Lovers' Vows (11 page)

“Just some curtains I had in a spare room upstairs,” she smiled happily. “I must have them back when the performance is over.” Meanwhile, she and Harold made do with bed sheets on the windows of their own chamber. “About the stage—perhaps I will lower it a trifle,” she conceded, as a pain shot through her neck from craning up to see the exquisite foot rail.

“I’ll speak to the carpenters,” he told her. “You will not want to go out to the barns where they are, at this moment, constructing the mausoleum you designed for us. The prie-dieu and crucifix you found in the attic here will be excellent for Friar Laurence’s cell in the third act. We want to suggest a mood only, and let imagination do the rest.”

“Shakespeare was very sparing in his use of scenery and properties.”

“So he was. You are really to be congratulated for the grasp you have obtained on the subject, and for what you are accomplishing. Let me know your plans for the orchard scene. How we could use you at Drury Lane,” he finished up, setting her to blushes of delight.

He next turned his conning eye on a pair of sisters, the Misses Hall, who had thus far contributed nothing but their presence and vocal encouragement, though they were hopeful of being Citizens of Verona eventually. Their avocation, as all the village was coming to know, was horticulture. They had a conservatory that covered an acre, where several fruit trees resided. It was Dewar’s intention to see a few of them on the stage for the second act, to suggest the orchard. He also had some hopes they would volunteer some of their oranges, as his own were sour as lemons.

“How are the plant ladies today?” he asked, with an admiring note in his voice. He had a real interest in plants, and knew enough that he had waxed lyrical when they took him to their conservatory the week before. Plants were fast becoming fashionable in Harknell as a result of his having begged some blooms and cuttings from them. “Blooming as usual, I see,” he added to the fading pair.

“Oh, not in November, Lord Dewar. We do not bloom in the autumn,” the elder answered playfully. “Not till April. We are the sort who remain dormant throughout the winter, like roses.”

“Does she always tell such whiskers?” he asked Miss Helen, in a playful aside. “She must be a wicked trial to you. I know a rose in bloom when I see it.” Miss Helen twittered girlishly, and he continued his dalliance.

“I mean to adopt one of you two and put you in charge of my conservatory. Your skill might entice those oranges of mine to give me something other than lemon juice. Tell me now, Miss Hall, is it possible I have got lemons grafted onto my fruit trees by mistake?”

“It is not impossible, Lord Dewar. Folks will often graft lemon buds on seedlings of an orange tree—but you joke me,” Miss Hall replied. “You would not have any good eating fruit from it for some time, however.”

“Pity. I blush to have our orange girls distribute such untantalizing fruits to the audience. The orphans in particular ...,” he finished, with a pitiful shake, of his head.

Miss Helen twigged to it at once what she and Mary must do. By a quick jab of the elbow into her sister’s ribs, and a narrowed eye, she conveyed her message. “Lord Dewar, you must let us supply the oranges! We would be delighted to do it,” Miss Hall said. “Ever so many we have ripening. We could not eat the half of them. We have more than enough marmalade made up to see us through the winter as well. We insist.”

“I feel a very beggar!” he exclaimed, in well-simulated chagrin.

“Nonsense. I wish I had thought of it myself,” Miss Hall said, and went on to say enough to convince him. An enquiry as to how his philodendron cuttings progressed brought their conversation to an end, and Dewar looked around to see who else he must sweet-talk into line. Miss McCormack, he noticed, was regarding him with her customary disdain.

He pinned his most cozzening smile in place and walked up to her. “Good morrow, Lady Capulet,” he began, with a courtly bow. “What do you think of our stage? A wonderful job Mrs. Abercrombie has done, has she not?”

“A nine days’ wonder. You are to be congratulated.”

“The congratulations are not owing to me,” he answered, mistrusting her tone.

“I disagree. You deserve some credit for having bent the whole village to your will.”

“With one or two exceptions,” he answered mildly.

“I have been wondering when my turn for extravagant praise is to come. Don’t forget to tell me what an exquisite stitch I set, or I shall be out of reason disappointed. It is past time we, meaning I, began the costumes, is it not?”

“You will have ample help. The ladies have been showing me materials and designs for approval, and can stitch their own costumes.”

