Miss Billings Treads The Boards

by Carla Kelly

  As she hurried to keep up with both his enthusiasm and his long legs, Malcolm Bladesworth showed her the careful arrangement of prop rooms, makeup tables, and wardrobe closet. “This could be the finest theatre in all the provinces,” he said, the pride unmistakable in his voice. “Now if only Gerald can write us a play.”

  * * *

  The play was done in three days, three days in which Gerald, unshaven and a little desperate about the eyes, left the balcony only for sleep, food, and trips to the necessary out back. During those three days Phoebe drooped and pined and would only trade lines with Maria if they were death-bed scenes, or passages equally gloomy. Her own doubts returning, Kate spent the time in the wardrobe room, reinforcing seams already sound, or tightening buttons completely anchored. Like the others she avoided the stage and the sight of Gerald sitting so quietly in the balcony, hunched over the sawhorse desk, writing and writing. Only Hal appeared oblivious to the tension. Wearing his leathers, old painter’s shirt open at the neck, and whistling to himself, he joined the journeymen working swiftly in the lobby. He seemed to have no fear of tall ladders.

  “I do not know why you have to be so careless of your person,” Kate complained one afternoon as she passed through the lobby and quickly averted her eyes from the sight of the marquess leaning out at the top of the ladder to reach an elusive swirl in the design overhead.

  He looked about to make sure the runner was not in sight. “Wife, I do it only in case the marquess business should suddenly slack off. Everyone should have a trade. Consider Louis of France before his appointment with Dr. Guillotin. He was a clockmaker.”

  Kate stood below, her hands on her hips. “You worry me!” she declared.

  He beamed down at her. “Do I?” He flicked a little paint in her direction and chuckled when she shrieked and jumped back. “In any event should I plummet to the floor below, and pressed to your wonderful bosom, gasp out my life in your lap, you can report to Abner Sheffield that I was not lazy.”

  “What you are is a sore trial,” was all she could think to say.

  “But I am so much fun, Katie, my love,” he said cheerfully. “You’ll see.”

  “I will not!” she exclaimed and marched from the lobby as he laughed.

  Three nights later, when dinner was over, and the runner had not yet returned to the inn, Gerald emerged from the balcony, scruffy and haggard, but with a certain quiet triumph in his handsome brown eyes that no one could mistake. He strode into the sparsely furnished chamber that Malcolm had dubbed the green room, and plopped a sheaf of papers into Malcolm’s lap as he sat playing jackstraws with his younger daughters.

  “Monsieur, you see before you a play,” he said, his face tired and enthusiastic at the same time. “It is a farce in five acts, using as many people as we have.” He bowed elegantly to the youngest daughters. “Even you, too, mes amis. You can’t begin too young in the theatre.”

  He rested his hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. “You, sir, and you, dear Madame Bladesworth, are the parents of five hopeful daughters, three of age, and two much younger.” He gestured at the runner and the Marquess, who were engaged in a game of cards, and slapped himself in the chest. “And we are the suitors.” He turned to Davy. “You, my lad, will be a particularly slimy brother.”

  “Capital!” Davy exclaimed.

  “He needn’t even act,” Maria teased and shrieked as she dodged the pillow he threw.

  “Now only tell me there will be sword fights, and I shall be quite content!” Davy continued.

  “Of course!” Gerald looked at the marquess. “Hal, can you fence?”

  “Not in years, lad,” Hal replied. “Where is that ace?” While the runner looked on in amusement, Hal tipped Will’s cards down. “There it is!” He threw down his hand and the runner laughed. “Well, sir, if you will not cheat, then I must! Fencing, you say? When do we begin?”

  Chapter 12

  Kate Billings drifted to sleep listening to the sound of the men laughing in the green room over Gerald’s play. She tucked her hands under her cheek, closed her eyes, and smiled at the warmth of Lord Grayson’s laughter. It was the full-bodied sound of someone enjoying himself, and it pleased her. I wonder what your life was like before you fell in with the Bladesworths, she thought. It hope it wasn’t as lonely as mine.

