The Age of Eric Contest
Title: All The World's A Stage
Pen name: Seamstress
Beta Reader: Suki59, beta extraordinaire
Time Period: Restoration England, 1675
Characters: Eric Northman
Disclaimer: He will never be mine! The whole dang universe belongs to Charlaine Harris. I just took Eric on a date to the 17th century.
Any fool can tell the truth, but it requires a man of some sense to know how to lie well. – Samuel Butler
I am but an actor on a stage.
For the sake of the performance, I change my appearance, manner of speaking and personality to play my part. And over time, I have become very accomplished at it. I am capable of playing a wide variety of roles: my first were as husband and warrior in the wilds of Sweden. I have performed a variety of parts all over Europe, and am wealthy because of them. Now I play an enlightened being whose monstrous appetites must be kept secret.
Once I was light; now I am dark. Once I was a young man; now I am an ancient vampire.
I was Eiríkr then. I am Eric now with another role to play.
In this incarnation, my name is Eric du Nord. I am in England for a limited engagement, looking after my father's business interests, on leave from the Paris elite. My perfect performance leads none of my acquaintance to suspect the truth – I am not a Parisian, my father is long dead and I manage my own business interests, established while playing previous parts.
London's society accepts me, accepts all things French, because their newly restored King, Charles II, took his ease in France while Oliver Cromwell and his Puritans attempted to ruin Mother England.
Now that Charles II governs, the mores and strictures of the Puritans have slipped away. England sighed in relief and reveled in her new freedoms. Creativity bloomed as society's pendulum swung from uptight and frigid to lascivious and lusty.
New theatres were commissioned and built. New plays, reflecting society's new morals, came into vogue. My role as my father's agent is no longer as important as my role as a patron of the arts. I am now firmly entrenched with the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, as a financial supporter and an avid attendee. The evening performances fit nicely into my schedule and make available all manner of ladies for my enjoyment.
This is a role into which I can sink my teeth.
For they conquer who believe they can. – John Dryden
I dress this evening to attract, to draw my prey to me.
I stand naked in front of my looking glass, pale skin glowing in the torchlight. I dab scented water strategically, to mask my lack of odor. Common wisdom of this time dictates that natural body oils prevent disease, so none of my contemporaries bathe. I do not believe the supposition is sound; smallpox runs rampant through Europe. To my delight, white powder cosmetics are dusted over the skin to diminish scarring. Camouflage, indeed.
In this new era of freedom, ornate fashions are the rule. Feathers and ribbons abound, even on men's clothing. After donning my stockings, I slide breeches up my long legs and fasten them about my narrow waist. My white button-up shirt showcases the breadth of my shoulders. Add a knee-length waistcoat and matching coat, a fall of lace and ribbons at my throat, and I am the picture of virile manhood. I slide my feet into low-heeled shoes, knowing that my towering height needs no artificial boost.
My blond mane is long and flowing, in the current mode. I will not wear a wig – why should I waste luxury bestowed on me? Why deny a tug in the heat of passion for tonsorial style? The locks frame my handsome face and draw attention to my sapphire blue eyes. I don my feathered tricorne hat and look in the mirror one last time.
I inhale and exhale, even though I do not need to, and step confidently into my role.
But far more numerous was the herd of such,
Who think too little, and who talk too much. – John Dryden
A short coach ride takes me to the theatre. While I ride, I review my strategy for the evening: mingle with my fellow patrons, choose my meal, watch the play, attend the after-play gathering, seduce my meal and return home before dawn. It's my favorite plan, although sometimes, I swap the order of the tasks. For the first time in history, women are permitted to act on stage. I like to leave my options open should one of them catch my eye.
The footman opens my door. I step out to the latest incarnation of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. The original theatre burned down, and this new marvel takes its place. I walk up to the box office to purchase my ticket. The attendant greets me cheerily.
"Good evening, Monsieur du Nord. One box ticket for tonight's performance?"
"Bonsoir, John. Oui, one," I reply cordially, with a flawless Parisian accent. "Have Lord Ashford and company already descended?" I hand John five shillings to pay for my ticket.
"Here you are, sir. Yes, sir, Lord Ashford and the others are already inside. The seating has not yet been called – I expect you'll find them in the lobby."
I nod to John as I take my ticket, and turn toward the series of doors that lead to the lobbies. Theatre Royal has three seating areas: the boxes, pit and gallery. Each one has a separate lobby, purposely designed to keep the classes apart.
Boxes are the most expensive, at five shillings per seat, and line the side walls closest to the stage. Fabric-covered walls and brocade-cushioned chairs pamper the members of the nobility and the gentry.
The three-shilling ticket buys a seat in the pit on a backless bench. Arranged in aisles, these line the main floor from the front of the stage to the back wall. Women scouting for husbands, men of means trolling for feminine company, critics and scholars often sit there.
The gallery ticket prices are the lowest, as they are farthest from the stage, along the back wall of the theatre. The lower gallery benches are two shillings and are occupied by tradesmen and professionals; the upper gallery benches are one shilling and are populated by servants.
