“My brother has given up trying to eradicate prints of his children,” Aunt Knowe informed him. “Joan, my dear, I’ve been so careful with my knitting, and yet a hole has appeared in the middle. What did I do wrong?”
“You dropped stitches,” Joan said. “Otis, let’s start. I have an extra copy, Aunt Knowe. Would you please read all parts except for Ophelia and Hamlet?”
The door opened, and Greywick appeared.
“Do join us!” Aunt Knowe called to him.
“Good morning, Lady Knowe,” he said, walking over and bowing. “I bring a message from my mother. She would like to walk to the village in an hour or two.”
“I’ll have to change to a walking costume,” Aunt Knowe said, bounding to her feet. “Greywick dear, come take my place, won’t you? You needn’t act; just read aloud every line that isn’t Hamlet’s or Ophelia’s.”
The viscount’s face was a wooden mask, but he took the book from Aunt Knowe, bowing to Joan and Otis. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Lord Greywick,” Joan chirped, trying to pretend that they were merely acquaintances. “You needn’t greet Viola; as you can see, she’s napping.”
“Morning,” Otis said, glancing up from Hamlet.
“You have to read all the boring bits,” Aunt Knowe told Greywick. “We were about to start the scene in which Hamlet and Ophelia bicker as she gives him back all his love letters. Just in case you haven’t read the play lately,” she added.
“I have not,” Greywick said, managing to make it clear that he liked it that way.
“Better you than me,” she replied with a cheerful grin. “I’ll accompany your mother to the village. I’ll take Viola away with me; she’ll nap better in her own bed.”
With that, Aunt Knowe hoisted a dazed Viola to her feet and escorted her out of the room.
“Right, let’s start,” Joan said. “Page thirty-eight, everyone.”
The third time through the scene, Greywick lowered his book and gave Otis a direct look. “Mr. Murgatroyd, you seem to be uttering your lines with more optimism than accuracy.”
Joan was sorry to say it, but her best friend was showing no sign of mastering his lines.
“You can’t call me Mr. Murgatroyd,” Otis said. “Not now that we’ve both been roped into this charade. Call me Otis.”
“Very well,” the viscount said.
“As far as my lines go, I only need to get a few words right,” Otis said comfortably. “We’ve all met girls like Ophelia: brokenhearted, drifting around writing bad poetry. Her father should have locked her in her bedchamber and kept her away from the river, and she would have woken up one morning and wondered what she ever saw in the prince.”
“You are rather unkind to Ophelia,” Greywick observed.
Presumably he couldn’t help being a pompous stick. It was such a waste, given how handsome he was.
For example, his arms were corded with thick muscle that Joan could see through the fine broadcloth of his coat. If it wasn’t for the way he looked at her, as if she were shameful—
But he did.
And had for years, what’s more. The very first time they met, his eyes touched on her hair, and though he didn’t move a muscle in his face, she had known instantly that he didn’t approve of her parentage.
Or rather, her lack of parentage, since her parents had left her behind in the duke’s nursery. She could always tell the people who thought she had inherited bad blood along with her hair, and mostly their opinion didn’t bother her at all.
But Greywick?
He’d always been the exception. Something about the censorious light in his eyes just made her . . .
Furious. That was the emotion, definitely. Something about his disdain made Joan feel hot all over.
“Actually, I’m being generous to Ophelia,” Otis protested. “Did you get the bit where she complains about what happened after she crawled into his bedroom window?”
“She’s just singing a ballad,” Joan objected. “Albeit a bawdy one.”
“There’s a history of such, I’ll give you that,” Otis said. “I like this one better than Ophelia’s: Do not trust him, gentle maiden,” he belted out, slightly out of tune. “Though his heart be pure as gold, He’ll leave you one fine morning, With a cargo in your hold.”
“Inappropriate in this company,” Greywick stated.
“For God’s sake,” Otis said, rolling his eyes. “Anyone can tell that Ophelia wrote the ballad she sings. She’s a silly girl with the brains of a caterpillar, and personally I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she climbed in my window, likely in her nightie.”
