Lovers' Vows (17 page)

“We’ll burn the midnight oil, dear boy. I shall
adore
it.”

“Ain’t getting
me
into no modern outfits,” Homberly said, with a defiant glare at Swithin.

“Please yourself, Rex,” Swithin said in a dismissing way.

“We shall contrive to carry on
sans
your portly presence. Tell me—have you ever given any thought to a Cumberland corset for that unsightly protuberance you are growing?” he asked, with a seething examination of Rex’s stomach.

“Ain’t a scarecrow, anyway!” Rex retaliated.

“Dashed right!” Foxey supported him.

“I make sure the two of you together couldn’t scare a hummingbird, less a crow,” Swithin agreed, then he turned back to Dewar. “My good man, do you
really
propose to put these two ruffians onstage?
Do
tell me in what roles you have cast them. Falstaff I could envisage, or Caliban, but in ‘
Romeo
and
Juliet
’....”

“Tybalt and Mercutio,” Dewar replied, with a wondering glance to the ungainly pair.

“Mon Dieu!”
Swithin shook his curls in wonderment, then proceeded to settle the question in his own way. “You have decided on a spot of comic relief. I envisaged the duel scenes as some of the more glorious moments of the drama. I cannot quite see them as farce, but you are a genius, Dew. No question of that. I know you have some reason for this seemingly inexplicable piece of casting."

Rex had been observing the newcomer darkly, and finally gave vent to his thoughts. “Ain’t no dashed comic relief! Dashed insult.”

“Certainly is!” Foxey agreed.

“Why do you two belligerent gladiators not go out into the hallway and run each other through, hmm?” Swithin asked with an amiable smile.

It proved an entirely acceptable suggestion. “First sensible word you’ve said yet,” Rex told him haughtily, and stomped out, after lunging at Foxey with his outstretched arm which, fortunately, did not yet hold a sword.

“I am
most
curious to see what you have done with the duelling scenes,” Swithin said after the two had charged out the door. “I
do
hope those two are not let loose on stage with halberds or polearms. There won’t be a shred of scenery left standing.”

“No, they use rapiers,” Dewar told him.

“Even an épée, as we are being contemporary—but no. The point makes itself. The épée calls for restraint, formality. You will try to get the bravura effect of the Italian school. Don’t despair, Dew. I shall work out some choreography for them. Foxworth is probably capable of a simple thrust, and Rex of a parry. It is only to teach them the fine points of feint and riposte. No doubt it can be done, but have you forgotten Mercutio must also
speak?
What an indomitable optimist you are!”

“We
are
having a little difficulty on that score,” Dewar admitted.

“Not surprising. But, of more interest—the costumes. I had the inspiration of contemporary dress en route here from Heron Hall. I stopped at home to deliver Mama a new
chapeau,
very feathery and hideous. She adores it. I have lit on a few dramatic innovations, and I want your utterly frank opinion, Dew. Pray do not spare me. We must be
brutal,
for Art’s sake. Juliet—our lovely Juliet—is to be dressed in the beginning as a child. I adore it myself. Start her out with her hair down and her skirts up a little, for she is only thirteen at the time. It will set the seal absolutely on her age, create just the effect you want, of a child’s innocence being violated prematurely. And this Juliet you have found! She could play a child superbly. You did not praise her nearly enough, though you hardly spoke of anything else in London. Now tell me—what do you think of it?”

“I like it,” Dewar admitted, looking intently at Jane. “Yes, with that golden hair down and a girlish bow in it perhaps, with ribbons trailing down the back... the skirts just slightly pulled up to show a few inches of ankle.”

“Mama won’t like it,” Jane said, and felt very much that she did not like it either.

“Mama will love it,
ma petite chère,”
Swithin disagreed, so pleasantly that it sounded like a compliment.

“Just for the first scene,” Dewar pointed out.

“So, Dewar, what other originalities have you come up with?” Swithin demanded.

“The thrust stage, as I mentioned earlier. We are to have madrigals sung before the play, and Miss McCormack has added her mite. We mean to have the servant girls go through the aisles with oranges.”

“How entirely Nell Gwynnish! Excellent!” Idle exclaimed. “When may I see your pretty, witty Nells? Actually, that would have been
the
touch for your Restoration comedy a few years back,
n’est-ce pas?
We should have met this Kate sooner. You won’t mind if I call you Kate, dear?” he asked Holly, who obviously minded very much. “I shall design
ravissant
mobcaps for the orange wenches, and peasant blouses
très décolleté
to show plenty of snow white bosom. I hope your wenches are well-endowed?”

