Shades of Neverland (13 page)

How different was this crossing than the previous one with Mr. Frohman and Mr. Boucicault. Then, he had the whole world in front of him to experience and the vague inclination he could outdistance his memories. Ironically, in all those months in America those memories had remained his most faithful companions.

He was anxious to be home and yet scared of what would happen once he arrived. His own skin felt alien, as if he had been cast into a fictional story. Every moment he feared was about to be his last as his imagination conjured up every manner of disaster from rogue waves, to crocodiles and pirates. Interruptions he both dreaded and longed for.

Often he’d reflected on the poor, unfortunate girl from the jetty, the one who’d caught Mr. Boucicault’s fancy enough to remark upon. Although Peter had not witnessed her for himself, he oft imagined she was a ghost. Since the start of this voyage, to Peter’s mind she’d become an apparition of Wendy’s spirit beseeching him not to leave her.

Peter attributed his illogical fancies and the growing unease they produced to guilt. He felt terrible about letting D.W. and the rest of the
Biograph
Company down. They would have to recast and reshoot all Peter’s scenes, a fact the Tiger Lily was none too pleased with. Peter remained tormented by their final—and very confusing—confrontation.

Despite the certainty Peter felt that Lily would recast him off-screen, the actress seemed loath to let her leading man go. She had followed him from D.W.’s party to his rooms, barging in on him as he haphazardly packed his belongings, his head spinning slightly from Scotch and revelation.

“Peter darling,” she had purred as if all was right between them, “Whatever are you doing?”

“Returning to England.”

“You cannot be serious. Because of our tiff?” She pouted her lower lip and batted her eyelashes at him then. “Would it amend things if I said I was sorry? Because I am, Love.”

Peter stiffened giving her the merest of fleeting glances. “Don’t call me that.” Turning back to his chore, he focused on the task, deciding to ignore Lily until he could walk out the door and away from her for good.

“Call you what? Love? Don’t you deserve love Peter?” She let the question lie between them for some time before continuing in a husky voice. “Don’t you want love?” In the pause, Lily had shimmied out of her gown and was now approaching him clad only in her slip.

Shocked by her brazenness, Peter stared as the Tiger Lily moved in for the kill. She put his hands on her hips as she leaned close, whispering, “Don’t you want me? I can show you love.”

“No.”

“Your mouth says, ‘No’ but your body is saying, ‘Yes!’”

Pressing her lips against his neck she repeated, “Yes!” Then they were kissing, the kind of kisses that are full of liquor and violence and can never amount to anything satisfying.

Lily backed him across the room until the backs of his knees bumped the bed and they fell into a tangled heap. “Say you will stay,” she commanded, pulling at his hair.

“No,” Despite his answer, he did not pull away.

“Then take me with you,” she hissed.

In the end, it was Lily’s own words evoking thoughts of home and of Wendy that saved him. Pain returned—an excruciating mass in his chest—at the thought of his beloved in another’s arms.

Feeling the weight of betrayal, he roughly pulled back from Lily’s claws and gathering up what he could, walked away without so much as a goodbye. Enraged, Lily shouted at his back, “Whoever your little harlot is, she’ll never love you!”

Her parting words hit their mark, filling Peter with uncertainty for the future but leaving no doubts about his decision to go. No. What he had left behind in the West would not be missed.

Unconsciously he slipped his talisman, the little thimble half, from his pocket and soothed himself by tracing its contours. Returning home was an errand of folly and although he had moments of purpose and certainly, he was assailed by doubts. He had no assurances to believe upon his return that he would be embraced rather than smacked. But he couldn’t not go. Couldn’t not try…

He should not, indeed had no right to, feel the way he did about Wendy’s engagement. She did not belong to him—quite the opposite. And yet, it was as if she were some vital organ, without which he would certainly perish.
 

Returning the talisman to his pocket, his fingers brushed against the many pages of parchment resting within. The half-written letters were all poor attempts to announce his imminent arrival to Griffin and all abandoned for lack of a sane explanation. What could he say? He was returning to England to incur one last foolish encounter with the love of his life before she pledged herself to another? Or perhaps that he was coming to foil Wendy’s marriage by professing his love? No matter the reason, when written down it sounded flimsy and full of vain conceit.

