Chapter Two

T hatcher Goodrich stood amidst the sprawling expanse of Hyde Park, his breath forming small clouds in the chilly London air. His attire, a fashionable yet weathered ensemble, hinted at a man who had seen his fair share of debauchery and decadence in the city. A dark greatcoat, stylish but slightly frayed at the edges, clung to his lean frame, while his black hair, perpetually unruly, gave a stark contrast to the pale October sky.

The gloomy weather perfectly matched his moody disposition, and he grumbled to himself as he walked, a cloud of discontent hovering over his thoughts. His cynical mind, ever tainted by the theatre world’s excesses, weighed him down like an anchor in the murky sea of his writer’s block.

His damned writer’s block.

Blasted inconvenient, that.

People bustled around him, wrapped in their own worlds, oblivious to his internal turmoil. Couples strolled hand in hand, their laughter ringing in his ears, while children chased each other through the park, their gleeful cries a stark contrast to his own discontent. Thatcher found himself envying their carefree innocence, a sentiment that only deepened his current frustration.

He trudged through the damp grass, the faint scent of earth and the distant sound of a fountain serving as a reminder of the natural world’s resilience against the artifice of Society. It was a stark contrast to the artificiality of the London theatres, where he had spent most of his life. First as a young stagehand, and then later as an actor himself. Only after years of hard, grueling work had his talent with a pen paid off.

Now , he wrote. He created worlds with words. Emotions. Lives.

The pressure of it crushed meeker men.

With each step, his thoughts circled back to King William’s recent request—a new play, a blank canvas he couldn’t fill. The weight of expectation bore down on him, and he muttered to himself, his words a testament to his desperation. “I can’t disappoint the king, not now.” Not when he’d finally made something of himself—the lowly fifth son of a wastrel, an impoverished baron who’d chosen a quill for his weapon instead of the sword as his brothers had done. With four in line for the title before him, he’d fended much for himself. Learned to depend upon himself for survival. His words, his mind, had been his dagger.

Now it refused to function. Refused to create.

Bloody hell.

Thatcher’s grumbling panic was interrupted by a familiar voice. “Thatcher, my good man! Is that you, lost in the wilderness of your thoughts?”

Startled, Thatcher turned to see his actor friend, Edward Waverly—a baron’s throwaway spare, like him—approaching with a jovial grin on his face. Edward, a tall and dashing figure, had a charm that endeared him to both the theatre-going crowds and the ladies of London Society. Something he liked to boast about after too much ale.

Thatcher forced a smile, masking his inner turmoil. “Edward, you old rogue. Me? Lost? Not exactly, just…pondering.”

Edward clapped him on the back heartily. “Ah, pondering! The curse of the creative mind. What’s troubling you today, my friend? More pressing matters from the king, I presume?”

Thatcher nodded, the weight of the royal request heavy on his shoulders. “Aye, Edward. The king seeks another play, and I’m afraid my well of inspiration has run dry.”

Edward raised an eyebrow, concern in his eyes. “You jest, surely. You’re Thatcher Goodrich, the greatest playwright in all of England! The king’s favorite, no less.”

Thatcher sighed, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “It seems even the king’s favorite can’t escape the grip of writer’s block. Please, tell no one of this.”

“Of course not! You know you can rely on me to keep your confidence.”

They strolled along the autumn path, engaged in animated conversation about the theatre, its fickle audience, and the ever-elusive muse. Thatcher kept his writer’s block a closely guarded secret from the world, not wanting to burden anyone with his troubles. But this was Edward, one of his oldest and most trusted chums. And, well, it felt good to finally air the vile truth.

After a while, Edward bade him farewell, promising to meet for drinks at their favorite tavern later in the evening. As he watched his friend’s retreating figure, Thatcher was once again alone with his thoughts. So he continued his aimless wandering through the park, the weight of his predicament pressing down on him like a leaden curtain. The king’s request loomed over him, a daunting challenge he couldn’t ignore.

Thatcher’s brooding footsteps carried him farther into the park’s depths. The dense canopy of trees cast elongated shadows across his path, adding to the melancholy that clung to him like a persistent specter. His hands remained buried deep within the pockets of his greatcoat, a futile attempt to shield himself from the chill of both the weather and his own rampant insecurities. He wandered beneath the centuries-old oaks, their gnarled branches intertwined like secrets whispered among confidants. The crisp scent of damp earth mingled with the faint fragrance of autumn flowers, offering a rare moment of respite from his relentless inner turmoil.

