Anne Barbour (9 page)

“No, no,” said Winifred once more. “You must sound as though you are happy to be with Hermia, although you are sad because of the impediment to your love. Yet, tender, withal.”

With an impatient gesture, Simon read the line once more, his voice lightening only marginally. Jane giggled. Catching his eye, she sobered immediately, but the twinkle lurking in the depths of her gray eyes was not dispelled.

“I’m sorry, Simon, but for an impetuous swain, you sound more as though you are being led to the gallows.”

“I told you, I have no talent for this sort of thing,” he said testily.

“Well, never mind.” Winifred waved her hand. “Let us go on.”

“ ‘Belike for want of rain, which I could well beteem them from the tempest of mine eyes,’ ” read Jane, extending a hand to Simon. Gingerly, he seated himself next to her.

“ ‘Ay me!’ ” he began.

“Oh, you must sit much closer to her,” interposed Winifred. “You are lovers, after all. Do put your arm about her shoulders. Thus.” She pushed Simon up against Jane and, picking up his arm as though it were a feather boa, draped it across Jane’s shoulders.

Turning her head, Jane found herself staring into his eyes. The warmth of his breath on her cheek seemed to spread all the way to her toes, and her composure fled. She felt a tide of heat rise to her cheeks. She could not recall ever being this close to a man before, even in the dance, and she was finding the experience rather shattering.

“ ‘Ay me!’ ” Simon repeated in an unsteady voice, and Jane, who felt herself sinking into those chocolate eyes, wrenched her gaze away to her manuscript.

Simon found himself gazing at the soft nape of her neck, where silky ringlets lay in soft profusion. He supposed that was better than drowning in the opalescent pools of her eyes, but he was having a great deal of trouble with his breathing. The scent of her, composed of violets and something else, fresh and indefinable, rose to envelop him, and he was intensely conscious of her pliant warmth pressed against him.

“‘O cross! Too high to be enthrall’d to low,’ ” mumbled Jane, and Simon took the opportunity to rise rather jerkily to his feet.

“‘Or else misgraffed in respect of years,’ ” he proclaimed before Winifred could issue another ukase, and hurried through his sequence of lines, almost gasping in relief when the fledgling directress called for rest and tea.

He glanced at Jane, who had hurried to leave the “stage”, at Winifred’s words. In the several days since he had been closeted with her in his study, he had discovered that it was she who kept Selworth on its even keel. Minster had been loud in his praise of her domestic management, pointing out that she had taken it upon herself to make the visits to the tenants, which were so necessary to the well-being of the place. No one felt that she was overstepping her place. Indeed, both the indoor and outdoor staff seemed grateful that someone, at least, was capable of carrying out the responsibilities of the landed gentry.

Simon watched Jane, now in consultation with Marcus over the manuscript, and his lips curved into a reluctant smile. He had seen other evidence of her managerial talent over the last week. Gerard and Harry, when they were not occupied with fawning over Winifred, had been set to assisting the vicar in the placement of the new church organ. Winifred herself had been winkled out of her preoccupation with the Bard on several occasions to help make up baskets for the indigent among the tenants. That was all to the good, Simon thought, a shadow creeping over his features, if only she had not seen fit to haul Marc into the proceedings. Young Marcus, to Simon’s mind, was spending entirely too much time in the delectable Winifred’s company, a situation that Jane, for some reason, seemed to encourage. Good Lord, she had said something about wishing her cousin to marry. Was Marcus the chosen sacrifice?

He sighed in exasperation. Look at her. Seated next to the window, bathed in morning light, she looked a veritable sunbeam herself. How could someone so ethereal possess the temperament of a field marshal? Well, much as he hated to put a spoke in Miss Jane Burch’s arrangements, she would just have to plan around Marcus, for the would-be thespian, by God, was spoken for, and Simon was not about to brave Lissa’s wrath for the sake of Jane Burch’s grand designs. To say nothing of dealing with Jared and Diana.

A murmur of voices brought him out of his reverie. Apparently, the rest was over, for Winifred was marshalling her forces once more. She had decided to proceed to the end of the play for a scene between Oberon and Titania. Oh, for God’s sake! Simon watched, fuming, as Winifred and Marcus glided into the center of the stage area. They stood close together and gazed into each other’s eyes in a perfectly nauseating assumption of young love, and when Winifred placed her fingertips delicately on Marc’s arm, he lifted them to his lips for a lingering kiss before replacing her hand on his sleeve and covering it with his own. Simon glanced at Jane just in time to intercept what he could only call a fatuous look at satisfaction.