“Adequate,” Dewar assured him, while Holly’s mind quickly scanned the servants to determine which girls he spoke of.

Swithin nodded in satisfaction, then heaved a deep sigh. “Do you know, I am quite fatigued with so much cleverness? I shall sit these weary bones down on a sofa, and would relish something restorative, Dew. I am feeling peckish—tea and toast fingers, unbuttered, will suffice. I must chat with your mama. How adorably quaint she is. When one has no looks and no elegance, one is wise to be as gothically unfashionable as possible. At least she is
something
then, and not a mere nonentity. Whose reach-me-downs is
Tante Hélène
wearing tonight? Your late papa was used to favour that flowered waistcoat last century, if memory serves. How charmingly it suits her.” He walked daintily off, while Dewar called for tea and toast for his guest, then returned to the ladies.

“An interesting fellow, Swithin. Don’t you agree?” he asked.

“Remarkable,” Jane said in a failing voice.

“Quite casts you into the shade,” Holly told him with a mocking smile. “He has you beat in both elegance and conversation, I think. To say nothing of original dramatic ideas.”

“I do not consider Swithin to be cast in the same mould as myself,” he answered swiftly, in a repressive voice.

“Oh, no indeed! He is
much
fancier. A sort of deluxe version of Lord Dewar, the cover heavily trimmed in gold.”

“You wretch! You perfectly vile woman!” he said, some expression between a laugh and a frown on his face as he looked across the room to Swithin. His cousin sat on the sofa holding aloft a pretty teacup, his little finger crooked aloft, one thin yellow knee crossed over the other, his little black patent slipper jiggling. Dewar took a deep breath and said, “I do
not
curl my hair, or wear a dozen rings, or lisp, or speak half in French!”

“No, I said he was fancier. Merely, you are similar, not identical. Besides, you are much taller.”

“Holly is roasting you, Lord Dewar,” Jane said in a placating way. “I like Swithin. He is so droll.”

“He is certainly very comic,” Holly agreed.

“You are not so astute as I had thought, Miss McCormack,” Dewar said. “You heard his philosophy mentioned with regard to Mama. When one has no natural distinction, one must go one’s length in some direction to avoid being a nonentity. Swithin elected to play the fop, and he does it to the top of his bent. He has good ideas and is clever for all that. I like him enormously.”

“So do I,” Jane agreed. “And so does Holly, really. It is only that she is vexed because he called her a shrew.”

“That was one of his more extravagant compliments,” Dewar informed them. “Kate is not only a shrew, but also 'Young, beauteous, brought up as best becomes a gentlewoman,' according to the play. You may be sure Idle is aware of it.”

“That is not the aspect of Kate’s character that comes first to mind, however,” Holly said.

“True, but Swithin can hardly know yet of your less appealing qualities.”

“Only what you were kind enough to tell him. Never mind, he’ll learn soon enough.”

“Not much doubt of that. But a word of caution. Tread softly, Kate.” There was an anticipatory smile on his lips as they went to join Swithin and Lady Dewar.

There was suddenly a loud bang in the hallway, followed by the unmistakable reverberation of breaking porcelain, as a very valuable Bustelli Nymph hit the floor, to be broken into a dozen pieces as it bounced along the marble. Everyone hastened to the hallway to view the damage. “My Julia! You’ve broken my Bustelli figurine!” Dewar shouted in dismay.

With a glance to the table from which it had fallen, Swithin picked up a Meissen goat, done all in white, and frowned at it. “Pity it couldn’t have been this instead,” he remarked, and placed it close to the table’s edge.

“Accident!” Foxworth said sheepishly. “Tell you what, Dewar. I’ll replace it.”

“It is irreplaceable. Go and duel somewhere else. Try the barn.”

“Thought of that,” Rex said. “Didn’t want to butcher a cow by accident. ‘Course you could eat it. Not a dead loss. Let’s stop, Foxey. That was my round. Owe me a pony.” Upon catching sight of Jane, he remembered he was in love with her, and set his sword against the wall, where it promptly clattered noisily to the floor. He gave it an angry scowl, turned on his heel, and ignored it.

“Take me to see your stage while we are on our feet,” Swithin suggested to Dewar. He placed his hand on Dewar’s arm, as a lady would, and the two of them strolled off. “I am most curious to see how you have handled the proscenium,” Swithin was overheard to say, as they rounded the corner.