I flash my ticket to the doorman and enter a narrow passageway. As I near the end, I hear the low rumble of conversation emanating from the lobby. I stride through the open doorway into the center of the large, richly appointed space. Cream-colored walls outline the room, dressed with wood moldings to emphasize the high ceiling. Red and gold tapestry-covered couches are sporadically placed along the walls with elaborately carved Jacobean-style wood chairs. Several candle chandeliers light the opulent setting.
The lobby is crowded tonight for the debut evening performance of The Country Wife by William Wycherley. The boxes seat 240 people. It looks to me that they will all be filled this evening. I hope the other areas fill as well. A full capacity house - 2000 tickets - guarantees a nice profit.
My height gives me an advantage as I look for Lord Ashford and the rest of our party. I locate them in two groups separated by a short distance, lords conversing in one and their ladies in another.
As I approach, I notice Lady Alicia Chesterton slip away from the pack, a young woman in tow. Lady Alicia is a plump woman dressed in the latest fashion. She is the middle-aged wife of Lord Aldis Chesterton, a controller for a prominent goldsmith, who is not in company tonight. He often works late for the smith when there are financial issues. The woman accompanying her appears to be a great deal younger, and is clad in a gown more fitting for a country outing. I turn my attention back to Lord Ashford and his circle as the ladies glide away.
Lord William Ashford is a man of considerable years and a stockholder in the Dutch East India Company. He has amassed a great fortune because of his investments. Tonight, his retinue consists of three men. Lord Reginald Montgomery is a man of middle years devoutly interested in the science and mathematics of his contemporary, Isaac Newton. Lords Cecil Bingham and Edgar Vaughn, two idle, younger men, linger in an attempt to earn Lord Ashford's favor. While the older Lords dress in a more conservative fashion without ornate decoration, the younger Lords garb themselves in the fashions of the day. Their kit is similar to mine, yet I am more impressive. The young Lords fawn over Lord Ashford, hoping the experience and wisdom of his advanced years rub off. They each receive modest livings but are eager to supplement them however they may.
"Bonsoir, Lord Ashford," I say as I join his circle. He bids me a good evening as I catch the eyes of each of the other gentlemen, state their names and nod. I enjoy knowing they all must look up to see my face.
"It looks to be a banner evening for Drury Lane," I say. "I don't think I've yet had the privilege of seeing the lobby this crowded."
"Yes … quite," Lord Ashford responds. "Maybe we will recoup our investments in this place yet."
The gentlemen surrounding him all smile and murmur their agreement, nodding all around as Lord Ashford continues.
"Know you anything about this play? "I've asked these gentlemen here, but they believe they are better entertained walking in blind." Bingham and Vaughn murmur acknowledgements under their breath and nod, almost blushing at being caught out. Montgomery ignores the slight.
I have some knowledge of the play. I am about to answer the Lord's question, when from behind me, I hear light footsteps approach. Lady Madeline Barrington and her gaggle of geese migrate over.
Lady Madeline is the youngest daughter of Lord Ashford. She has a pleasing figure and she knows it. She is married, but is not happy or satisfied. She stalks prey almost as well as I do. Lady Patricia Montgomery is the modest wife of Lord Montgomery. A lusty romp with this curvaceous redhead could draw her out. Ladies Carolyn Bingham and Selena Vaughn, wives of the remaining gentlemen, appear cut from the same cloth – nonsensical women who dispense platitudes and gossip. Their utterances detract from whatever beauty they might otherwise have. The only desire they raise in me is to quiet them in the most socially expedient way possible. Even I have some standards.
They are all dressed in the height of fashion – elaborate silk gowns with low necklines and dropped shoulders. I wonder how they can breathe with their corsets so tight. So little air cannot be good for the blood. Their hair is elaborately curled, pinned and brushes their shoulders.
Lady Madeline sashays to my right side and lays her gloved hand on my forearm. The other ladies join the circle, standing next to their respective husbands.
"Ah – there you are, Monsieur du Nord. We were wondering if you would grace us with your presence this evening. It is rather late," Lady Madeline comments.
I turn to her and look pointedly at her hand. She cuts her eyes at me, smiles and gingerly removes it.
Lady Patricia chimes in, "Welcome, Monsieur. Yes, we were wondering … . You know, Lady Alicia has a lovely young guest this evening. A cousin, visiting from the country. We do so want you to meet her." She reaches across the circle to touch me, pushing at my hand once while she talks to emphasize her point.
I hold my temper and continue breathing. Humans touch, and these women are desperate for it. I briefly wonder if their husbands ever connect with them. Their desperation and that of women like them only make my goals easier to achieve.
I flash a smile and greet them.
"Bonsoir, Mesdames," I say as I look around the circle. "I look forward to meeting her." Matchmaking is one of the few occupations available for women of leisure, and my availability rankles.
Lady Carolyn continues, "Yes, she is a rare creature. Why, just this morning, I actually saw her blush!"
As a group, the gentlemen roll their eyes and slowly move away to talk again amongst themselves. The ladies eagerly close the circle around me to hear the rest of the tale. Lady Carolyn relates that the young maid argued strenuously at the dressmaker's shop this morning.