  Her own had been sterile enough lately, full as it was with worry over her new situation and fear of the future. And now I am the owner of a theatre, God help us, and I have friends, and I have been kissed. Considering that only three weeks ago she had been on her way to Leavitt Hall and a dubious future, it seemed a fair exchange. Now if only we can make this theatre pay, she thought as she let loose of the day. She tried to worry about it some more but the memory of Hal’s kiss wouldn’t let her. Her lips curved into a smile.

  She was dreaming what it would be like to wake up in his arms when someone shook her gently.

  “Kate? Are you asleep?”

  The voice was low, but she would have recognized it in a roomful of whispers. The marquess shook her again, then rested the back of his hand against her throat, right against her pulse. “Kate?” he whispered in her ear.

  Kate opened her eyes and reached for the marquess’s hand. He twined his fingers in hers, and she knew she was not dreaming. She could barely see him as he knelt beside her pallet on the floor, but there was just the faintest lingering odor of bay rum, and his fingers in hers, so long and fine-boned, were already as familiar to her as her own.

  She watched him in the dark, wondered briefly what he would do if she pulled him down closer to her, and then sat up quickly, amazed at the direction her thoughts continued to take. He released her hand, then settled back on his haunches.

  “Whatever is it?” she whispered.

  He laughed low in his throat. “This play is too good to waste until morning. Get up and listen to some of the lines, my dear Kate.”

  She was fully awake now and regretting her impish thoughts. “I am not your dear Kate,” she argued, keeping her voice low. “Surely the runner is gone by now.”

  “That he is, but I suppose I am in the habit of calling you ‘my dear Kate.’ ” He hesitated, as if he wanted to say something more, and then his voice lightened. “I am sure it will pass.”

  “Of course it will,” she agreed, grateful for the dark. Don’t be an idiot, she told herself as the marquess rose and pulled her to her feet.

  “Wait! I am only in my nightgown!”

  “And it is a very pretty one, if I remember, dear Kate,” he whispered. “A little bow at the neck and rather a pleasant shade of blue? Flannel or something equally daunting?”

  “You are outrageous,” she returned, fumbling for her robe, and wishing he would not stand so close.

  “I suppose I am,” he replied. “But considering that three weeks ago I was the most boring person I knew, it must be an improvement. Come now, unless you would rather waste your time sleeping.”

  Buttoning her robe, she followed him into the green room. Gerald, his face tired, but his eyes still lively, looked up and nodded to her. “Let us entertain you,” he said, gesturing to one of Malcolm’s prop boxes serving as a stool.

  She sat, pulling her robe about her, and wishing her feet were not bare and her hair tumbled down her back to her waist. “I am sure I look a sight,” she murmured, embarrassed at her appearance.

  The marquess sat down on the floor next to her. “I ask you, Gerald, is there any way to understand women? Here sits Katherine Billings, looking her grandest, and she complains that she is an antidote.”

  Kate’s retort was drowned out by giggles from the doorway. Phoebe and Maria, herded along by their brother, Davy, came into the room. “Brothers are the curse of the earth,” Maria said as she yawned, but Phoebe had already seated herself by Gerald. “Let us hurry with this. Papa will have a fit if he finds us up at th—”

  “Papa will do what?” asked Malcolm from the doorway, clad in nightshirt and paisley robe of intricate design and eyepoppin
g color, suitable for a sultan or an actor. He rubbed his hands together. “Some things cannot wait until morning. Who do you think told Davy and Hal here to roust the females! Come, Gerald, let us read, only not in too animated a fashion. I do not wish to waken dear Ivy.”

  “Oh, you do not!” Ivy scolded from the doorway. “Then you should stay in bed and not go lumbering about, if you do not wish to waken dear Ivy!”

  “I am always quieter than a mouse,” Malcolm replied, his expression morose, his voice ill-used.

  “That is a vast fiction, but we will overlook it,” Ivy said, seating herself beside her husband.

  “I have given the major share of the lines to Phoebe and Maria,” Gerald explained, his eyes on Kate. “They are scheming to find a suitor for you, Kate, so they will be free to marry their lovers.”

  “The fewer lines the better,” Kate replied.

