Page 85 of Dukes All Night Long
She gathered her things and descended the stairs. The empty and quiet hall, once bleak and cold, now looked resigned to its fate. There wasn’t any music or chatter echoing from the stage. The troupe was taking advantage of the lull that preceded every opening night. She’d always done the same.
William came in as she was going out. He removed his hat. His silver hair sprang free, and his bright blue eyes sparkled. “Good morning, Zara. You’re out early.”
“Good morning, William. I have an appointment, but I shouldn’t be long.” She hoped her smile looked real and he wouldn’t see the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. If he did, he’d assume they were born of grief. Which they were.
For the wrong man.
He put a gentle hand on her arm. “I won’t keep you, lass, but… it does my heart good to see you out of black.” He squeezed. “And hearing you sing again… It touches my soul. Always has.”
She kissed William’s cheek. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
Drat and damn. She was going to cry, and if she started, she’d never stop.
She’d arrive at the bank as a drippy, blotchy mess, every inch the grieving widow, forced to right a husband’s—or a lover’s—wrong.
It was such a trite third-act conflict that she’d begged Edgar and Andrew to stop writing them.
If she refused to do it on stage, she shouldn’t do it in real life either.
“Could you stop a hansom for me, please?” She had enough coins in her purse for the fare.
William strode to the curb and raised his arm like a knight sent to slay a dragon. He accomplished his quest within a minute.
Zara gave the driver the address. She knew better than to worry that William would gossip. Nothing from the front of the house ever reached backstage.
The streets bustled with daily traffic. Pedestrians rushed between carts and carriages, willing to risk their lives to reach their destinations. A bright poster on a news board caught her eye—an announcement Benjamin had painted for their opening night, blaring her return to the stage.
Opening night. In a few hours, she was going to have to take the stage and declare the duchess’s love for her duke and rail about his dishonesty. It would be easy to make the audience believe it because the emotions were honest.
Where she would fail would be the comedy they expected—and the reconciliation at the end. Love conquers all wasn’t honest. Not for her.
The driver stopped at the door, and a young boy scrambled down to open the door and lower the stairs for her before offering her his small hand.
His freckled face was scrubbed clean, as were his nails, and his red hair shone like the coin Zara placed in his palm as she thanked him for his assistance.
She stood at the bottom of the shallow steps leading to the bank’s entrance and craned to see the tops of the pillars serving as sentries protecting other people’s money. She needed to climb, but her feet refused to move.
“Keep to your timing and hit your mark,” she muttered—Edgar’s favorite advice—as she took the first step. He’d meant music, of course, but it worked here as well.
Mr. Grimm, the banker whom her husband had both courted and dodged, was waiting near the door.
“Mrs. Blake. So good of you to come.” He spoke with a solemnity more suited to a vicar or an undertaker. “If you’ll follow me?”
He ushered her into his office and closed the door before guiding her to a chair as though she couldn’t find it herself. The sales contract lay in front of her, and an ink pot was already open.
“If you’ll sign here, Mrs. Blake.” His hand brushed her arm as he pointed to the line above Edgar’s name.
She glanced over her shoulder and into the banker’s bespectacled face. He was far too close for propriety. “I’ll read it first, Mr. Grimm. Please take a seat.”
“You might have questions with the terms and requirements. It would be easier for me to indicate—”
“And it will be easier for me to ask those questions if I don’t have to crane my neck like an owl to see you.” Or feel your breath on my ear.
He sat in the adjacent chair, and she began reading the contract. “Whereas Waxman, Grundel and Ross agree to pay Zara Blake, the widow of Edgar Blake, the sum of…”
Whereas Zara Blake’s family considered her a disappointment, or worse.
Whereas Edgar Blake had treated her as a princess in search of a pedestal—one he couldn’t afford.
Whereas Mr. Grimm believed her to be a brainless young bride overwhelmed by responsibility and bereft of good sense.
Whereas Silas Archer, the man she loved, thought her heartless and cruel.