“Dear boy!” Foxey said, in a mocking soprano voice to Rex, “Allow me to offer you my arm to view the proscenium.”

Rex tottered forward on tiptoes and accepted the arm. The rest of the audience tried, with varying success, to contain their grins as they returned to the saloon.

Foxworth seemed suddenly a much less horrid Mercutio than he had previously. With a little shrug of disappointment, Holly turned back to the saloon with the others.

The first quarter hour of the next morning’s rehearsal was given over to acquainting the players with the director’s new assistant, and the assistant with the accomplishments and contributions of each member.

“Madame Abercrombie,” Idle lisped. “The
wizard
who contrived this delightful replica of an Elizabethan stage for us. I must consult with you later, dear, on a little project I have simmering on the back of my mind. I know all this star-crossed lovers’ tragedy will cast me into deepest dismals, and shall revitalize my flagging spirits with a dashing Aristophanes comedy. Broad farce, bawdy jokes.
Lysistrata,
perhaps, done as a parody of Lady Hertford’s running the country. We shall delve into the obscurities of Grecian staging
ensemble,
madame.”

“How nice. Lovely,” she answered, dazed, but knowing she had been complimented.

“The graces of the garden!” he chirped, as Dewar presented him to the Hall sisters, “How I have looked forward to meeting you. My
rosa mundi
has wilted on me—just curled up its dear little petals and shrivelled—in my rose garden at Heron Hall. I shall kidnap you and carry you off to cure it. Dew tells me you are both enchantresses. He threatens to adopt one; I shall kidnap the other, I promise you. Which one is mine, Dew?”

“Shall we flip a coin?” he asked, with a wink at the ladies, who tittered in shocked delight.

Idle’s greeting of each member was in the same vein. Extravagant in the extreme, but good-natured, assigning to the ladies more expertise than they possessed, which is never taken amiss. A month before, they would not have known what to make of such a man, but Dewar’s coming had prepared them somewhat.

Idle was a caricature of Dewar, a Dewar exaggerated to a hilarious degree and wearing a more elaborate jacket. Mrs. Abercrombie would write off for a book on Grecian staging, the Misses Hall would take up their French grammar to facilitate translation of their book, and life would go on, its pace a little increased, its flavour a little richer.

Rehearsals were begun, but did not go beyond the first act. Mercutio’s first speech, ‘Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance’ was delivered, ‘Come on, Altmore, give us a step.’ Idle cringed, screwed up his eyes, held his hands to his ears and howled in pain.

“Really, dear boy,” he said to Dewar, when he had recovered, “you mentioned
commedia dell’arte,
but this is absurd.”

“I realize he must be replaced, but in the meanwhile the play has kept him from killing all my game. And dogs. I shall send off for Boo Withers today. He has the part by heart, from having performed it at Chatsworth, you know.”

“Impossible!
Cher
Boo is incommunicado. Locked up on his yacht at Dover, ready to dart for France if he is run to earth. He met Cuthbert in a duel over a courtesan. Cuthbert’s pistol exploded in his face, and Boo is taking credit for a hit. Quite a comedy, really. It ought to be dramatized. Such a lack of refinement, fighting over a lightskirt. One ought only to duel over cards and ladies. I shall read them both a lecture when next we meet. So then, it looks as if you must don buskins and save the play, Coz.”

“Only as a last resort. Miss McCormack has some friend who might do.”

“Miss McCormack? Oh, the austere lady who thinks we are both mad. Any suggestion she makes is bound to be eminently rational and uninspired. We are in little position to cavil. Or are we? Yes, to be sure, we are. Otto Wenger is free, and so desperate for entertainment he even mentioned attending a few sessions of Parliament. I shall send off a message at once.”

“Good, tell him it is urgent.”

“Consider it done. Meanwhile, let this Mercutio get on with more abusing of our patience, and the Bard’s English.”

Otto arrived the next evening. In days gone by, the arrival of an eligible stranger in Harknell would have been a major event. At this exciting period, Otto was an anticlimax. He was neither dandy nor dilettante but only a bored baron, whose days were filled by seeking amusement from whatever corner it issued. Despite his name, Otto spoke no German, but the presence of an Otto in their midst inclined Idle to
ein bisschen
of
Deutsch.
Wenger was of medium stature, with brown hair and eyes and a large nose. He made a satisfactory Mercutio, no better or worse than Mr. Prendergast would have done.