"Apparently, Lady Alicia's cousin is not accustomed to the low necklines of our latest styles. She blushed furiously at the suggestion she be so adorned. She would not even try on a garment at the dressmaker's shop for a fitting!"
The gathered ladies react with outrage at this news.
"Does she not know that is the best way to reel in a husband?" Lady Selena wants to know.
At this point, the discussion veers to the tried-and-true methods of garnering husbands, and then swings back to the current fashion. I react to the ladies' conversation at the appropriate times to demonstrate I am listening. I wonder how much longer I must wait until the call-to-seating commences.
As the empty talk continues, I scan for Lady Alicia and her cousin. I again use my height to my advantage and find them at the far end of the room.
Backs to me, the first thing I notice about Lady Alicia's guest is her hair. It is golden, waist long and unbound – quite out of London style – marking her as young and not of the city. Her gown is of simple cut and has a natural waist. She has a slender figure, unlike her hostess. I mentally mark her as my prey, and bide my time, knowing Lady Alicia will not pass up the opportunity to introduce her marriageable guest to one as handsome and available as I.
Man is the only animal that can remain on friendly terms with the victims he intends to eat until he eats them. – Samuel Butler
I compliment Lady Madeline on her frock, contributing to the conversation. Her gown offers a lovely décolletage - one I would be tempted to sample had I not already done so. I try not to partake from the same women over and over; protecting my secret demands the use of hypnosis to wipe away our encounter. These foolish women have little enough brain before they meet with me – I do not wish to completely erase their faculties.
Finally, the call-to-seating is announced. The ladies break to meet up with their husbands, leaving me alone. As I make my way towards the boxes, I encounter Lady Alicia and her guest. As we get closer together, we pause for greetings. Lady Alicia speaks first.
"Monsieur du Nord, how lovely to see you." Lady Alicia smiles at me. "May I present my cousin, Miss Audrianna Lindley? Audrianna, this is Monsieur Eric du Nord, of Paris."
I smile, look her in the eyes and breathe, "Enchanté." A hint of a smile grazes my lips.
I hear Miss Lindley draw a slow breath as I take her hand, bow over it and kiss it, holding her wide blue eyes the entire time. Her heart rate increases. The seduction begins.
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Monsieur du Nord," Miss Lindley breathes back.
Lady Alicia addresses me again.
"Monsieur, have you already saved your seat? I sent one of my servants ahead because I knew tonight would be crowded. He marked off three seats because I thought my husband was to attend. Since he cannot, we have one free."
It is standard practice to send a servant to save seats. This ensures, at the very least, that one has a place to sit. Tickets do not give the buyer an assigned seat, just a pass to get into the appropriate section of the theatre.
It is a fine art to finesse prey. There are two ways to build desire in my marks: absence and presence. For one, desire builds with my sitting close to her, dispensing pretty words and gazes. For another, desire sparks with smoldering long-distance stares or a total lack of attention. From performance to performance, I never know which method will suit. I ordinarily send one of my servants to secure seats for me, and tonight is no exception. I lie, so I may stay near Miss Lindley.
"Thank you. I did not have the foresight this evening to do so. It would please me to be seated with you and the lovely Miss Lindley," I reply. Reports of her blushing are not exaggerations; she takes the opportunity to reveal her color here.
Lady Alicia leads the way to the box in which her servant Andrew waits. I lag behind and motion to one of the lobby attendants. I ask him if he knows James, my servant. He nods. I hand him a couple of pennies and ask him to find James and send him home. He nods again to indicate it will be done. I quickly resume my place behind Miss Lindley.
Lady Alicia's servant, Andrew, was early enough to garner seats in the stage left, top front box. We enter to find him sitting in the front row, all the way to our right. Andrew is sitting in the seat on the aisle closest to the wall, and has his coat draped over the two seats to his left. Each box seats 20 people and I am glad he has gotten us seats in the front row.
Walking into the box behind the two ladies, I take in the reactions of Miss Lindley as Lady Alicia glides over to dismiss Andrew. Miss Lindley stops a few feet into the box to look at her surroundings. The walls are covered with forest green felt and accented with gold-tooled leather. The chairs match the style of the chairs in the lobby; green and gold brocade cushions adorn each back and seat. She glances back at me with an amazed look on her face.
I smile and guide her to our chairs, seating her between Lady Alicia and me as I choose the seat Andrew has just vacated. From her chair, Lady Alicia greets acquaintances as Andrew leaves the box, sliding into his coat. I acknowledge greetings with nods all around. As I sit, I look at Miss Lindley, who is looking over the balcony at the rest of the theatre.
Her eyes are first drawn to the beauty of the candle chandeliers lighting the house. From there I see them sweep to the far side of the amphitheatre, taking in the boxes across the way. Her eyes drift to the gallery and down the pit to finally alight on the stage. In front of the curtain, a gracefully curved forestage juts out into the pit. Chamber music wafts up from the orchestra assembled next to one side of the forestage.
As we settle in, I engage in small talk with Miss Lindley. She pulls her eyes from the sight of the theatre to look at me.
"So, Miss Lindley, from where are you visiting?" I ask.
