that always seemed to look right into her soul.
Silence fell heavy upon them, and when she could stand it no more, she started, “Brandon—” just as he said, “Kate—” as if he, too, had felt an urge to reach out to her.
They stopped, went still. At last, she met his gaze. “Brandon, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I was rigid the last time we were together. I’m sorry that I cut you off.”
He walked to her then, intent upon her. “I’m not sorry.” He stopped a foot away from her. She wanted him closer and yet something prevented her from taking the action herself.