“ ‘Then, my queen, in silence sad, / Trip we after the night’ shade, We the globe can compass soon, I Swifter than the wandering moon.’ ”

“ ‘Come, my lord,’ ” returned Winifred throatily, and Marc bent upon her a look of such feeling that Simon was forced to the conclusion that either Marc was a much better actor than he gave him credit for, or it was high time to step forward and put a stop to this burgeoning display of passion.

Simon cleared his throat, but before he could give utterance to any one of the strictures he had been about to utter, a commotion at the doorway drew his attention.

Gerard and Harry stood at the threshold. Ordinarily, they would have already have been there for hours, an enthralled audience to the rehearsal, but this morning some other task had beckoned.

“Jane!” cried Gerard. “We have a visitor. The most smashing phaeton is tooling up the driveway.”

“And I think it bears a crest!” chimed Harry.

This, naturally, brought the rehearsal to an abrupt end as the entire assemblage hurried from the room into the hall. They arrived as Fellows, emerging from the rear of the house, sailed majestically to the front door. He flung it open just as the phaeton, whose seat swayed precariously several feet above the ground, swept to a halt.

Simon, in quizzical surmise was the first to reach the vehicle, and thus was in a position to greet its occupant, who placed his whip in its holder with a flourish and leaped to the ground. He was a very tall gentleman, thin to the point of emaciation, but dressed in the first stare of fashion. His traveling coat bore at least sixteen capes, and beneath it could be glimpsed a waistcoat of colorfully embroidered Turkish silk. Buff pantaloons and gleaming Hessians completed the ensemble.

“What ho, Simon,” he said in a nasal drawl as he advanced toward his host. “Here I am, as summoned. Bring on the heiress.”

“Charlie!” exclaimed Simon. Grasping the gentleman’s arm, he turned to the group clustered behind him. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Charles Drummond, the Earl of Wye.”

. . .man is but a patch’d fool.”
—A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
IV, i.

“You made extraordinarily good time, Charlie.”

It was some time later. The guest had been introduced all around and whisked into the Emerald Saloon for refreshments, and now Simon sat with him in the study. Upstairs somewhere, he knew Jane was giving frantic instructions for the readying of a guest room, and soothing the sensibilities of Brummage, Charles’s supercilious valet. This personage had descended with great consequence from the huge traveling carriage loaded with luggage, that had lumbered in behind the phaeton.

“I was not expecting you for another week,” Simon continued.

“Mmm,” responded Charles, surveying the room through his quizzing glass. “Your message came just as I was preparing to set off for m’sister’s place in Shropshire. Told her I’d be there for the christening of her latest. So, I was all packed and sails trimmed, so to speak. Sent m’regrets to Hortense and set out for your new demesne at once. Only a couple of days’ drive, after all. Must say, old boy, your ward lives up to her billing.” He let out a low whistle. “What a stunner. Surprised she hasn’t been snapped up before now. The sprigs hereabouts must be a parcel of slowtops.”

“Oh, she’s been pursued hotly enough, but she’s standoffish and there seems to be a dearth of prime candidates in the area. She’s not been to London—had no one to sponsor her for a Season.” He paused to divulge the tale of the totty-headed Millicent and her concupiscent baronet. “I suppose I’ll have to get one of my female relatives to take on the duty, but since my real chore is to provide her with a suitable husband, I sent round for you. I’m not trying to push you into anything,” he said soothingly. “But I thought if you are amenable, I’d present you, and let events take their course.”

Charles shifted in his chair. “Well, as to that, m’family has been at me ever since Margaret passed away. Rest her soul,” he added as a pious afterthought. “M’sister in particular—the one who just popped—presented me with a number of choices, each more depressing than the last. At least...” He paused suddenly, and after a moment, delivered himself of a monumental sigh.

“Well then,” Simon said heartily, “you could do no better than Winifred. She will be an ornament to your house, to say nothing of providing you with a quiverful of children.”

To Simon’s surprise, Charles merely heaved another sigh. “Yes, there is that,” he said noncommittally. He straightened, and a spark of interest crept into his voice. “Who was the other female? The one with short, fair hair.”

