Lovers' Vows

by Smith, Joan

  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.

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  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.

  Sir Swithin continued taking a very active part in the direction and production of the play. His suggestions were not always sensible, but they were always interesting. It was his notion to add a few Italian songs to the opening musical. This was at odds with the costuming and general decor but, as he pointed out, the play was set in Verona and there was no point in ignoring Italy entirely. They were not to become slavish about it.

  “I play the flageolet rather well,” he admitted unblushingly. “I shall render a few airs—'In Dulci Jublio,’ perhaps, passing amongst the audience with the orange wenches as un musico ambulante, in the Italian street-style. I shall design myself something bucolic and quattrocentoish to wear. A loose, long shirt, gathered at the waist, with flowing sleeves— perhaps a few laurels in my hair. Long silk stockings....” His pink face fell into a meditative expression.

  “Why not make it a skirt?” Foxworth muttered to Rex, who growled in agreement. Miss Proctor was paying scant attention to either of them since Sir Swithin’s coming. Her gentle nature responded well to the many compliments of Sir Swithin. Lord Dewar would occasionally express some impatience with her voice, which she could not always remember to project, or her memory work, which was difficult to perfect, but Sir Swithin defended her.

  “A little louder, Juliet,” Dewar called from the pit.

  “We don’t want to miss a word of your sweet voice,” Swithin added. “Just a little louder, fair Juliet. You are doing splendidly,” then, aside to Dewar, he continued, “The girl is half angel, I swear.”

  The costumes were finally begun, to Holly’s relief. “Wonderful, clever Kate will be in charge,” Swithin said, with a hopeful eye to her. He was a little foolish, but by no means stupid. He realized well enough Miss McCormack was, of all the ladies, the least enchanted with him. No amount of flattery helped the matter either. It had quite the reverse effect. “How fortunate we are to have so many skilled ladies at our disposal.”

  “I am not particularly skilled, but I can sew a straight seam as well as the next one. Let us get on with it.”

  “It should present no difficulty,” Dewar said. “As agreed, we are to have contemporary English costumes. The local modiste can do the brute work, if you will take charge and see that it gets done. In fa
ct, there is no reason the cast cannot wear some of their own clothes.”

  “That enchanting gown Juliet wore the first night I saw her, for instance,” Idle mentioned. “Rose it was—a gentle, mallow rose. We shall want the spider gauze for the famous balcony scene. Something to sparkle in the moonlight—it has glitter to be worn on the underskirt. The rose might be an interesting choice for her to die in. The ambiguity of lively rose will heighten the pathos of her death while still half an infant. Blue is too obvious, don’t you agree, Dew?”

  “A good idea.”

  “For Lady Capulet, we will want something a trifle more dashing than she customarily wears,” Idle went on, subjecting Holly to a close examination. “She is a lady of some consequence, and we wish her youth to be stressed to heighten the awareness of Juliet being scarcely in her teens. We don’t want you to suggest advanced age, my dearest Kate, but only maturity. No need to swath yourself in bombazine or hide the fact that you have still a figure.”

  Holly shot a hostile look at him, to be met with a suave smile. “Or so one assumes,” he added, peering in vain at her shawl. “We shall get you out of blankets and confirm the point one day soon. Pray do not glare at me, Kate. I meant no offence. Some of my dearest friends dress like beggars. Ma chère Tante Hélène, par exemple, never wears a thing less than ten years old, and prefers it to have been worn by someone else for at least five of the ten. We are not all birds of paradise.”

  “No indeed, but some of us certainly are,” she replied, with a disparaging eye at his jacket.

  “True. We come in all shades of feathers. Some sparrows, and the rare few like yourself, who are nightingales, delighting us with the unexpectedness of a golden voice issuing from a plain—er, unassuming exterior.”

  “What do you think of a turban for Lady Montague, Idle?” Dewar asked, hoping to switch the subject before Holly turned violent.