There was that part of Peter, the sensible part, who wanted to turn around and do his best to get on with his new life in America. But there was also the hopeless romantic part, who believed his grand gesture would sweep Wendy Moira Angela Darling off her feet. Beyond that was the greater part of Peter, who could not in good conscious give up without a fight. No matter how immature and boyish, he had not done right by that part of himself.

Back to London he would go then, to fight for Wendy’s hand. Hopefully he would not damage his propriety or irrevocably injure his romantic side in the process. But the closer he got to home, and Wendy, the more oppressive his doubt became.

This doubt produced the most terrifying dreams. The one that had woken him not an hour earlier had been the worst yet. Bracing himself with a lungful of salty, sea air, he forced himself to reexamine the details.

Wendy adrift…

The waves were tossing her, taking her out to sea. Peter’s lungs ached and his arms cramped with exertion. With a final lunge, he grasped her hand and began swimming toward the closest rock. With herculean effort, he hoisted Wendy into a small crevasse and pulled himself up to rest beside her. She was cold and trembling but alive. Wrapping a protective arm about her waist, Peter passed out.

Time stopped until he was aware of something slipping from his grasp. Blinking his eyes, he wildly looked around trying to put the scene into context.
 
A ways off he saw a brief shimmer of gold deep below the water’s surface, then the image was obscured by the flip of pearlescent green scales. A mermaid’s tail.

Suddenly Peter realized that he was alone on the rock. Sick with dread he looked for the shimmer of gold, beneath the water’s surface but it was gone. With horror, Peter realized that he had let Wendy go – he had let her drown.

He had woken himself up, crying out
I’m sorry, Wendy! I’m sorry
!

Now standing stoically sentinel at the bow, facing eastward as the ship sliced through the Atlantic Ocean, he did his best to let the nightmare go. Propelled forward by steel and sheer determination, he could almost believe himself to be the valiant underdog backed by fate; as if the ship and everyone on it were conspiring to his purpose.

It was such flashes of optimism he now lived for. If only he could hold on to those lovely wonderful thoughts, harness their power to make the ship go faster, or better yet lift the ship up into the air. What time it would save if the ship could take flight.

Crumpling up the half written letter into a paper ball, he hurled it into the ocean. Then he lifted his ever-present talisman reverently to his lips. Shutting his eyes, he made a wish on the second star to his right.
Please
, he beseeched the heavens,
please work your will.
In that moment the strangest of sensations settled over him and Peter felt the urge to crow.

CHAPTER 14

The Boy in the Theatre

At some point on the journey from Wales to London the gentle rocking of the train shifted into a choppy turbulence as Peter flew through the darkened skies with a singular purpose. But what purpose?

Look! Ahead in the mist—a flash of the Jolly Roger; the tip of a wooden plank. And above, the chaotic billowing of a night dress. Wendy!

She was bound, and on the pirate ship; she who loved everything to be just so! As the plank receded Peter focused all his speed into interrupting her fall. “I’ll save her!” he cried.

The instant Peter arrived in London he set off on an errand of the greatest urgency. Being Saturday afternoon, he headed straightaway for his former haven, The Duke of York’s Theatre. If he hurried, he would just make the final curtain. Although he had missed the place, it was not the theatre that drew him; it was the hope of encountering the faithful patroness who attended every matinee from the dress circle.

Peter sought Wendy, but in all actuality it felt as if he were seeking his very self. How fortunate his arrival in the familiar lobby coincided with the exit of the matinee audience. Careful to keep to the shadows, Peter prowled the perimeter of the crowd, searching for his love.

“How romantic it was. Do you not agree Miss Darling?”

On hearing Wendy’s name, Peter spun around nearly colliding with a mass of blonde curls. The respondent, who kept her back to him, inclined her head in genteel agreement.

 
“Indeed.”

Peter inched closer to better overhear their conversation.

“The romance was extraordinary. It reminded me so very much of your courtship to my cousin James. How happy he has made you and how very much you worship him. Isn’t that right Miss Darling?”

In most enthusiastic tones, Wendy answered, “Exactly so, Miss
Geoghegan
.”

