Anne Barbour (19 page)

He had said he did not mean the words he had flung at her, and she believed him. What she had a hard time believing, and therefore forgiving, was his motivation for saying them in the first place. He was keeping something from her, and while he had every right to do so, the thought that he felt he could not trust her completely was like a small knife whittling away part of her in-sides.

The notion occurred to her that she had not been altogether forthright with him about her scheme for Winifred, but that was really a very small omission. What possible interest could he have in her dreams for her sisters? No, the important thing was that there was something he was not telling about his grand scheme for Winifred’s future, and she meant to have it out of him.

Having settled all this to her satisfaction, her thoughts returned, very much without her permission, to that shattering kiss. How, she wondered again, her mouth suddenly dry, could she have responded so wantonly to the fire of his embrace? How could she have permitted such intimacy when she was still so overset by his earlier behavior? The answer came swiftly and suddenly, as though it had lain in the back of her mind for some time, just waiting to be released.

Because you’re in love with him, you twit.

She was, she noted almost detachedly, not as surprised by the idea as she should have been. Somewhere in the fringes of her mind, she had become aware of the attraction he was beginning to hold for her. She had admitted long ago, that despite the adversarial nature of their relationship, she enjoyed being with him.

He was, she mused, despite his regrettable tendency to order people’s lives, an eminently lovable man. He was intelligent and witty and decent. She smiled wryly. Admirable features all, but the simple fact was that she had lived on a heightened plane of existence ever since the morning she had greeted him in her disguise. Since then, she seemed really alive only when she was with him, and strangely inanimate when she was not.

There was no getting around it, she concluded with a shiver of excitement. Somehow she would always be bound to him, no matter if she never saw him again after this fateful summer. She loved him.

She supposed she could try to draw Simon to her by initiating some of the feminine inducements of which she had heard. The truth was, however, she was not good at that sort of thing. During her London Season, in addition to the fact that she was small and colorless—”a little dab of a thing” as she had heard herself described—she was an abysmal failure in the art of flirtation. She its beauty and its situation, but, of course, Papa pointed out that it has not the prospect of Wimpole Park, nor is the design so salubrious.”

“Oh,” said Simon.

“How fortunate that you have such a large dining room here at Selworth.” Lady Hermione glanced about the chamber, and Simon felt that the oak table and chairs, the mahogany sideboard, and every other stick of furniture in sight were being appraised to the penny by her polished-stone eyes. She tittered amusedly. “Of course, the state chamber at Wimpole Park could hold several times this assemblage.”

Simon gritted his teeth. “Ah,” he replied.

Gerard and Harry, in the meantime, joined Winifred and Sir James in their discussion, which had drifted from the theaters of London to Winifred’s current work-in-progress.

“Yes,” Harry was saying, “but if Charles has to say that speech through his ass’s head, he’s going to have to put more volume behind it.”

Lady Hermione swiveled to face the young man. “What did you say?” she asked blankly, uncharacteristically heedless of the social solecism she was committing by leaning forward and talking down the table.

“I said that Charles is going to have to talk louder,” responded Harry cheerfully.

“No, before that,” Lady Hermione snapped.

“Oh. I was talking about his ass’s head.”

“I beg your pardon!”

Jane, suffused with laughter, intervened. “Harry is referring to Charles’s performance as Bottom in our home production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

“Wye?” asked Lady Hermione in patent disbelief.

“Why should he not?” interposed Harry, puzzled.

“I was expressing my surprise,” returned Lady Hermione frigidly, “at his consenting to participate in such an activity.”

“I’ve done it before,” said Charles in some irritation.

Before her ladyship could respond to this, Winifred leaned past Sir James to say in a kind voice. “All the main parts are filled. Lady H. but I can use you as one of Hippolyta’s attendants.”

For a moment, Lady Hermione remained silent, every fibre of her speaking its affront. “I think not,” she said at last in a voice of chilled granite. Winifred opened her mouth, but the next moment had not a single wile in her arsenal. How then did she expect to attract the likes of Lord Simon Talent? She could only hope that if he kissed her when he was infuriated with her, he might be induced to propose marriage if he became truly enraged.

Forced to laugh at her own nonsense, she left the library, leaving The Song of Roland lying on the table, forgotten.