“That leaves several gentlemen’s outfits to be made. If the costumes are to be as elaborate as the sets, it is time we were working on them,” she persisted. “I do hope it is yourself who has been studying the period style, for you did not ask me to do it, and I have really very little notion what sort of outfits would suit. We would not want to dress Juliet in a spencer if togas were the fashion of the day.”

“Togas were never the style for ladies,” he pointed out. “Only men wore them. The
toga virilis
was adopted as a symbol of a fellow’s having achieved manhood, at fourteen or so.”

“I stand corrected,” she answered, with no humility, but rather an angry sparkle from her eyes. It was irksome that Dewar seemed to consider himself an authority on everything.

“Shakespeare himself was not overly precise about such items,” he consoled her. “He seldom bothered with period dress. Caesar, you recall, enters in his nightshirt, and Cleopatra has Charmian cut the laces of what must have been her corsets.”

“Still, I don’t imagine Mr. Altmore will be wearing his jacket of Bath cloth, nor Mr. Homberly his large brass-buttoned jacket. I would like to know what has to be done as soon as possible.”

“I have a cousin who is considered an expert in these matters. He was to arrive last week, but was detained in London. He is to bring sketches and some materials with him. I shall bring him to confer with you as soon as he arrives.”

Miss McCormack brightened at this speech. She had had no luck in attracting Mr. Altmore’s attention. He had joined Jane’s court of admirers, where he daily jostled with Dewar, Foxworth, and Homberly for her favours. Miss Lacey was having as bad luck as herself. Another cousin to Dewar, one who would come to confer with herself, sounded decidedly hopeful. “What is his name?” she asked.

“Sir Swithin Idle, but he is not at all well named. Swith keeps himself very busy.”

“At designing stage costumes?” she asked, fearing he would turn out another dilettante.

“At everything,” was the comprehensive reply. “He is remarkably adept in so many fields one hesitates to label him. Pleasing the ladies is not the least of his accomplishments either,” he added, with a little smile that sent her hopes soaring. “You will like him, I think.”

She disliked to ask outright whether he were a bachelor, but the description sounded very much like it. “Does Lady Idle come with him? I was just wondering, you know, whether I might have another pair of fingers to help with the sewing.”

“Swithin is a bachelor. A very eligible bachelor,” he added, with no particular emphasis, but a quick look to read her response.

“Pity,” she said, concealing her joy.

“You have some aversion to the breed, do you?”

“Oh no, they make the best husbands, one hears.”

“If you have designs on him, I hope you will not begin turning his head till we have the costumes in hand, on paper at least. Swithin is no good once he starts falling in love. I hope you will treat him with all the disdain you heap on me. Speaking of which...” He paused a moment while he fixed her with a sapient eye, then said, “How did you enjoy the service on Sunday? Friar Laurence did rather well, I thought.”

“I noticed you were at church, Lord Dewar. Am I to congratulate you on so ordinary an occurrence?”

“No, on my obedience. I was not only there, but Friar Laurence was here for luncheon as well. We have arranged for a man to come over from town to clamber up on the roof and see how big the holes are. If he tumbles off and breaks his head in the process, we shall lay it in your dish.”

“If he does not break his head, will the credit also be put in my dish? I am willing to accept full responsibility, if that is the case.”

“Welcome to it. You wouldn’t care to take the responsibility for the bill while you are about it, I suppose? No, I didn’t think so.”

“If you are feeling the pinch, you could postpone the fountain you are importing from Italy for your dairy,” she said reasonably.

“You have been misinformed. I sponsor English artists, though the design perhaps owes something to Italy.”

“It seems a shame to go to so much trouble only for cows. Why do you not put it in your garden?”

“There are fountains in the garden already,” was the answer. “My dairy girls will appreciate it, as well as the cows. Beauty is important. It has a civilizing influence on mankind. Ladies, and gentlemen too, act better when they are in decent surroundings, and dressed up in their prettiest outfits. They try to live up to their costumes, I suppose.”

She was suddenly very aware of her own clothing, on which she never spent a thought but to see it was clean and decent. “You must have Sir Swithin design your dairy girls an outfit while he is with you,” she said, as though bored with the whole subject.

“An excellent idea. Blue, to match the Delft tiles. Tell me, have you any more derelictions of duty to point out to me? If not, I shall speak to Lady Montague. I have just discovered a footman who is a perfect clown. She will be able to use him in our post-drâme comedy routine. He falls well, and can somersault divinely.”