  “As long as she wears that wonderful corset,” the marquess added.

  “You try me, my lord,” Kate said, glaring at the man who sat at her feet, looking much too cheerful for one o’clock in the morning.

  “Of course Lord Grayson will be your suitor,” Gerald continued smoothly.

  Kate rolled her eyes, but said nothing.

  “Only he is a bumbling, clumsy fellow with nothing to recommend him.”

  Kate laughed and prodded the marquess with her bare foot. “ ‘A hit, a palpable hit,’ ” she quoted and stood up and bowed when all the Bladesworths applauded.

  Maria was looking over Gerald’s shoulder at the manuscript in his hand. “Am I to assume that you are Phoebe’s would-be suitor?”

  “Mais oui,” Gerald replied. Malcolm harrumphed, and Phoebe, adorable in nightgown, robe, and disheveled hair, blushed.

  “Very well, then, who is to be my suitor?” Maria asked.

  Gerald sighed and looked at the marquess. “Lord Grayson, I regret this, but I am going to have to ask Will Muggeridge to join us, if he will.”

  “Gerald!” Kate exclaimed. “As it is, he dogs our every footsteps!”

  “I know, and I am sorry for that, but the Muse beckoned, and what could I do? Oh, and there is one more part that wants filling, but it is a small one. We need to procure a vicar to marry you and the marquess in the fifth act.”

  “Gerald, what are you doing!” she demanded.

  “Excellent!” said the marquess. “And to think that we already have the ring! Let us read this charming confection that grows more palatable by the minute.”

  Kate glowered at him, and he grinned back.

  Gerald was eyeing the marquess, too, only he was not smiling. “My lord, you may not like this.” He paused and then proceeded slowly, picking through his words like a housewife at a farmer’s market. “I mean, Lord Grayson, would you be offended to play a buffoon? I really should ask.”

  All were silent, looking at the marquess, who considered the matter in silence. He shook his head finally. “My dear Gerald, considering that I have been a buffoon for the past seven years at least, who better to play one?”

  After sorting out parts, they began the play, passing the manuscript from hand to hand, quickly caught up in the magic of Married Well, or, Love in Strange Guises. It was funny, Kate admitted, a delightful comedy of mistaken identity, desperate lovers, and Squire Antonionus Pinchbeck, bumbling his way through a courtship with the very proper Miss Agatha Rowbottom, eldest and most brainless daughter of a wealthy brewer.

  Gerald had crafted well, using his resources, with no one left over. “And see here,” he said, “during this fifth act, we have a play within a play, so it won’t be out of character for one of the cast members to open or close the curtains, or perform other stage business.”

  “Wonderful!” declared Maria, clapping her hands. “And here Papa thought you were just another handsome actor! You own you must take that back, Papa.”

  Malcolm harrumphed, “We shall see, sir!”

  Gerald’s face fell.

  “But so far, I am delighted,” Malcolm hastened to add. “And now, this final act.”

  “Oui, Monsieur Bladesworth,” Gerald said, his enthusiasm bounding up again. “You see, Miss Rowbottom has no idea that she is really being married in this farce, which they are performing for their friends.”

  “Delightful,” murmured the marquess. “What a clever idea.”

  “And the curtain closes with the spinster married off to the bumbler, and the other two couples free to make their own matches,” Gerald finished triumphantly “Davy, can you continue to fill in as Maria’s lover, just for tonight?”

  Maria made a face as Davy bowed deeply before her.

  “And Monsieur Bladesworth, you will play our vicar just for now, as well as the brewer?”

  “Of course, lad.”

  They read the fifth act, Malcolm laughing so hard that they had to stop and fan him on one occasion, while Ivy sent Phoebe scurrying for a glass of water. Kate did her best with the part of Agatha Rowbottom, struggling against the laughter that bubbled to the surface over the plight of this befuddled spinster. May I never be so foolish, she thought to herself as she listened to Malcolm, reading the vicar’s lines, marry her off without her knowledge to Antonionus Pinchbeck.

