Now she might never see him again.
Unless she managed to appear on stage, as she was determined to do. Perhaps he would see her perform and seek her out in the Green Room afterwards.
Her mother brought her over to a dignified-looking gentleman of compact build and suppressed energy. Her brows rose. He did not appear to be one of the ageing men of wealth to whom her mother persisted in introducing her. You would think her mother wished her to place herself under a gentleman’s protection rather than seek a career on the London stage.
Of course, her mother had been successful doing both and very likely had the same future in mind for her daughter.
‘Allow me to make you known to my daughter, Mr Arnold.’ Her mother gave her a tight smile full of warning that this introduction was important. ‘My daughter, Miss Ariana Blane.’
She needn’t have worried. Ariana recognised the name. She bestowed on Mr Arnold her most glittery smile and made a graceful curtsy. ‘Sir.’
‘Why, she is lovely, Daphne.’ Mr Arnold beamed. ‘Very lovely indeed.’
Her mother pursed her lips, not quite as pleased with Mr Arnold’s enthusiastic assessment as Ariana was. ‘Mr Arnold manages the Drury Lane Theatre, dear.’
‘An explanation is unnecessary, Mama.’ Ariana took a step forwards. ‘Everyone in the theatre knows who Mr Arnold is. I am greatly honoured to meet you, sir.’ She extended her hand to him.
He clasped her fingers. ‘And I, you, Miss Blane.’
Ariana inclined her head towards him. ‘I believe you have breathed new life into the theatre with your remarkable Edmund Kean.’
Edmund Kean’s performance of Shylock in The Merchant of Venice had been a sensation, critically acclaimed far and wide.
The man smiled. ‘Did you see Kean’s performance?’
‘I did and was most impressed,’ Ariana responded.
‘You saw the performance?’ Her mother looked astonished. ‘I did not know you had been in London.’
Ariana turned to her. ‘A few of us came just to see Kean. There was no time to contact you. We returned almost immediately lest we miss our own performance.’
Arnold continued without heeding the interruption. ‘Your mother has informed me that you are an actress.’
Ariana smiled. ‘Of course I am! What else should the daughter of the famous Daphne Blane be but an actress? It is in my blood, sir. It is my passion.’
He nodded with approval. ‘You have been with a company?’
‘The Fisher Company.’
‘A very minor company,’ her mother said.
‘I am acquainted with Mr Fisher.’ Mr Arnold appeared impressed.
Four years ago, when Ariana had just turned eighteen, she’d accepted a position teaching poetry at the boarding school in Bury St Edmunds she’d attended since age nine. She’d thought she had no other means of making a life for herself. At the time her mother had a new gentleman under her roof, and would not have welcomed Ariana’s return. Fate intervened when the Fisher Company came to the town to perform Blood Will Have Blood at the Theatre Royal, and Ariana attended the performance.
The play could not have been more exciting, complete with storm, shipwreck, horses and battle. The next day Ariana packed up her belongings, left the school, and sought out Mr Fisher, begging for a chance to join the company. She knew he hired her only because she was the famous Daphne Blane’s daughter, but she did not care. Ariana had found the life she wanted to live.
‘What have you performed?’ Mr Arnold asked her.
‘My heavens, too many to count. I was with the company for four years.’
With the Fisher Company she’d performed in a series of hired barns and small theatres in places like Wells-next-the-Sea and Lowestoft, but she had won better parts as her experience grew.
She considered her answer. ‘Love’s Frailties, She Stoops to Conquer, The Rivals.’ She made certain to mention The Rivals, knowing its author, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, still owned the Drury Lane Theatre.
Her mother added, ‘Mere comedies of manners, and some of her roles were minor ones.’
‘Oh, but I played Lucy in The Rivals.’ Ariana glanced at her mother. Why had she insisted upon her meeting Mr Arnold only to thwart every attempt Ariana made to impress the man?
‘Tell me,’ Mr Arnold went on, paying heed to Ariana and ignoring the famous Daphne Blane, ‘have you played Shakespeare?’
‘The company did not perform much Shakespeare,’ Ariana admitted. ‘I did play Hippolyta in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Why do you ask, sir?’
Mr Arnold leaned towards her in a conspiratorial manner. ‘I am considering a production of Romeo and Juliet, to capitalise on the success of Kean. If I am able to find the financing for it, that is.’
Ariana’s mother placed her hand on Arnold’s arm. ‘Will Kean perform?’
He patted her hand. ‘He will be asked, I assure you, but even if he cannot, a play featuring Daphne Blane and her daughter should be equally as popular.’
Her mother beamed at the compliment. ‘That is an exciting prospect.’
Arnold nodded. ‘Come to the theatre tomorrow, both of you, and we will discuss it.’
‘We will be there,’ her mother assured him.
He bowed and excused himself.
Ariana watched him walk away, her heart racing in excitement. She might perform at the Drury Lane Theatre on the same stage as Edmund Kean, the same stage as her mother.
Hoping for another glance at Ariana, Jack wandered around the room now, only pretending to look at the paintings.
Could he approach her? What would he say? I am the artist whose work you admired. He did want her to know.
The war’s demons niggled at him again as he meandered through the crowd. He forced himself to listen to snippets of conversations about the paintings, but it was not enough. He needed to see her again.
On his third walk around the room, he found her. She and the woman who’d snatched her from his side now conversed with an intense-looking gentleman. Jack’s Ariana seemed quite animated in her responses to the man, quite pleased to be speaking to him. Even from this distance he could feel the power of her smile, see the sparkle in her eyes.
When the man took leave of them, the older woman walked Ariana over to two aristocratic-looking gentlemen. Ariana did not seem as pleased to be conversing with these gentlemen as she had with the intense-looking fellow, but it was clear to Jack he could devise no further encounter with her.
He backed away and returned to examining the paintings, this time assessing them for the presence or absence of emotion.
Someone clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Well, my boy. How does it feel to have your work hanging in Somerset House?’
It was his mentor, Sir Cecil.
‘It is a pleasure unlike any I have ever before experienced, my good friend, and I have you to thank for it.’ Jack shook the man’s hand. ‘I did not expect you in London. I am glad to see you.’
Sir Cecil strolled with him back to the spot in the room where Nancy’s portrait hung. ‘Had to come, my boy. Had to come.’ He gazed up at the portrait. ‘This is fine work. Its place here is well deserved. Unfortunate your sister cannot see her portrait hanging in such honour.’
‘She has seen it,’ Jack responded. ‘She is here. She and my mother. They are this moment repairing a tear in my mother’s gown. They should return soon.’