“He sounds a perfectly accomplished fellow. Before you go, one other item does occur to me....”

“How much is it going to cost me?” he asked, taking a deep breath.

“It is not a matter of money,”

“There’s a change. Well, spit it out,” he urged, with a peculiar little half smile on his face. She noticed that he had sunk from his usually elegant, mannered speech into an utterance that had very much the sound of Rex Homberly to it. “What’s the matter? What are you looking at?” he asked, noticing her frown.

“Nothing. What I meant to tell—ask you—is whether something could not be done about Arthur Evans—one of your tenants.”

“The name is familiar to me. I do know
some
of my own people, particularly those who have been with me a long lime. I even suspect what matter you have in mind. It is the business of a footpath through his rose garden?”

“Rose garden?” she asked, staring. “I would not call one faded tea rose and a patch of weeds a rose garden. He is the most stubborn man in the county. The whole party who come here to rehearse each day must go a mile out of their way because Mr. Evans refuses to let us use the footpath through his meadow. One corner of it does hold the tea rose, to be sure, and his cattle graze in the rest, but a roadway exists, and was always used, till three years ago. Then he suddenly went mad and took a gun to Sam Needles one day when he was scooting home from poaching in your woods. Since that time, hundreds of people have been inconvenienced from fear of being shot at. It is bad enough for those with a mount or carriage but, for pedestrians, a mile’s extra walking is a considerable disadvantage. Especially in winter.”

“Do you know why he did this, shot the fellow?”

“Because he is not allowed to shoot game, I have heard.”

“Again, why?”

“You have consistently refused to lease him the measly acres he requires to qualify under the Game Laws. If a man leases, his lease must be worth one hundred and fifty pounds a year to qualify, and he is five acres short of it. You must have five idle acres you can let him lease.”

“Is the man actually insane?”

“To tell the truth, I think he has gone a little crazy, though he continues running his farm in a sane enough manner, and that’s all Mr. Roots cares for. Evans has made so many enemies that no one much talks to him.”

“I am expected to approach this lunatic and demand he open up the road, am I?” he asked.

“He will hardly dare to shoot
you.”

“Lunatics don’t much care where they point their guns.”

“If he is violent, then he must be put under restraint. It is
your
place...”

“I thought it would be,” he said with a resigned sigh, and turned aside to accost Mrs. Raymond as she walked past.

The troupe of players was soon on the stage, while the audience sat below, craning their necks up to see what they could of the goings-on. There was later a loud harangue by the director, who was not pleased with their reading their speeches, when they should have at least the first act by heart. Jane was particularly shy when she looked into the upturned faces, and could hardly bring herself to mumble, after all her lessons in projection.

Dewar’s French chef did not deign to perform for such a motley crew of provincials, but Lady Dewar’s own cook, Meg Appleby, made coffee and sandwiches and plum cake, which were as well received as gourmet fare by the undemanding actors.

Altmore strolled up to Dewar and said in a quiet voice, “Do you really think Jane will do for this role, Dew?”

“Do?” he asked, astonished. “My dear fellow, she is perfect for the part. She is the very essence, the soul of Juliet. So young, so beautiful and shy, with a soft, vulnerable quality, yet with some strength behind it to make her suicide credible. The voice needs more work, but I was never so enraptured with anyone as I am with Jane’s Juliet. It is far and away the best thing in this play. Not to belittle you, my dear chap. You are an excellent Romeo too, but then you are half professional. You no longer require praise heaped on your head.”

“It is just that her voice is very small, and she doesn’t always remember her lines either, or where she should be on stage.”

“That light voice is a part of what makes her performance so riveting. It will be tricky to increase it enough without losing the softness. The refectory hall is not large. She doesn’t have to fill Drury Lane. She would never do in the real theatre but for this experiment in intimate theatre I am undertaking here her uncertainty is an advantage. Lady Capulet is a good foil for her too. Miss McCormack is more sure of herself, more forceful and everyday, down-to-earth. An excellent contrast to Jane’s more timid quality. As to her forgetting her lines occasionally, I am ready to tolerate even that. It adds to her wistfulness, that helpless quality I am striving for.