As he followed a winding trail, his thoughts circled back to the enigmatic King William and his unquenchable thirst for entertainment. Thatcher had once basked in the monarch’s favor, reveling in the royal accolades and financial rewards. But now, the inkwell of inspiration had run dry, and a suffocating dread clung to his heart. He prided himself on his ability to craft captivating stories, to breathe life into characters that lingered in the hearts and minds of those who witnessed his plays. But the blank pages before him had become his greatest adversaries, mocking him with their emptiness.

His internal monologue grew louder, filled with self-doubt and frustration, screaming at him, You’re a fool, Thatcher! A fraud. They’ll see through your charade. Your name will be forever tarnished.

Lost in his thoughts, Thatcher failed to notice the hidden wonders of the park—rabbits darting among the bushes, birds singing their melodies, and the gentle trickle of a nearby stream that fed into the great Serpentine. It was a place untouched by the pretensions of London Society, where nature held court in all its untamed glory. As he continued his solitary journey, his restless mind seemed to guide him toward a curious discovery. Ahead to his right, nestled beneath a twisted thicket of brambles, half buried in a bed of vibrant, flowering bushes, lay a forgotten treasure—a journal. The once-bright red cover was now stained and tattered, and its pages bore the wear and tear of time. “What’s this?” he murmured. Intriguing.

Thatcher bent down to retrieve the forlorn journal, its presence in this secluded spot a mystery he couldn’t unravel. As he opened its fragile pages, his eyes widened in surprise, and a spark of intrigue ignited within him. The journal was filled with meticulous notes, character sketches, and even a reimagined ending for his own third act from his last play! “Oh, what delightful curiousness!”

His initial intrigue grew into fascination as he continued to leaf through the journal’s contents. The elegant handwriting and creative insights hinted at a talent that rivaled his own. Yet there was no name to identify the journal’s owner, no clues to the mysterious playwright behind these pages. Thatcher’s heart quickened as he realized the true significance of his find. Here, in his hands, lay the work of an undiscovered genius—an artist whose brilliance had remained hidden from the world.

And in the midst of his creative despair, the discovery of this journal was a lifeline, a glimmer of hope that reignited the fires of inspiration within him.

With each page he turned, the gravity of his situation began to shift. The king’s request no longer loomed as an insurmountable obstacle; instead, it became a canvas upon which he could paint the words of an unknown genius. A daring idea began to take root in his mind—a daring act that would forever change the course of his life. Thatcher knew he couldn’t let this opportunity slip through his fingers. With determination burning in his moody eyes, he made a decision—to claim the journal as his own and present its contents as his latest masterpiece. The world would marvel at his newfound brilliance, unaware of the mysterious muse who had unknowingly breathed life into his words.

As he carefully stashed the journal within the folds of his greatcoat, Thatcher felt a renewed sense of eagerness and hope coursing through him. Quickly, he retraced his steps, making his way back to the heart of London. He left the enchanting tranquility of Hyde Park behind, the stolen journal safely tucked away in his coat, its presence igniting a simmering excitement within him. He couldn’t help but wonder about the enigmatic writer whose words breathed new life into his stagnant creativity.

Thatcher strode through the bustling streets of London, the cacophony of the city enveloping him once more. Carriages clattered by, their wheels kicking up mud from the rain-soaked streets. The rhythmic din of horse hooves echoed through the narrow thoroughfares, a stark contrast to the serene solitude of the park he’d left behind. His destination was Rhodes Theatre, a hallowed stage where his greatest triumphs had been realized. There, the playwrights and actors of London congregated to bring stories to life, to entertain the masses and leave them spellbound in the dimly lit auditorium.

Once inside the theatre, he was greeted by the familiar scent of aged wood and the hushed whispers of actors and stagehands going about their preparations. The electric energy that permeated the air was a reminder of the magic that unfolded within these walls every night. Magic he, as the resident playwright, helped create.

Thatcher’s thoughts turned to the journal tucked securely within his coat. The pages brimmed with inspiration, a veritable treasure trove of creativity that would surely captivate London’s theatre-goers. He couldn’t afford to let this opportunity slip away, not when his reputation and livelihood were at stake.

A quick nip of guilty conscience bit him, and he glanced toward the ornately carved ceiling of the theatre. “Surely you understand?’ he implored, believing anyone in his position would fault him not at all for what he was about to do. “Of course you do,” he decided, snapping to attention once more.