“Jane?” asked Simon in uneasy surprise. “She is Winifred’s cousin—Jane Burch. She has been acting as Winifred’s companion.”

“Bit young for a companion, ain’t she?”

“Yes, she is, but there was apparently no one else at hand. I have written to my aunt to come fill the position temporarily.”

“Ah. Impoverished relative is she? The Burch female, I mean?”

Simon did not at all like the earl’s tone of voice. He was well aware of the penchant of some so-called gentlemen for sniffing after females of a certain class. Gently bred and attractive, but with no tedious male relatives about to interfere in one’s pleasure.

“Not wealthy, but hardly impoverished, I think.” He added sharply, “She is a respectable young woman, Charles, and she is under my protection here.”

“Of course, old boy,” said Charles hastily. “No need to take a fellow up.”

No, of course there was not, thought Simon. Charlie was not the sort of chap to pursue a wood sprite when there was a dazzlingly beautiful goddess on the premises.

“What,” asked Charles after a moment, “did Miss Timburton mean about my having a perfect bottom. I must say—?”

Simon’s lips twitched. “No, that’s Bottom, from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Winifred is—rather an aficionado of the theater and she is planning a home production of the play. She said that you would be perfect in the part of Bottom.”

“Ah,” said Charles, “you relieve my mind. Thought for a minute she might be one of those modern females who delight in putting people’s backs up. Bottom, eh?” he continued after a moment of judicious thought. “I participated in a spot of home theatricals last year at Summervale in Bedforshire, the Duke of Capsham’s place. The duchess put on one of her do’s. Didn’t like it much. Felt somewhat of a fool.”

“Well, as Bottom, your head will be covered with a mask most of the time, so you needn’t worry on that score,” said Simon, a little unsteadily.

“Oh?” said Charles. “The play chosen by the duchess was Love for Love—by Congreve, I think, and if I do say so, I was much commended for my portrayal of Tattle. Mmm—yes.” His eyes brightened. “I think I should much enjoy doing Shakespeare.”

“Winifred will be pleased,” Simon said.

Which proved to be very much the case. At rehearsal the next morning, Winifred plunged into Bottom’s first scene and, while there was an initial contretemps when Charles discovered that the mask that would cover his head was that of an ass, Winifred soon managed to soothe his wounded amour propre.

Gerard and Harry seemed perfectly content in their roles of Snug and Flute. Marcus was pressed into service to take on the parts of Quince and Starveling temporarily, thus rounding out the company of clowns, except for Snout, whom Winifred said she would worry about later.

As might be expected, since the proceedings involved several single gentlemen and a beautiful young woman, the rehearsal soon grew boisterous. Simon, emerging from yet another interminable session with Mr. Minster just before luncheon, strode into the Crimson Saloon to find Charles, Gerard, and Harry on stage, gesticulating mightily, while Marcus sat to one side with Winifred, their heads bent close together over the playbook.

“No, no, Winifred,” Marcus was saying. He had removed his coat and neckcloth, and rolled up his sleeves, creating, to Simon’s mind a disgraceful atmosphere of casual intimacy. He watched the young man place a hand on Winifred’s arm as he ran his fingers over the lines on the page. “You see—it says that all the clowns enter together. You can’t have Bottom enter from stage left and get all the way over to the table in the space of a few seconds. He’ll have to come in from the back with the others, as it says.”

“Yes,” replied Winifred, her flowerlike face flushed with determination, “but if he does, he will cross directly in front of Flute, who will be speaking at the moment.”

Simon glanced in irritation at Charles, who was enthusiastically disputing Gerard’s interpretation of the part of Flute, oblivious to the woman he was supposed to be courting.

“Good God,” Simon called loudly as he approached the group. “Can you people not keep the noise down? It sounds like a public hanging taking place here.”

Marcus laughed unrepentantly and rose to greet Simon. “Sorry about that, old man. The muse will not be quelled, you know.”

“Would your muse not be better served with a little solitude?” snapped Simon. “Shouldn’t you be studying your lines—or something—elsewhere?” Recovering himself, he took a deep breath and he turned to Winifred. “Perhaps you should dismiss your ensemble so we may all prepare for luncheon. Then, I would think you’d wish to rehearse the scene between Titania and Bottom.”