“If that is the case, Hamlet lost his honor when he didn’t usher the lady promptly out the door,” the viscount replied, at his most uncompromising.
“Oh, Greywick,” Joan sighed, conscious that bickering with him was fast becoming one of her favorite pastimes. “You can’t judge Hamlet by your own bloodless approach to life.”
Something flared deep in his eyes, so she added, “Hamlet is a hero, a man who fights off pirates and is brilliant at swordplay. I expect he was overcome by desire when a beautiful woman appeared in his bedchamber.”
“Since I’m playing Ophelia, let’s drop ‘beautiful’ and think ‘willing,’ instead,” Otis said, smirking. “I show up in his bedchamber and throw myself at him. He takes one look at my slender waist and loses his head. Unfortunately, I lose something rather more important.”
“There is no excuse for taking a lady’s virtue,” Greywick said, with an expression that would have made a bishop proud. “Whether Hamlet’s heart be ‘pure as gold,’ as in Otis’s rhyme, or not, he ceased to be a hero when Ophelia left his room no longer a maiden.”
“It wasn’t precisely honorable on Hamlet’s part,” Joan admitted.
Otis broke out laughing. “Just look at us, engaging in deep Shakespearean commentary. If I’d had you in class, Greywick, I might have passed literature at Eton.”
“You may address me as Thaddeus.”
“Address me?” Otis repeated. He turned to Joan. “He should be playing Hamlet. You could play Ophelia, and I could play the ghost.”
“I do not act,” Greywick said curtly. He looked at Joan. “I would also like you to call me Thaddeus.”
“Better,” Otis allowed. “You sounded almost human, if you don’t mind the comment.”
Joan never responded to any man, including those who fell on their knees before her, offering rings and adoration. But this man? Whose eyes skated over her as if she were no more interesting than the silk wallpaper on the library walls?
This man made her body tingle, and her mind begin wondering what it would be like if such a rigid man lost control. What if Greywick—Thaddeus—dropped all the rules that had been drilled into him from birth and just let himself do what he wished?
Of course, he didn’t want to do anything with her.
“Let’s start over with this scene,” Joan said, sighing. “Otis, do try to memorize a few more lines, so at least we understand why Ophelia is sad.”
Before they could start again, Aunt Knowe erupted back into the room. “Enough rehearsing, children!” she cried. “I’ve just learned that Drabblefield Fair opened this morning. Greywick, your mother is eager to attend. Joan and Otis, this is an excellent opportunity to try out your costumes.”
“Father said I wasn’t allowed to leave the gates in breeches,” Joan pointed out.
“My brother left for the tenant farms after breakfast,” Aunt Knowe said, “so I’ll overrule him. You can’t miss the fair.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready to have strangers see me in a dress,” Otis said, twitching his skirts.
“I wouldn’t have guessed you were a man,” Aunt Knowe told him. “Your features are cast in a male mode, but then, so are mine. No one has ever suggested that I am a male. You’ve been in this room for over an hour, doing nothing but repeat the same lines. You all need to leave the castle. Go outside!”
Joan gurgled
with laughter and said to Otis and Thaddeus, “Aunt Knowe used to sweep into the nursery, find us all squabbling, and say the same thing. ‘Outside!’”
“We leave for the fair in an hour,” Aunt Knowe said blithely. “Greywick, you’ll accompany us, of course. We never miss the fair; it’s one of the high points of spending one’s summer at Lindow.”
Thaddeus groaned, a throaty male moan.
Joan’s breath caught at a sound that he hadn’t considered beforehand or delivered in a gentlemanly accent and tone. It sent a shiver down her spine.
She’d love to hear that sensual noise during a kiss.
Thaddeus was talking to Aunt Knowe so she let her gaze linger on his profile. The truth was that she liked him, which was obviously stupid and wrong in more ways than could be counted. He hadn’t even smiled at Otis’s ballad, whereas she thought “cargo in your hold” was rather funny. No sense of humor. But then . . .