With resolute determination, he ascended the narrow staircase that led to his modest office. He closed the door behind him, ensuring his secret remained hidden from prying eyes. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across the room, a fitting backdrop for the clandestine act he was about to undertake. Carefully, Thatcher retrieved the journal from his coat and placed it on his cluttered desk. He traced the faded ink on its pages, absorbing the words and ideas that had the power to reignite his career. He couldn’t help but marvel at the genius that had remained concealed for far too long. The play—the one that bore no author’s name—was a tale filled with wit, passion, and an undeniable flair for the dramatic. Each line sang with a lyrical quality that resonated deeply with him, and he couldn’t deny the impact it would have on an audience.

A sense of urgency washed over Thatcher as he considered. The play was a masterpiece in its own right, a work of art that deserved to be seen and celebrated. But its lack of attribution presented a dilemma. How could he present it to the world without revealing its true source?

His mind whirled with possibilities and risks. He knew the consequences of plagiarism were severe, and he had no intention of tarnishing his reputation further. However, he also recognized the value of this hidden gem and the potential it held to save his career. With a mixture of guilt and determination, he decided on a course of action. He would present the play as his own, offering a masterful performance on the stage to match its brilliance on paper. It was a daring act, one that carried the weight of deceit, but in the ruthless world of theatre, where ambition reigned supreme, he couldn’t afford to let this opportunity pass. This truth he knew all too well. Too personally.

Thatcher glanced at the ornate mirror that adorned his office wall, his reflection a portrait of contemplation. He knew he was venturing into uncharted territory, risking not only his reputation but also his sense of integrity. Yet the allure of the stage, the adoration of the audience, and the tantalizing promise of redemption were too potent to resist. As was not defaulting on King William’s request. Could he face imprisonment for failure to deliver a play?

He shuddered. That he wished never to discover.

With the stolen journal as his secret muse, Thatcher prepared to embark on a journey that would challenge the very essence of his artistry. He would bring the hidden play to life, captivating audiences and critics alike.

Little did he know that this decision would set in motion a series of events that would forever alter the course of his life, leading him down a path of unforeseen passion, desire, and entangled destinies.

Thatcher’s mind continued to race as he contemplated the audacious plan he had devised. It was a risky gambit, one that could either resurrect his fading career or send him plummeting into the abyss of theatrical infamy.

He would need to immerse himself fully in the journal’s contents, adapting the enigmatic playwright’s words to the stage. It would be a formidable challenge, one that demanded every ounce of his creative prowess and cunning.

The office door creaked open, and Thatcher’s heart skipped a beat. He hastily closed the journal, concealing his secret, and turned to face the intruder.

“Thatcher, you look positively stricken,” said Arthur Weston, a Rhodes actor and friend.

Thatcher managed a forced smile. “Ah, Arthur, you always have impeccable timing.”

Arthur chuckled. “I see you’ve been huddled away in your den of creativity again. What hidden gems are you conjuring up this time?”

Thatcher’s mind raced for a suitable diversion. “Just the usual musings. You know how it is—the life of a playwright is fraught with inspiration and despair in equal measure.”

Arthur leaned against the doorframe, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Inspiration and despair? I must say, Thatcher, you’ve always had a flair for the dramatic, even in your conversations. It’s a quality I’ve always admired.”

Thatcher couldn’t help but smirk. Arthur had an uncanny ability to lighten even the heaviest of moods. “I suppose I’m living up to my profession, then. Speaking of which, how fares our esteemed troupe?”

Arthur’s expression shifted to a more serious one. “The actors are eager, as always, to bring your words to life, my friend. But I’ve noticed a shadow looming over you recently. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Thatcher hesitated, torn between the desire to confide in his friend like he had with Edward, and the fear of revealing his clandestine actions. “It’s nothing. Just a bout of struggling inspiration, nothing more.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, his perceptive gaze drilling into Thatcher’s fa?ade. “Struggling inspiration, you say? That’s not like you, old chap. You’ve always been a wellspring of creativity, even in the face of adversity.”

Thatcher averted his eyes, unable to meet Arthur’s probing stare. “We all have our moments of weakness. I assure you, it’s merely a temporary setback.”

Arthur seemed satisfied with his explanation, though a trace of concern lingered in his blunt features. “Very well. You know I’m here if you ever need to share your burdens.”

Thatcher forced a reassuring smile. “I appreciate that. Now, tell me, have you any plans for the evening? A night of revelry, perhaps?”

Arthur’s face lit up with enthusiasm. “Indeed! I’ve heard whispers of a new tavern in Covent Garden, the Meadowlark. They say it’s a haven for artists and free spirits. Care to join me for a pint or two?”