"I live in Kent. My father is vicar on an estate there," she answers. "I believe my cousin said you were visiting from Paris?"
I nod my assent.
She sighs and looks into the distance. "It must be very beautiful there. I would love to see it someday." Miss Lindley turns her eyes back to mine. "Are you in town for long, Monsieur?"
"That depends on the enticements," I reply, looking straight into those blue pools. "London has much to entertain, no?"
Another blush dances across Miss Lindley's cheeks as she looks away. "Yes, I would agree. More than I can possibly partake of in my short time here."
Lady Alicia turns around to us and asks, "Monsieur du Nord, do you know much about this play? I have not had time to discover its devices. Is it a comedy?"
"Oui, madame, it is. It should provoke laughter and other sensory delights," I say with a straight face.
Lady Alicia picks up my meaning, glances at Miss Lindley, and smirks as she turns to look over the balcony.
The Country Wife is a play written in the new style, with comedy and double entendre. I do not know much about the plot, but expect to find out momentarily. The musicians end the overture as a well-dressed man walks to the front of the forestage. He waits for the low roar of the audience to die down so he can speak. He delivers the prologue which opens the play.
… But we, the actors, humbly will submit,
Now, and at any time, to a full pit;
Nay, often we anticipate your rage,
And murder poets for you on our stage:
We set no guards upon our tiring-room,
But when with flying colours there you come,
We patiently, you see, give up to you
Our poets, virgins, nay, our matrons too.
I steal a glance at Miss Lindley. Her eyes are rapt on the actor. I wonder at her innocence. Did she not understand that this gentleman just invited members of the audience into the performers' dressing rooms, and offered the actors for our "enjoyment"?
The actor leaves the stage so Act I can begin.
Variety is the soul of pleasure. - Aphra Behn
The scene opens and my smile breaks forth. A character after my own undead heart graces the stage. The aptly named Horner, a man of means, has enlisted his doctor, Quack, to spread a rumor that Horner is impotent. Quack claims to any female servant who will listen that Horner picked up a malady in France and may as well be a eunuch. The rumor runs rampant.
Now, the men of Horner's acquaintance all seek to foist their women on him, so that they can pursue more manly entertainments. They believe his illness makes him trustworthy of escorting their women.
Horner is not impotent. It is a ruse to put him even more in the company of women, with their men's blessing, no less! The man's appetite is bottomless. I file his cleverness away for my future use.
Two more plots surface.
A country gentleman, Pinchwife, has come to town for the first time with a wife in tow and is reluctant to let her out into society because he is afraid she will cuckold him.
Two gentlemen, Sparkish and Harcourt, fight over the affections of Pinchwife's sister, Alithea. She is to marry Sparkish, but Harcourt falls in love with her.
Act II begins, and then I see her.
She portrays Mrs. Pinchwife, the country wife to be sheltered, and with good reason. Her petite but comely figure is gowned in a blood red silk mantua with ivory corset and petticoats. Her chestnut hair is gathered into a bun at her nape. She moves with a dancer's grace. She projects innocence and naiveté. Her voice is sweet and mellow, and it shoots straight to my core. She wonders aloud why Pinchwife forbids her to see a play.
I wonder what her blood smells like, tastes like. My mind whirls; my eyes dilate.
I rethink my evening, trying to figure out how I might yet have both Miss Lindley and the actress. I ponder; do I want them both tonight? Should I bank one for the future?
She leaves the stage. Harcourt and Sparkish discuss the attributes of Alithea. Harcourt meets alone with Alithea to declare his love.
I strategize how to meet alone with the actress and leave Miss Lindley for another night.
The womenfolk, with the exception of Mrs. Pinchwife and Alithea, leave with Horner, believing themselves safe in his care.
I contemplate how to manipulate the actress into trusting me.
Act II ends; the stage clears.
Act III begins; she's back.
Mrs. Pinchwife again questions her husband about her confinement. Pinchwife answers by telling her a man he knows loves her. Her interest piques; she asks him who. He will not tell her. Alithea conspires with Mrs. Pinchwife to convince Mr. Pinchwife they all need to go to a play together. He agrees Mrs. Pinchwife can if she but dresses like a man.
She is to dress like a man. She is playing a "breeches part." If I had a pulse, it would have quickened.
Women's fashions cover them from head to toe. Depending on their modesty, they may expose their shoulders, necks and some décolletage, but the rest of their bodies are completely covered. The shape is defined by the tightness of the corset. The remainder of their figure must be guessed at.
But not in a "breeches part." In such a role, the actress dresses in men's clothing. The figure is much better defined – and no corset. Breasts are loose and firm. Waist is a natural curve, sliding into hip. Long supple legs are very well outlined. Stockings expose slender calves and ankles. Hair is loose and flowing. I grant you, I have seen many a woman naked in my long, long existence, but there is much to be said for the tease. A woman in man's clothing definitely participates in the tease.
In the next scene Horner laments that he has to be around women and he cannot have them - all part of his ruse, as he is talking with Sparkish and Harcourt. I care not; I want to see Mrs. Pinchwife.
And in she walks with her husband and Alithea.
She is as magnificent as my imagination painted her. My desire escalates further. I continue refining my strategy.