His chin. Nose. Jaw. Other men had the same collection of features, and in fact, some of them had decidedly better features.
Not that she could think of any such men at the moment.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Aunt Knowe was telling Thaddeus. “I’m well-known, and if anyone says something untoward to our Hamlet or Ophelia, I shall speak for the duke.”
“I can offer adequate protection if that occurs,” Thaddeus said gruffly.
Joan liked gruff.
Why, why was she unable to do things that seemed so simple for her siblings? Accepting the hand of a man who admired her, for example? Taking up embroidery or knitting instead of acting? Playing the princess, rather than the prince?
Her lips in a wry smile, Joan had to admit that she wasn’t particularly startled to discover that she had a penchant for a man who disdained everything she was. Her much-vaunted independence had often displayed itself in self-defeating ways. In playing the fool, in other words.
Her heart pinched at the thought.
No wonder Thaddeus disliked her.
Continued recklessness would only bring her unhappiness. As he said, what sort of model was she setting for her little sister?
Two performances and two chances to play Prince Hamlet, one before her family and the other before a real audience, would have to be enough.
After that, she would reform and become a proper lady. Even . . . marry.
“Lady Joan,” Thaddeus said. “Will you accompany us to the fair?”
She started, realizing that Otis and Aunt Knowe had left the room. “If I address you as Thaddeus, then you must address me as Joan. But at the moment I’m not a ‘lady,’” she said, getting to her feet and dusting her breeches.
“Forgive me.” He bowed. “Have you chosen a name to go with your costume? I can hardly address you as Hamlet in public.”
“Jack,” she said, stopping just in front of him. “Not Joan.”
Their eyes caught and held. “Thaddeus,” he affirmed, his voice unmistakably reluctant.
“I promise not to call you by your first name when someone might hear and think we are friends,” she offered. “Shall we?”
He caught her arm. “What do you mean?”
Joan gave him a wry smile. “I don’t want you to feel ashamed of me, any more than you want your reputation besmirched by knowing me. I am on the verge of being ruined, as you predicted.” She raised her chin. “You will be very happy to hear that I intend to turn over a new leaf. I will perform the role of Hamlet in the castle, and once at Wilmslow, and then I will . . . stop.”
Thaddeus’s brows drew together. “Stop what?”
“Childish things,” she said. “Isn’t there something in the Bible about that?”
“When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child,” Thaddeus said, his hand dropping from her arm. “But when I became a man, I put away childish things.”
Joan glanced down at her breeches. “Particularly apt given that these are the childhood garments of one of my brothers.” When she looked back up, Thaddeus was watching her face intently.
“I just wanted you to know that I understand your reprimand,” she added. “I won’t embarrass you. If you’ll excuse me?”
He moved to the side, and she hurried through the door.
She felt at home on a ballroom floor or a grand dinner. She liked people, and she was confident of herself and her place in society, no matter what unkind things were said to her.
But Thaddeus unsettled her. Made her want to needle him, which was obviously childish.
She would put that away too, this wish to bicker with him and cross swords.
Put that instinct in a box marked “childish things,” and lock it away with her dream of being an actress.
Chapter Six
Drabblefield Fair
Cheshire
An hour later, Joan ran across the castle courtyard, feeling deliciously free without heavy skirts and panniers. If women were allowed to wear breeches, even just once, there would be a revolution and they would never wear corsets and petticoats again.
“Wait for me!” Otis shouted, bunching up his skirts and trotting after her.
A large coach waited with a groom beside the door.
“My lady,” the groom said, bowing, when Joan arrived.
“Peters, if you hadn’t known the truth, would you have guessed me a woman in men’s clothing?”
The young groom kept his eyes rigidly above her collarbone. “No, my lady.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Perhaps,” he said reluctantly. “I would suggest that you lengthen your stride, my lady.”
“Thanks,” Joan said, grinning at him before she hopped over the mounting box and climbed straight into the coach.