What a narcissistic creature Peter was! This was the first time since his decision to return that Peter stopped to consider the prospect of Wendy’s happiness. Not only did her intended make her happy, she
worshipped
him. Unable to help himself, he repositioned himself to better observe Wendy’s profile as her companion continued to talk.

“I knew it, Miss Darling. I have a sense about these things. If there’s anything I am an expert in, it is evidence of true love.”

“I dare say you are spot on.” Wendy’s agreeable smile was heartbreaking in its sweetness. It might as well have been a cannonball for the pain it inflicted on him.

“This was lovely,” the companion declared. “We should do this again, Miss Darling. Soon and often.”

If I cannot be with her,
Peter thought dejectedly,
I can at least hope to remain close to her each week at the matinee.
Perhaps I can be content to stand near and love her from afar…

The last shred of hope to which Peter could cling was ripped from his hands with Wendy Darling’s emphatic reply. “In truth, Miss
Geoghegan
, I expect to be so divinely happy in marital bliss that I shan’t have any further use for the theatre and its world of make believe.”

Turning on his heels, Peter retreated leaving his shattered hopes on the floor of the lobby amidst the discarded
programmes
.

“How romantic it was. Do you not agree Miss Darling?”

Wendy inclined her head in genteel, if noncommittal, agreement. “Indeed.”

She was not fond of James’s visiting cousin, Winifred “Winnie”
Geoghegan
. Winnie was a silly sort of girl whose head swam with ridiculous notions of romantic love but lacked the sensibility to temper those thoughts with any practicality. In addition to her preposterous notions of courtship, she was an accomplished talker, which in Wendy’s good opinion should never be mistaken for conversation. With the slightest encouragement, Winnie could prattle on for hours concerning subjects of the littlest import.

How she missed dear Maimie. Unfortunately, Maimie’s mother was not well at present and it was a daughter’s duty to attend to the person responsible for her birth. It was Aunt Mildred who had suggested Winnie would make a suitable substitute for her truest companion. Like most things concerning Wendy’s life, Aunt Mildred had been sorely mistaken.

Winnie was a dreadful stand-in. Incapable of remaining quiet, she punctuated the play with a steady stream of whispered commentary. Even though Wendy refused to reply, the girl did not shut up. Wendy couldn’t ever remember a matinee as odious as this afternoon spent with Winnie.

“Isn’t that right Miss Darling?”

Drat!
She had been saying something—terribly dull no doubt—about the play. With an enthusiastic smile, Wendy answered, “Exactly so, Miss
Geoghegan
.”

Winnie grinned, losing her thin lips in the process. “I knew it, Miss Darling. I have a sense about these things. If there’s anything I am an expert in, it is the evidence of true love.”

Still having no idea what the original topic had been, Wendy ventured, “I dare say you are spot on.”

If only she had turned around, Wendy would have not failed to notice the achingly familiar young man, with the piercing emerald eyes, eavesdropping. She would have marked the devastated expression of the young actor whose hopes and dreams were—at that very moment—being dashed to pieces, and perhaps given pause to her improvised replies. But she remained hopelessly ignorant, her attention focused on discovering the topic of her current discourse.

“This was lovely. We should do this again, Miss Darling. Soon and often.”

The prospect of more disagreeable outings with Winnie—soon and often—caused Wendy to utter the first excuse she could think of. It was, unfortunately, an outrageous lie. “In truth, Miss
Geoghegan
, I expect to be so divinely happy in martial bliss that I shall have no further use for the theatre and its world of make believe.”

At the time, Wendy felt pride regarding her artful evasion. If only she had realized the smallness of her world, where even the most intimate of conversations fell on outside ears and every lie had its consequence…

The dream was a lovely one. A cheery hearth, children snug in their beds, and a husband reclining by her side, reading. Considering the pale haired man next to her, she asked in confusion, “Wasn’t there another in your place before?”

The man shook his head but remained engrossed in his book.

Wendy frowned. She seemed to remember a chestnut head and brilliant green eyes, both gone before she could get a fix on his elusive features. And a name… Not James but something infinitely dearer. Like a hint of jasmine on the wind, the memory embraced her and was gone.

“Perhaps not,” she said faintly, squeezing herself as small as possible. She tried to sleep next to her husband, something inside her kept crying, “Woman, woman, let go of me.”