  Hal Hampton did his best with the role and finally flopped back on the floor, succumbing to a wave of helpless laughter. He held his hands to his midsection. “My stomach hurts, I have laughed so hard,” he managed finally. “Gerald, you are going to commit theatrical murder among the unsuspecting citizens of Leeds!”

  “No one ever died of laughter,” the Frenchman replied with a pleased grin on his face.

  And then it was over. They sat, exhausted, just looking at each other and giggling as the bells from St. Giles down the street tolled three times. Ivy Bladesworth moved first, rising, stretching, and holding her hands out to her daughters.

  “Come, girls, let us go to bed. A few hours sleep should see us with steady enough hands to begin copying parts.” She touched Gerald on the shoulder as she passed him. “Gerald, this is a triumph. Your dear papa would have been so proud of you.”

  Gerald only smiled at her, too tired to speak. He gathered up the manuscript and placed it carefully on the packing box that served as a table. He sat down, rolled up his sleeves, and pulled the inkwell closer.

  “Surely this can wait until you have had a little sleep,” Hal protested.

  Gerald shook his head. “I must begin copying now,” he said. “We have less than four weeks before we open.”

  “Then I will help you,” the marquess said and pulled a sheaf of blank papers toward himself.

  Kate smiled at him from the doorway. “This smacks of unnecessary exertion,” she teased. “What would Abner Sheffield say if he could see you now?”

  Hal dipped his pen in the ink and began to copy the manuscript on the packing crate between the two men. “He would be grateful that I am at last rendering some useful service to the nation. Go to bed, Miss Agatha Rowbottom, with no arguments, or I will carry you there myself.”

  At his words, which sounded more like a caress than a command, Hal looked over his shoulder at her. There was something in his expression that told her he would do just that, if she should argue with him.

  “Very well, sir,” she said, wondering at the emotions that tumbled over her. I must be very tired, she thought.

  She went back to the bedroom and lay down on her pallet. Phoebe lay on the pallet beside her, her eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, her profile beautiful in the fading darkness. She put out her hand and touched Kate.

  “Do you think it is wonderful?” she asked, her voice a low murmur.

  “Oh, I do,” Kate whispered back. “You were so right about Gerald.”

  Phoebe closed her eyes. “I have always known he was special,” she said simply.

  Kate closed her eyes, too, but she heard Phoebe tossing about, and opened them again. Phoebe, raised up on her elbow, was looking at her. She leaned closer.

  “Kate, he has asked me to marry
him after the play opens.”

  “Phoebe!”

  The young woman put her finger to her lips and cast a meaningful glance at Maria, who slept on her other side. “Shhh, Kate! I have not said anything to Maria about this, but I wanted you to know.” She faltered and looked away. “Perhaps you could drop a hint to Papa … Oh, Kate, I fear he will be displeased.”

  “You are but sixteen, Phoebe,” Kate reminded. “Surely Malcolm would want you to wait a few years.”

  “I am sixteen and I know my own mind. I will have Gerald, and none other.”

  She lay back down again. Kate watched her, noting the resolution of her jaw and the firm line of her lips. “You are so sure,” she said. It was more a statement than a question. “How can you know?”

  “It is something a woman just knows,” Phoebe replied, her voice softer now. In another moment she slept.

  Kate closed her eyes. I wonder if it is so simple, she thought.

  It seemed only minutes later that she woke to the sound of the birds chattering at the squirrels on the ground. Kate looked around. Everyone still slumbered. Quietly she got up and put on her robe, letting herself into the hall.

  A bat swooped past her head, just missing her. Kate put her hand to her mouth, frozen to the spot, until it undulated gracefully away. I must remind Gerald to add bats to his plot, she thought ruefully, else how can we explain them to our theatregoers?

  The door to the green room was open, and she peeked in. Gerald lay on the floor, covered with Hal Hampton’s coat, snoring peacefully. The marquess still sat at the table, steadily copying the play. Kate rested her head against the doorframe and watched him dip the pen in the ink, careful not to blotch the paper, as he continued Gerald’s work. He had a broad back, one that looked capable to bearing any burden. Abner Sheffield must have been crazy to think him a useless ornament to society, she thought.