Again she leaves the stage, and she takes everyone but Harcourt and Sparkish with her. I take the opportunity to settle myself down. I must get control. I turn to look at Miss Lindley. I am not sure she has blinked since the play started. Her eyes are fixed on the action on stage. And when I look at her, I feel little of the passion and desire I feel for the actress. I finalize my strategy.
Now, the Pinchwifes are returned. How anyone could mistake her for a man is beyond my ken. And then they leave. Her time on stage is much too short.
The previous company returns and Sparkish and Alithea argue about Harcourt's affection for her. Sparkish does not take it seriously. I find myself hoping this comes to conclusion soon, but it is not to be. The interminable scene drags ever onward as Sparkish finally realizes Harcourt truly wants to marry Alithea. Each declares his love for her, but they come to no decision.
Finally, the Pinchwifes return to the stage.
My gaze lingers on her form. I take her all in. I really do not care what happens in the plot, as long as it demands her presence on stage. When did I become this impatient?
Horner reenters and asks Pinchwife who the "lad" is. Pinchwife answers that the "lad" is Mrs. Pinchwife's brother. Horner asks that Alithea and the "lad" remain while Pinchwife takes care of his business. Pinchwife refuses. Horner announces that he is the one infatuated with Mrs. Pinchwife.
Are not we all? Her eyes grow wide at his admission; she stays in character as the "lad."
Horner torments Pinchwife by comparing the "lad's" beauty to that of Mrs. Pinchwife, believing him too pretty to be a boy. I concur with his assessment.
Pinchwife knows Horner has seen through the deception.
When Pinchwife insists they must all leave, because his wife is holding supper, Horner kisses the "lad" twice, importuning him to pass them on to Mrs. Pinchwife.
Pinchwife must suppress his anger. I suppress a growl.
Pinchwife leaves to find a coach, and Horner and the "lad" stroll off. Unaware of Horner's impotence ruse, Pinchwife's anger spikes as he realizes his wife is with the one man he does not trust. The "lad" and Horner return. Pinchwife leaves with his wife, after Horner is dragged away to be with the women he is supposed to be escorting.
Act III ends.
Act IV begins and it is the next morning. Mrs. Pinchwife is not on stage.
I decide to act. I turn to Miss Lindley and excuse myself. She looks at me and nods, surmising I must relieve myself. I desire to, but not in the manner she is assuming. I stand and make my way back to the lobby.
There are no chamber pots in the theatre. It is expected that one go to the street and take relief. Thankfully, I do not need to expose myself to that indignity, but assumption that I do will afford me the time I need to enact the first step of my plan.
Part of the box admission cost allows the purchaser to go backstage, even during the performance. The tiring rooms are of special interest, especially now that women act,
These guarded rooms are where the actors and actresses go to change costumes. A few extra coins to bribe a guard provide access to the denizens of the stage.
Once out in the lobby, I use vampire speed to make my way around the back of the stage. I don't know how long Mrs. Pinchwife will be offstage, and I need to make the most of her changing time.
I approach the guard, palm him the pennies, and enter the large tiring room. Her changing area is across the room from me. I glance around and notice that I am not the only man observing her. I am by far the most attractive and the tallest of the four, and I am sure to draw her attention.
I see her, clothed mainly in the ivory petticoats. Her hair has been returned to a bun on her nape. She is facing an attendant who is helping her don the ivory corset.
The beauty turns around, eyes to the floor, so her attendant can lace her in. The attendant tugs the strings and the beauty sharply inhales – and as she does so, she raises her hazel eyes. Her gaze meets mine. Our eyes lock as she holds her breath, waiting for the attendant to finish. I note a distinct flush creep across her features. A fleeting smile crosses her face, and I smile in return. Her attendant turns her back around and she drops her gaze.
The attendant wraps the beauty in a deep blue silk mantua and puts any finishing touches on the outfit. Appropriately clad, the beauty strides to her admirers.
She starts with the man farthest away from me, thanking him for his interest in the play and offering her hand. He takes it as his lips spill platitudes of her beauty; she graciously smiles, thanks him and moves to the next. Eventually, I am the last of her admirers.
"I must hurry, sir. Thank you for your interest in the play," she begins. Her voice is even sweeter up close. The beauty reaches out her hand; I bow over it to kiss it as I did Miss Lindley's. My eyes never drop from hers. I sense heat rush her body.
"I am Eric du Nord, at your service. Pray, what is your name?" I ask as I stand to my full height. She gazes up at me, as if in a trance, even though I have not exerted my will upon her.
"Elizabeth Boutrell. Betty, I mean," she stammers.
"Enchanté, Madame Boutrell," I say. She watches my mouth as her name rolls from my lips. She startles when her attendant touches her arm.
"I must run – I am due back on stage. I hope to see you again, Monsieur," she flutters as her attendant escorts her away.
As you wish, ma petite.
We see things not as they are but as we are. – John Milton, Paradise Lost (bk. XI, l. 414)
By the time I return to my seat, the Pinchwifes are back on stage, arguing. Miss Lindley looks to me, offers a gentle smile, and turns back to the action. She leans over and tells me what I missed; I nod as if it matters.