Thatcher considered the invitation. A night of diversion might help him temporarily set aside his moral quandary. “Why not? A change of scenery might be just what I need.”

*

As they made their way to the bustling streets of London, Thatcher couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt. He was about to embark on a journey that would blur the lines between inspiration and deception, all while the stolen journal weighed heavily on his conscience. He pushed it aside and took in a steadying breath. One did what one had to do. Hadn’t his old man always yelled those exact words when he’d used his fists in a drunken rage, saying it was the only way to make his wayward spawns mind?

Christ, he didn’t need to think about that now.

Stop it.

The evening air in Covent Garden was alive with the vibrant energy of the city’s nightlife. Lanterns hung from the eaves of taverns, casting a warm, inviting glow onto cobblestone streets. Laughter and music spilled out from the bustling establishments, promising an escape from the cares of the world. Thatcher found himself with Arthur at the entrance of the Meadowlark Tavern, drawn in by the lively atmosphere and the promise of good company. As they stepped inside, they were greeted by the aroma of hearty pub fare and the sounds of a fiddle playing a lively tune.

The tavern’s interior was cozy and dimly lit, with wooden beams overhead and rough-hewn tables that bore the scars of countless tankards and merriment. A diverse crowd of patrons filled the space, from actors in flamboyant costumes to writers hunched over their manuscripts, their quills poised in anticipation.

They settled at a corner table, Thatcher appreciating the relative privacy it offered. Arthur signaled for the barmaid, a buxom redhead with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, and ordered a round of ale. “And keep ’em coming, will ya?” He turned his brown gaze on Thatcher. “So, Goodrich,” Arthur began, his voice barely audible over the tavern’s din, “tell me more about this damnable lack of inspiration that’s been plaguing you.”

Thatcher sighed, his earlier elation over the unsigned play waning. He couldn’t escape the weight of his predicament, even in the midst of revelry. “It’s as if the muse has temporarily abandoned me. Nothing life-threatening.” Though it could be, if he didn’t deliver a new play for the king.

Arthur nodded sympathetically. “A writer without his words is like an actor without an audience. Perhaps you need a change of scenery to rekindle your creativity and get that inspiration flowing again.”

Thatcher couldn’t help but chuckle at his friend’s attempt to lift his spirits. “A change of scenery is precisely what I sought tonight.” He realized he shouldn’t share more, so he added with a fake smile, “It’s already working. Those words are tumbling around in my head like stones in a river.”

In truth, the specter of that blank page haunted him.

Their conversation was interrupted by the raucous arrival of a group of actors, their voices raised in jovial camaraderie. Among them was Sarah, a vivacious ensemble actress with fiery red hair and an infectious laugh. She swept Arthur into an enthusiastic embrace, her cheeks flushed with merriment. “Arthur, darling!” she exclaimed, planting a kiss on his cheek. “You’re just in time. Join us for a drink!”

“Do you mind?” Arthur asked, clearly wishing to join the others.

“Bollocks with you and be gone,” Thatcher growled, and waved him off with a grin. “Imbibe and make merry.”

With that, Arthur melted into the group. Thatcher observed the lively scene with a mixture of envy and detachment. While he appreciated the camaraderie of the thespians, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being an outsider, burdened by his secret. Well, secrets. The writer’s block and the mystery journal of brilliance.

As the night wore on, Thatcher found himself lost in contemplation, his mind returning to the stolen journal hidden away in his room. He knew he couldn’t delay any longer; he had a duty to the king and a desperate need to regain his creative spark. The time had come to pull up his bootstraps and get it done.

Finally, with a sense of resolve, he excused himself from the night’s revelry, leaving Arthur and the actors to their merriment. He walked the dimly lit streets of Covent Garden, the weight of his decision settling upon him. Arriving back at his townhouse, he ascended the stairs to his private study, where his own journal lay hidden beneath a stack of manuscripts. With a sense of trepidation, he retrieved it and settled into his writing desk, quill in hand.

The words flowed from his pen as if they had been waiting for release, guided by the unseen hand of destiny. The stolen words of the enigmatic playwright played in his mind and merged with his own ideas. Hours turned into the early morning as Thatcher worked tirelessly, his determination unwavering. By the time the first light of dawn filtered through his study window, he had crafted the framework of a new play, one that bore the marks of his genius and the hidden contributions of a mysterious muse.

As he gazed at the completed pages before him, exhaustion and exhilaration washing over him in equal measure, he couldn’t deny the thrill of creation. It was a feeling he had longed for, one that had eluded him for too long.

And he had one unidentified writer to thank.