Otis, on the other hand, had to be hoisted inside with Peters’s shoulder braced against his bustle.
“I’m sweating,” Otis moaned, collapsing onto a seat. “Melting away ’til I’ll be nothing but a set of whalebones. Why in God’s name do you women wear so much clothing?”
“I’m rarely overheated,” Joan said.
“Because you have a grasshopper’s thighs, something I know due to those indecent breeches you have on. They’re a bit tighter than proper.”
Before they could delve into the mysteries of fashion, Thaddeus arrived at the carriage with Aunt Knowe on one arm and his mother, the Duchess of Eversley, on the other. Her Grace was a small round woman who always wore pink and had a decidedly eccentric air. Joan had never been able to figure out how such a whimsical person had given birth to the most proper man in all the kingdom.
“Don’t let me forget that Viola craves pears,” Aunt Knowe said, once they were settled. “The children want new hobbyhorses, but those they can pick out themselves. My brother should be back before lunch, and he will bring the nursery to the fair this afternoon.”
“I haven’t been to a fair in years,” the duchess said happily. “I am looking forward to Drabblefield.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Thaddeus said. “No one of quality or fashion would attend such a ramshackle event.”
He had clearly descended into an even worse humor than he’d been in an hour ago. “Full of the tents of the wicked,” Joan said, giving him a sparkling smile, just to irritate him.
She planned to give up their childish squabbles later, when she wasn’t wearing breeches any longer. Meanwhile, she might as well enjoy herself.
“Musty gingerbread, rotten eggs, and cutpurses galore,” Thaddeus replied, folding his arms over his chest. “Satin waistcoats stripped from dead men and called brand-new. Malt-horses marketed as stallions, every rib showing like the tooth of a saw.”
Joan blinked at him. His voice rarely changed from its civilized drawl, but the last description came out with a sharp edge.
He turned his head and looked out the window. It was annoying how broad his chest was. Her own, in comparison, was very narrow. Elegant clothing couldn’t turn her into a forceful man, like Greywick.
“I’m h
appy that you’re accompanying us, Thaddeus, even though you feel uncomfortable,” the duchess said, leaning forward and touching her son’s knee. “I was disappointed when you refused to come with me to the auction in Wilmslow.” She turned to Joan. “You may have heard of our delightful excursion, during which your sister Betsy and I donned male clothing and went to an auction.”
“I was there as well,” Aunt Knowe put in.
“On that occasion, you were accompanied by Lord Jeremy Roden and his father,” Thaddeus said woodenly. “You were in no danger and did not need my company.”
“I wouldn’t fit into those breeches now,” Her Grace said, rubbing her rounded belly.
“My father would relish this excursion,” Otis said to Joan, as the duchess and Aunt Knowe digressed into a vigorous debate regarding the merits of a cucumber and vinegar diet.
“Sir Reginald seems a happy man,” Thaddeus said, rather unexpectedly.
“He’s lonely,” Otis said. “Still misses my mother and refuses to contemplate marrying again. Now that my sister’s married, if I’m not home, he rattles about in the London house like a dried pea in a pail.”
Joan stopped listening and returned to secretly ogling Thaddeus from under her lashes. She wasn’t in the habit of lying to herself, and it was disconcerting to realize just how much she enjoyed his looks.
Ironically, if her mother had remained faithful, Thaddeus likely would have courted her as the logical third choice after her sisters Betsy and Viola. Perhaps he would have courted her before Viola, because Joan was a few months older. What’s more, Joan was the daughter of the second duchess, and Viola was the daughter of the duke’s third duchess. Joan ranked higher, in strict terms.
The only qualification Thaddeus seemed to have in mind was “duke’s daughter.”
Clearly, Thaddeus had determined that Viola fit the definition, and Joan did not.
Annoying though it was to admit, she had the feeling that her acting abilities were owed to her adulterous mother, who by all accounts relished the performance required by a duchess in the public eye conducting a clandestine affaire.
Wilde Child EPB Page 5