I gaze at Elizabeth. I bank the fire of my desire for her, and it smolders. She has seen me, and wants me.
The Pinchwifes leave, and Horner and Quack appear. Horner is already reaping the benefits of his ruse. And now begins the sexual innuendo. I am absorbed in the folly playing out on stage.
Horner is having his way with a woman just offstage, while her husband sits and waits for her return. Other women come in, secretly seeking Horner's attention. He takes another offstage while the husband banters with the women onstage. Those onstage are oblivious to the delights occurring offstage. Pinchwife enters Horner's apartment and the others leave them to talk.
The scene changes and Elizabeth appears again, agonizing over Horner. Her husband draws his sword on her. This time, a soft growl erupts from my lips, drawing the eyes of Miss Lindley and Lady Alicia. I ignore them and focus my attention on Elizabeth. They turn back to the action.
Act IV ends; Act V begins.
The play deteriorates from here. Suffice it to say, everyone gets what they deserve. The Pinchwifes stay married to each other, Alithea marries Harcourt, and Horner, with his "eunuch" reputation, continues his trysts with the noblemen's women.
The final curtain goes down and the musicians play the finale. The audience erupts in applause. The players take their bows. When Elizabeth comes forth, I notice her scanning the audience. I do believe she is looking for me. She finds me, looks me in the eyes, and nods her head once. She resumes scanning the audience, finds someone else's eyes, and does the same thing.
When all the players are through, and other audience members rise to exit, I look to my seated companions and ask if they enjoyed the play. They each nod, Miss Lindley more vigorously than Lady Alicia. The latter turns away to say goodbye to her acquaintances. I ask Miss Lindley if this is her first play.
"Oh yes, and I loved it! I did not know it could be so entrancing, so moving!" she gushes. The high color is back in her cheeks, and she licks her lips before she continues, "I could not imagine I would be so drawn in."
She notices during her last statement that her tongue on her lips has drawn my eyes to them. I make a show of tearing my eyes from her lips and looking into hers.
"Neither could I … ," I respond, almost under my breath. She takes a stilted breath and tries to release it slowly. Lady Alicia turns back to me.
"Since my lord was unable to attend tonight, he made me promise I would invite the group to our home to elaborate on what he missed. We would be honored if you would attend," Lady Alicia offers. Miss Lindley holds her breath.
"I am honored you ask, Madame," I respond. "I have business here with the theatre manager. I will follow on when that is completed, if that is acceptable."
I hear Miss Lindley release the breath she is holding. Lady Alicia admonishes me.
"Do not tarry too long. You know how the port flows once Aldis starts pouring."
I chuckle and assure her my business will not take long. With that, we all rise and work our way to the lobby. Once there, the ladies stop to say goodbye.
"Until later this evening," I promise. They each nod.
I take my leave after one more seemingly longing look at Miss Lindley, which makes her blush again. Lady Alicia glides over to the rest of our group, presumably to invite them back to her home.
I turn and stride away, following the same path I took earlier to the rear of the stage.
Govern well thy appetite, lest Sin Surprise thee, and her black attendant Death. – John Milton, Paradise Lost (bk. VII, l. 546)
My goal backstage is to track down Thomas Betterton, theatre manager and director. I ask those I encounter if any have seen him. They direct me to one of the wings, where Betterton, on one knee, is inspecting the rollers on a backdrop shutter with two of his staff. I catch his attention as I walk over.
"Bravo, Monsieur Betterton! What a wonderful performance!" I say.
Betterton looks up at me and starts to rise.
"Thank you, sir, thank you. You enjoyed it?" Betterton asks.
"Oui, very much. As did the ladies I accompanied," I answer. "Might you have a few moments to talk?"
Standing, Betterton pointedly looks at the two boys, and motions for them to leave. They move behind another shutter, to give us some privacy. Betterton looks to me and I capture his eyes with mine.
"You need to speak with Elizabeth Boutrell in your office before she leaves tonight," I coerce him in a forceful whisper. "When I walk away, you will resume your examination of the rollers and then walk to another part of the theatre. You will send a boy from that area to deliver your message. You will then return to me. I will be over there." I point to a location across the stage.
Betterton nods. I walk to my appointed place to wait. Betterton resumes his examination. Once he is satisfied with the condition of the rollers, I see him stride offstage in a direction opposite from me.
I listen to the chattering of the stage hands around me as I patiently wait for Betterton's return. Five minutes elapse before I see him again. He stops next to me, and I capture his eyes again.
I continue Betterton's coercion. "Let us await the lady in your office. Lead the way."
Betterton walks into one of the many hallways accessible from this side of the stage. He climbs a staircase to the second floor and navigates to his office. He unlocks it with his key and invites me to follow him in. I shut the door behind me.
The theatre manager's office is a medium-sized room containing several overflowing bookcases and a large desk which will suit my purposes nicely. On one of a series of hooks on the wall, a man's coat hangs. Two well-worn padded chairs wait in front of the desk. The rest of the room has an institutional feel - the bland paint and the lack of decoration provide no warmth or sense of the person who occupies it. A painting of the original Theatre Royal - Drury Lane hangs on the wall. Fire reduced the theatre to ash in 1672. This new theatre opened in 1674.