* * * *

Dinner that evening was hardly a memorable event. The increasing crowd at the board made for a noisy group though, oddly, Lady Hermione was not the cynosure of all eyes, as might have been expected. Gerard and Harry, seated near Winifred, devoted their attention, as usual, to their deity.

Winifred, also as usual, spared neither of them so much as a glance. This evening, her attention was absorbed by Sir James, who had casually mentioned his town house in London. Jane eyed him curiously, wondering not for the first time what had brought this rather odd, middle-aged gentleman to Selworth. She shot a glance at Gerard, who, with Harry followed with fascination the conversation between Winifred and “the mysterious uncle.” What, Jane wondered again, were they up to? Sir James, continuing his discourse, admitted with a rueful smile that the town house was not located in a fashionable area, nor was it very large, but it was situated in Soho, a mere stone’s throw from several of the city’s most prominent theaters. Winifred had pricked up her ears, and was now interrogating Sir James on the denizens of his neighborhood.

Lissa and Marc were seated next to one another, and in rigid silence, pushed food around their respective plates. Both were obviously miserable. Both were obviously determined to ignore the other.

Simon, with Lady Hermione seated at his right, regarded the proceedings as more of an endurance contest than a meal, since it took every ounce of bonhomie at his command not to give the insufferable female the set down of her life. Having learned that Simon was the brother of the Marquess of Chamford, she had unbent sufficiently to dole out slices of genteel conversation at judicious intervals. Her main topic of conversation was her family seat in Oxfordshire, and she reported with relish its manifest superiority over every other country house in the realm.

“Papa and Mama visited Stonefield Court once when I was a child,” she declared with some relish. “Mama was much struck by its beauty and its situation, but, of course, Papa pointed out that it has not the prospect of Wimpole Park, nor is the design so salubrious.”

“Oh,” said Simon.

“How fortunate that you have such a large dining room here at Selworth.” Lady Hermione glanced about the chamber, and Simon felt that the oak table and chairs, the mahogany sideboard, and every other stick of furniture in sight were being appraised to the penny by her polished-stone eyes. She tittered amusedly. “Of course, the state chamber at Wimpole Park could hold several times this assemblage.”

Simon gritted his teeth. “Ah,” he replied.

Gerard and Harry, in the meantime, joined Winifred and Sir James in their discussion, which had drifted from the theaters of London to Winifred’s current work-in-progress.

“Yes,” Harry was saying, “but if Charles has to say that speech through his ass’s head, he’s going to have to put more volume behind it.”

Lady Hermione swiveled to face the young man. “What did you say?” she asked blankly, uncharacteristically heedless of the social solecism she was committing by leaning forward and talking down the table.

“I said that Charles is going to have to talk louder,” responded Harry cheerfully.

“No, before that,” Lady Hermione snapped.

“Oh. I was talking about his ass’s head.”

“I beg your pardon!”

Jane, suffused with laughter, intervened. “Harry is referring to Charles’s performance as Bottom in our home production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

“Wye?” asked Lady Hermione in patent disbelief.

“Why should he not?” interposed Harry, puzzled.

“I was expressing my surprise,” returned Lady Hermione frigidly, “at his consenting to participate in such an activity.”

“I’ve done it before,” said Charles in some irritation.

Before her ladyship could respond to this, Winifred leaned past Sir James to say in a kind voice. “All the main parts are filled, Lady H. but I can use you as one of Hippolyta’s attendants.”

For a moment, Lady Hermione remained silent, every fibre of her speaking its affront. “I think not,” she said at last in a voice of chilled granite. Winifred opened her mouth, but the next moment closed it with a blink of her eyes and, for once, she made no argument.

Lady Hermione turned to her betrothed. “What I was trying to convey,” she continued in the same tone, “is my difficulty in accepting the fact that you would so lower yourself as to take part in a common theatrical.”

Charles frowned pettishly. “Perhaps you do not recall that I took the part of Tattle in Love for Love.”

Lady Hermione smiled with an air of patient resignation. “But that was the Duchess of Capsham’s production.” The implication was clear that the duchess might indulge in pastimes regarded as wholly unfit for persons of a lesser order. “You will wish to withdraw immediately, Wye.”