“Therefore, Zara Blake does hereby…”
Hereby…
She dipped the pen in the ink and slashed through a sentence like the diva she was. “We won’t transfer ownership until the season is finished and the house emptied.”
“Given past crowds, a season will not be profitable enough to keep you in the black, and the offer—the generous offer—is for everything outside your personal possessions.” Grimm tapped his finger beside a paragraph and left a shadow of an ink stain behind. “Nothing is to leave the property.”
Benjamin’s set paintings, Daisy’s favorite dresses, William’s tea set—all left behind and sold at an auction she was trying to avoid. Zara marked through that provision as well. “That is unacceptable. The price can be lowered.”
“Young lady, you do not grasp how dire your circumstances are.”
He sounded like her brother when he’d tried to force her into marriage. “I grasp them quite well.” She also grasped his frustration that she wouldn’t sign away her home and vanish into nothing.
Her home .
Zara had left her parents’ house to find a future of her own making. While she grieved the separation from her family, she’d never looked back. Now she was running away from home .
She placed the pen on the desk and capped the ink pot.
Trust your breath, find your voice, Edgar’s ghost whispered.
We’ll find a way. Silas’s reassurance wrapped around her, as warm as his arms had been while they slept.
Zara tore the contract into pieces. “No, Mr. Grimm.” She stood and walked to the door on shaking knees, avoiding his grasp and ignoring his protests. “You’ll have payment on my note before the due date.”
Once on the street, she drew a deep breath. Then another, slower one. Her stomach flipped, and her midnight snack of ham and cheese threatened to reappear. At the same time, possibility hummed beneath her skin, pushing her to move forward.
The future wouldn’t be easy. She’d have to alter Edgar’s vision—and argue with Silas over his. They might do all this and fail anyway. She still might lose everything.
Rather than pedestrians on the street, Zara saw the look on Silas’s face before he walked out her door. Guilt washed over her, and not just because she’d disappointed him. She’d turned her back on the faith he had in her.
When she reached the park nearest to home, she found a bench under a tree and sat.
“Edgar?” Zara stared into the leaves and the pieces of blue sky blinking through when the breeze shifted. If anyone drew close, they’d think her mad, but she’d always gone to Edgar for advice. She might not be in this mess if she’d talked with him sooner.
“Darling, we can’t keep afloat your way any longer. We must change. I want to try Silas’s plan.” She was lying. She’d never lied to Edgar about anything. “I want Silas, darling, even if it’s all a gamble.”
The birds sang overhead, and the limbs creaked as they swayed in the breeze. Footsteps tapped against the cobbles. Some even and quick, some shuffling. One set added a rhythmic third beat. A cane. Edgar had always carried a cane.
Have faith, my girl . You can do anything, have anything, you set your mind to.
“Thank you, darling,” she whispered. “Thank you for everything.”
She lowered her gaze and blotted her tears with her handkerchief. Across the way sat a flower cart with a thin girl watching everyone pass by.
Zara left the bench and gathered her skirt so she could move before she changed her mind. “Excuse me,” she said as she approached the cart, “do you have violets?”
“Yes, miss.” The bright hopefulness in the girl’s smile was almost heartbreaking. “Would you like a small nosegay? They’re only a shilling.”
Zara reached into her bag and found two coins, which weren’t enough for her plan.
“I’d like all the violets you have, but I’ll need them delivered to the Henrietta Street Opera House.
I’ll need them as soon as possible.” She also found a ticket to the opera.
Edgar had always insisted on carrying them.
She offered it to the flower girl. “Tell William that Zara sent you. He’ll pay you for the flowers and show you to your seat. ”
The girl recoiled. “I don’t own a dress fit for anything grand.”
“It will be fine, I promise.” Zara pressed the ticket into the girl’s hand. “We’re not that kind of opera.”
Then she hurried away. She had a performance to give, an apology to make, and a life to begin.
All at the same time.