"Sit in your chair," I bully Betterton. "When the lady arrives, you will return to the stage to continue your examination of its components. You will not return to your office this evening. You will take your coat and shut the door when you leave." I take a position behind his desk, leaning against the wall, my arms and ankles crossed. I slip into a trance while we wait for Mrs. Boutrell.
Ten minutes pass. Then, a soft rap echoes into the room.
I call out, in a non-accented voice, "Enter."
The door opens, admitting Elizabeth Boutrell. Her chestnut hair is loose around her shoulders, and she wears a drop-shouldered forest green silk gown which sets off her hazel eyes. Her décolletage is deep, displaying the tops of her breasts to advantage. Her petticoat and corset are ivory colored, the same as her stage costume, but of better quality fabric.
"You," Mrs. Boutrell breathes.
I flash a small smile her way. Her eyes hold mine.
Employing my French accent again, I say, "Thank you, Betterton. That will be all."
Betterton rises from his chair, takes his coat from the hook, and walks through the door. He shuts the door, and I hear the sound of his footsteps fade away.
I continue holding Mrs. Boutrell's gaze as I move to the front of the desk. I stop a small distance away from her.
I reach for her hand, and move to kiss it. "We meet again, Madame," I say. I do not release her hand, but wrap it between mine.
She banters back, "Yes, and it's been a dreadfully long time since I last saw you." A small smile crosses her lips.
I ask in a soft voice, eyes still locked on hers, "Whatever have you been doing with yourself?" I take a small step towards her.
She sighs and takes a small step towards me. "I have been musing about a tall stranger with the bluest eyes I have ever seen. He haunts me, enough that I almost could not remember my lines tonight."
She is nothing if not forward. I believe this will be an easier conquest than I had hoped.
I feign outrage, speaking in a forced whisper, eyes blazing. "Madame, who is he that steals your thoughts? Tell me and I will exorcise the demon."
I close the distance between us. She reaches out to me with her free hand, makes a stopping motion, and rests her hand on my chest.
"Oh no, good sir. I would rather take the matter in hand myself." She rises on her toes and brushes an innocent kiss across my lips.
I need no further invitation. I follow her as she settles back down on her heels and press my lips to hers. I pull her into my body by her captured hand, and slide my tongue across her lips, wanting to deepen the kiss. She sighs and parts her lips.
I explore her mouth, stroking my tongue against hers. I release her hand and grasp her waist with both of mine. Her arms raise and tighten around my neck.
The scent of her arousal is thick in the air. I press her against my rigid length and she moans into my mouth. I run one hand up her corset and trace the edge of it with my fingers. She loosens her arms around my neck to give me better access. I test to see if there is enough give for me to slide a breast free. I slip a finger inside and drag my fingernail along a taut nipple. She gasps and breaks the kiss. I slide my finger out and take her mouth again.
I start backing up to the desk. I maneuver us to one of the short sides, away from any of the chairs. I turn us so her back is to the desktop. I step forward and push her thighs against the edge.
I release her waist and her lips and she grasps the edge of the desk for balance. Kneeling, I slide my hands down her thighs, knees and shins and then up under the hem of her dress. I lightly drag my fingers up her stockings, taking her skirt with me. I rise up and continue dragging my fingers upward, past her garters to the bare skin of her thighs. I linger there, tracing idle patterns on her pale skin and holding her gaze with mine. Her breathing is shallow in anticipation of my touch.
I slide one hand to the small of her back for support and inch closer to her center with the other. Her folds are slick with want and she jumps when I trace them. I do not allow her to look away. I coat my fingers with her juices and slide one finger in. She gasps aloud and exhales quickly. I stroke her a few times, and add a second finger, then a third. Her eyes widen as I stretch her, but they stay focused on mine. Small moans escape her lips.
I slide my thumb to her nub and rub circles gently. She lets go of the desk and snakes her arms around my neck. She fists her hands in my hair and pulls me down for searing kiss.
Her breathing is shallow and she cannot hold the kiss for long. I feel her back arch as she pushes into my hand. She moves in rhythm with my fingers. Her moans come more frequently.
"Look at me," I command.
Her eyes connect with mine.
I accelerate the movements of my thumb so as to be indistinguishable from vibration - another benefit of vampire speed.
She throws her head back and her hands clench my shoulders. With a prolonged moan, she spends on my hand. Her breathing is ragged and I allow her a little time to recover. I kiss her lips and still my thumb on her nub.
As her breathing returns to normal, I dip my head down to kiss and suckle the bare skin along the edge of her corset. I manage to keep my fangs at bay. I slide my fingers from her moist depths. As she watches, I bring my wet fingers to my lips and suck her juices from them. She growls. I keep her skirt raised so her most intimate part is exposed to the air.
I use my hand to slide one generous breast free. The taut nipple beckons me, and I bend my head to suckle. One of her hands unbuttons my waistcoat to find the front of my breeches and starts petting me through them. I revel in her touch, even more so when she unfastens my breeches to slip her hand in. She grasps me through my shirt tail and starts pumping. Soon, she pushes aside the shirt tail to stroke my bare flesh. I release her nipple and kiss her lips as I move between her legs. She positions me as we continue to kiss and I slide my head in.