“I am enjoying myself, Hermione.” Charles’s jaw thrust forward mulishly, his reluctance to perform from inside an ass’s head apparently forgotten. “And I see nothing untoward in Winifred—er, that is, Miss Timburton’s—plans to put on A Midsummer Night’s Dream in the privacy of her own home.”

Lady Hermione’s smile grew a trifle strained. “We will have a little talk about it later, dearest,” she said quickly.

When the cast assembled the next morning in the Crimson Saloon, since it had come on to mizzle directly after breakfast, it became obvious that Lady Hermione had accomplished her little talk with Charles. It was equally obvious that the results of this discussion were not what she had hoped, for not only was Charles vocal in his intention to perform, but he insisted on wearing the ass’s head during rehearsal, which he had steadfastly refused to do before. In addition, he played his role with particular élan, fashioning new bits of business for the hapless Bottom and broadening the role in a way that quite convulsed the others. All but Lady Hermione, of course, who sat by the window with her embroidery, wearing a martyred air. Beside her sat Lady Wimpole, a silent, contrapuntal presence.

Jane eyed Simon surreptitiously. He seemed tired and drawn today, and left the room frequently for reasons that he did not elucidate. His manner toward her was courteous, but somewhat distant, and if their encounter yesterday had left a lasting impression with him, he gave no indication.

Later in the morning, Reverend and Mrs. Mycombe reported for duty, and Jane watched regretfully as whatever spark that had been ignited by Charles’s performance promptly fizzled and died. The vicar and his spouse recited their lines as though they were expecting a summons from the bailiff at any moment.

“No, no, Mrs. Mycombe,” called Winifred from the back of the room. “Hippolyta is flirting a little with Theseus here. You must try to be a little more playful. Come now, again—’Four days will quickly steep themselves in night...’ “

Mrs. Mycombe turned stiffly to her husband, and placing her plump hand on his arm, rolled her eyes and fluttered her eyelashes as though a large insect had just flown into them. She uttered a strangled giggle and repeated the lines.

“Umm,” said Winifred. “Perhaps we do not need quite so much business. If—”

The vicar and his wife exchanged glances and stepped down from the stage.

“Winifred, dear,” began Mrs. Mycombe, “we—that is the reverend and I feel—that is...” She trailed off uncertainly and cast an anguished glance at her husband.

“Winifred, dear,” repeated the cleric, “Mrs. Mycombe and I have been discussing our appearance in your play, and we have come to the reluctant conclusion that it just won’t do.”

“What?” gasped Winifred.

“We are neither of us actors.” He chuckled ruefully. “Well, I guess we do not need to tell you that. Nor do we have the inclination to attempt such a thing. I’m afraid, my dear, that we must regretfully step down from the boards.”

“I fear,” Mrs. Mycombe interposed gently, “that you will have to find someone else to play Theseus and Hippolyta.”

Winifred had expounded at length only the evening before on the deficiencies of the Mycombes’ performing skills, but no one needed to tell her that a Duke of Athens and a Queen of the Amazons in the hand, no matter how inadequate, were worth however many might be hidden inaccessibly in the bush.

“But, you can’t!” wailed Winifred. “You can’t just—just resign. I have no one to replace you!”

“Now, now,” said the vicar in a kind but implacable voice. “There must be other persons in the vicinity who—the Bintons, perhaps.”

“The Bintons?” echoed Winifred is an incredulous squeak. “The greengrocer and his wife?” Her face puckered. “I would be a laughingstock!”

“Now, now,” Mrs. Mycombe said in some distress, but as determined as her husband to relinquish her budding stage career. “I’m sure you will find someone.”

Having expressed their decision, the couple evidently felt it wise to make a judicious exit, and promising to attend the play, left Selworth in haste.

Winifred sank onto a brocade settee. “Now what am I going to do?” she asked in despair.

Lady Teague, who had entered the room some moments before with an armful of costumes to be fitted, moved to sit beside her. “You must look on the bright side,” she said, disentangling one of her bracelets that had somehow attached itself to the laces embellishing Hippolyta’s kirtle. “The Mycombes are perfectly delightful people, of course, but you were quite correct in saying they were not right for their parts. Now, you are free to search out someone with more ability.”