Fates and Traitors by Jennifer Chiaverini Read Free Book Online

Holmes,” she said, soft and clear, her eyes locked on his. When his lips curved in a smile, she longed to trace their fullness with her fingertips. “Mary Ann Holmes.”
    â€œI’ll see you tonight, Miss Holmes.” With that, he bowed and turned away, disappearing into the crowd.
    Before the morning passed, Mary Ann had found a friend to accompany her to the theatre and to provide a convincing tale for her parents. She hated to deceive her mother and father, for they were kind and honest and they loved her dearly, but guilt was a small price to pay to behold the greatest young tragedian perform at his personal invitation.
    His performance that night was as enthralling and astonishing as if it were entirely new, and as she and Molly walked home afterward, her friend teased her for being poor company. “You’ve scarcely said a word all evening,” she scolded, linking her arm through Mary Ann’s. “You didn’t watch the play; you stared. You might have blinked once or twice, but I wouldn’t swear to that, although I’m certain your gaze was fixed upon a certain tragedian.”
    â€œI don’t know what you mean.”
    â€œWhat a handsome couple you would make—both of you dark-haired and blue-eyed, his strong brow, your porcelain skin, his broad shoulders, your slenderness—”
    â€œSuch nonsense!”
    â€œWhat would your mother and father think if they knew you were besotted with the great Junius Brutus Booth?”
    â€œYou mustn’t tell them. How did you know?”
    â€œOne glance at your shining eyes was enough.” Molly patted her arm, cheerfully sympathetic. “Of course I won’t tell your parents, but they’ll guess soon enough if you aren’t careful. And so will the object of your admiration.”
    Mary Ann was uncertain whose discovery she dreaded more.
    After that, she saw Mr. Booth nearly every day as she sold flowers on Drury Lane and in Covent Garden. Sometimes he asked her to walkwith him, and if she had sold enough flowers to earn a respite, she agreed. If she refused, he usually smiled regretfully and kindly bought flowers from her, bouquets to brighten his dressing room, he explained, or to thank his wardrobe mistress or housekeeper, or to charm a leading lady out of doldrums brought on by poor reviews. Sometimes, though, if he were in a peculiar, choleric mood, his handsome face grew stormy. He would buy every flower in her basket, quickly distribute them to any ladies who happened to be passing, and regard her expectantly as if to say that she had no more reason to refuse. What else could she do then but laugh and take his arm and go walking with him?
    As they strolled, they discussed the poetry of William Shakespeare and Lord Byron, the political philosophies of William Godwin, the latest royal scandal—the newly ascended King George IV refused to recognize his estranged wife, Caroline, as queen consort—and amusing theatre gossip, in particular, the latest thrusts and jabs in Mr. Booth’s ongoing feud with his distinguished rival, Edmund Kean. Perhaps she exaggerated her role in the conversation to say that they
discussed
such things, for Mary Ann often felt herself overawed by her companion’s breadth of knowledge and contributed little more than astonished gasps and breathless questions. To her relief, Mr. Booth seemed not at all annoyed by her innocence but rather charmed, which warmed her heart and stoked her eager curiosity.
    Often Mr. Booth offered Mary Ann theatre tickets, which she accepted gratefully but sparingly, thrilling to his sublime performances but wary of raising her parents’ suspicions. They would grieve for the state of her soul if they discovered her new passion, but now that she had crossed the threshold of the theatre, she could no longer linger on the streets outside selling flowers, closing her eyes and ears to the wonders within. Sometimes Mr. Booth escorted