She gasps and breaks the kiss. As I look into her eyes, I slowly slide further inside her. I give her time to adjust once I am all the way in. I realize the height of the desk is not optimum for me, and the edge will cut into the back of her thighs. I move one of her legs to hook around my waist; she understands and wraps the other around me. Our clothing bunches between us as I lift her and pepper her lips with short kisses. I turn and stagger a short distance forward. Her back collides with a bare wall, forcing me deeper. She grunts and tightens around me; I groan and begin thrusting.
The fabric crushed between us buries her nub. I tunnel a hand underneath to massage it and I feel her walls tighten. I time my thrusts with the motions of my thumb to create an exquisite tension in her. Her eyes snap shut and her head falls back against the wall. She pants with each of my thrusts.
I nuzzle her exposed neck, licking and tonguing my favorite spot. When I feel her start to peak, I sink my fangs into the virgin flesh of her neck and drink deep. She cries out and spends as I feast. With a few more strokes, it is my turn to crest, and I flood her womb with my essence. I remove my fangs from her neck and lick the marks to seal them.
She lies limp in my arms. While she recovers, I prick my finger on a fang and rub my blood over my bite mark to heal it. I walk us over to the desk, sit her on the edge and slide from her body. I retract my fangs, lay her down and kiss her leisurely, taking my time. I clean myself off with a section of her petticoat that will not show and set my clothes to rights.
She is again herself, and sits up on the desk. She takes my hand and draws me to her, kissing me again. She tucks her breast back into the corset with a bit of difficulty and fans her petticoat and skirt back down to her ankles.
I capture her eyes with mine, and speak softly. "Once the play was over, you were summoned to Thomas Betterton's office to discuss items of importance for the next performance. I arrived as your meeting ended. I offered to escort you out once my meeting with him finished," I push on her. "You waited in the hallway until I emerged from the office."
We leave Betterton's office and I close the door behind us. "Have you a coach?" I ask.
She shakes her head.
"Well, then, I'll see you home. Let us get your coat," I suggest.
We walk downstairs to the tiring room, passing no one, and I help her don her coat. We exit out the back of the theatre, where I find my coach waiting. My coachman knows that after a play, I usually spend time with Betterton and the actors. This furthers my reputation as an influential patron. I usually exit out the back of the theatre.
I ask her address and relay it to the coachman. The footman opens the door and hands Madame Boutrell in. She sits down as I enter. I sit facing her.
I ask after her health. "Madame, are you quite alright?"
She answers, "Monsieur, I am tired. That last performance drained me."
I smirk, "You performed admirably. I hope to see you again sometime."
She nods and looks out the coach window. I notice her shift in her seat. I wonder if she will be deliciously sore tomorrow.
We arrive at her home, and she thanks me for the ride. I kiss her hand once more to be thorough and I tell her that if it is possible, I would like to meet her husband. She explains that her husband is out of town but that she will make arrangements for us to meet when he returns. The footman opens the door and hands her down. I exit the coach and walk her to the door.
She stops as she opens the door and says, "I hope to see you again, Monsieur."
I nod as she steps over the threshold.
"It would be my pleasure," I reply.
I stride back to the coach, alight, and direct the coachman to the Montgomery household.
The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er;
So calm are we when passions are no more! – Edmund Waller, On Divine Poems (l. 7)
I lay my head on the backrest of the bench and plan my next moves.
Miss Lindley will want my attention when I arrive at this gathering. I will enjoy paying it to her. However, I will not take her tonight.
I will savor her, enjoy the thrill of the hunt. She will be in London for a time and I do not need to feed every night. I will tease and inflame her until she believes her role is the huntress and my role is the prey.
Her virgin blood will be mine.
A/N: First, I have to pay homage to Suki59. This would have been a hot mess without her guidance and support. She called me on sections that didn't make sense and encouraged me to make them right. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
Second, all the section-header quotes come from authors who were alive during the English Restoration. Additionally, The Country Wife really was written by William Wycherley and performed at the Theatre Royal - Drury Lane in 1675. The quotes and the play were the inspiration for this story. I would have been aimless without them.
This is historically accurate to the best of my ability. I am amazed at how much information is available on line for this time period, considering this all happened 335 years ago. I made sure to use words that were available at the time – hence, why Eric went into a "trance" behind Betterton's desk instead of "downtime". Gotta love Dictionary . com! There are small instances where I had to use my imagination, because there just wasn't a description of the thing anywhere.
Thomas Betterton and Elizabeth Boutrell were real people. Betterton was both the theatre manager and an actor. Boutrell and other actresses in this first generation of women on stage were considered "sexually available" simply because they acted in public. They all had reputations as whores and Boutrell in particular had nasty things written and published about her promiscuity. And not by her! Hopefully, I did Boutrell justice. I wanted her to have a little control. And no. Women's garments during this period did not include bloomers, at least according to my sources.
Everyone else in the story is a product of my imagination. Thanks for reading!