“I’ve touched a little; the rest is imagination.”
Her face frowned up, her lovely lips puckering. “Tell me more of your upbringing, Bex.”
Maybe the lack of sleep made him giddy, but she had said something that didn’t involve stopping or letting her drive. “My father was a vicar. I heard he had a voice on him.”
“Well, like father, like son. Who raised you when your parents died?”
There was always a choice in what he confessed to another soul and how bad things would become if his words ended up in the papers. The reporters who had covered his uncle’s trial had made caricatures of Arthur’s testimony—one showing him on the stand, half devil, half human. That image lingered. Though he felt close to Ester, how could he risk her seeing him as such? “I was passed to an uncle who died a few years later. I raised myself. I had to. I don’t want to say more.”
“Is it that painful?” Her frown became a line of sadness and sympathy.
Arthur hated pity.
“So you’ve learned to be independent and alone.”
The statement was small, but like a pinprick, it stung, echoing the truths he’d rather deny and avoid. “Smell the air. It’s different from London.”
Her eyes never shifted, but the slight nod of her chin indicated a willingness to let him be on this matter. “I smell rotten egg. Is that sulfur from the coal? There is ash in the sky above the trees. I like London. The stench is familiar. In a way, it is comforting because I know it. I don’t know what it’s like to be alone, but I’ve chosen a path that may separate me from my family.”
“You’re not much of an optimist are you, Ester? They’ll come around. Let’s be hopeful.”
The furrows on her brow deepened, and she took another small bite. “I’m more a realist. I think it is easier.”
“How very dull and unromantic. Do you dream? Surely you do. You liked me well enough all from the majesty of the stage. That’s a dream.”
Her eyes drifted to the left, and he hoped she remembered the things that had drawn her to him, that they would sweep away the doubts which he knew had grown.
“I do dream. Right now, I’m dreaming of a hot bath. The water’s the perfect temperature, almost steaming, maybe a hint of rosewater or lilac fills the room. Yes, I dream, Bex, but maybe my dreams are too simple.”
She grabbed at the reins. “Bex! You’re looking at me and drifting. It’s not safe to go on when you’re so tired. You’re weaving more than I did.”
He was tired, bone aching tired, but she had done too much for him. As a man, he needed to show her he could protect her…that she could depend upon him, no matter what they faced as a husband and wife—even the loss of her family. “I suppose I should stop glancing at you. Staring at the road is a safer bet than thinking of you in a bath.”
Her olive cheeks darkened, and it delighted him as much as her hand, tiny and strong, winding about his.
“Bex, you are struggling. Let me help.”
“A little suffering is good for the soul. ‘’Tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune than to take arms against a sea of troubles.’”
Her topaz eyes brightened. “Your Hamlet was very good, but our sea of troubles is the lack of sleep. Maybe we could pull over for a few moments. You could nap in the sulfurous air.”
“The last time we did so, your highwayman found us and you danced for him. Though I am not opposed to seeing those hips of yours in a fit of fancy, I won’t put you at risk again.”
He’d done it again. Her whole face fevered. A stranger might not’ve been able to tell, but he could. It meant he’d come to know a little more of this woman who was so concerned about his welfare. “I am finding you a good sport and a pleasure to tease, but you can help me.”
“Oh yes, Bex. Let me help.”
“Dig into my bag by your feet and pull out the long pages.”
Her expression changed. The edges of her plump lips lifted as she dove into his things and retrieved the script. Lean fingers flipped through the pages. “Antony and Cleopatra.” She drew the papers to her bosom, and he envied the parchment. “Is this your new play?”
Loving the light sound of her voice, he smiled. Good, the distraction of Shakespeare. “Yes. I’ll be General Antony. As long as we are back on time for rehearsals, I’ll get to keep the leading role in one of the greatest love stories.”
Ester’s pert flared nose wrinkled. “If you say so, Bex. You’ll be wonderful in anything.”
He scratched at his chin but returned his eyes to the road. “I sense you are not impressed. Have you read the play?”
More pages rustled. “Yes, I’ve read it. Shakespeare’s plays were some of the first books Papa bought for his study. I saw this one performed a couple of years ago. It wasn’t that fine.”