  The execution of the two directors’ various ideas to enhance the spectacle required considerable skill, ingenuity, and hard work. Between gowns to be sewn, scenery painted, prompters to help out with speeches, and a dozen other odd chores, the whole company was kept hopping. No one hopped as hard as Holly. She was more accustomed to being put upon than the married ladies, which perhaps accounted for it. She worked quickly, quietly, without expecting praise at every turn. Then too, her part in the drama was not large, and her lines and execution both perfected, so that anyone could fill in for her when need be.

  There was the matter of outfits for the orange-wenches—wicker baskets for their wares, which Swithin thought ought to be decorated with orange blossoms to enhance the show. The Hall sisters could not oblige with any strain of orange blossom that would remain fresh under such rough usage. It was for Kate to find artificial blooms and attach them to the basket handles.

  “It will cost two pounds for enough artificial flowers to do the baskets,” she told Dewar, horrified at the expense. “They only have silk, and those are very dear.”

  “Did you have them put it on my bill at the shop?” he asked.

  “No indeed. I did not buy them at all. It is too expensive.”

  “What a clutch-fisted manager of properties you are! Buy them. And before you prepare a lecture on thrift, I shall assign you another task. Decide whether the flowers should be gifts for the orange-girls after the play, or put into our properties trunk to hold for another production.”

  “It would be a nice gesture to give them to the girls,” she decided.

  “It was my intention. I thought I might have to do it behind your back.”

  “As money is clearly no object, I shall venture another idea that has occurred to me. It is about my cousins, Peter and Paul. Jane’s brothers,” she identified further, as he did not appear to recognize the names, despite having met them more than once.

  “Has she got brothers? How strange she never mentions them.”

  “She has got them all the same. Nine and ten years old, and very irate at being left out of all the fun. I have read mention of boys selling nuts in the shell at the plays in Shakespeare’s day. At least, the book said the folks liked Falstaff so well they stopped cracking nuts, so I suppose they must have bought them there. I was wondering whether Peter and Paul could not be given the role. There would be no expense in it. Someone in our group will provide the nuts free of cost. It would be only for the afternoon performance, as their mother would not approve of their being up all night.”

  “Yes, do see to it. If anyone else has small children who want to participate, they could hand out the ton of sugarplums Mr. Homberly’s contribution to my orphans has bought,” he replied, regarding her closely while she looked, trying to read his expression.

  “He insisted ...,” she said, with an embarrassed little smile. “I gave the money to Johnson to do as he....”

  “And forgot to warn him not to tell me. I am shocked at your having overlooked a detail. In future, I would appreciate your coming to me if my boys require anything,”

  “I’ll do that, while you are amongst us.”

  “Do I read an inference that I do not spend enough time amongst my people?”

  “Why no, sir. If you read that into my speech, it must be your conscience intruding,” she said innocently, then rushed on to other points, rather quickly. “Tell me, who is to be the Chorus? Who will read the Prologue? You have not rehearsed anyone for it, have you?”

  “I dislike the idea of a Chorus. The thing is unintelligible when read by more than one person. If your friend, Mr. Prendergast, wishes to have some part in the production, perhaps you would like to invite him to do it.”

  “Oh, how nice! I was hoping I could convince you to ask him.”

  He looked at her closely. “Mr. Prendergast must be a skilled speaker for you to be so anxious to include him in the presentation.”

  “It is not that. This will give him an excuse to attend your party afterwards. I hated to think he must miss it, for he is about the only gentleman in town who had no excuse to come. The ladies who have been slaving for you all these weeks can bring their husbands and families, but Mr. Prendergast had no invitation and was feeling very left out.”

  “I shouldn’t think it necessary for me to tell you to invite your particular friends. Pray feel free to ask anyone that I, in my abysmal ignorance of the village folks, have overlooked. As a matter of fact, I am rather curious to have a look at your Mr. Prendergast.”

  “There is something he would like to say to you as well,” she answered mysteriously.

  “What is that? You have gone this far; you might as well tell me the whole. Come, while I am in a good mood,” he urged, but his mood did not seem particularly good to her.

  “He would prefer to speak to you himself, but I shall just give a little hint. It is impossible for a man to get married when he is only acting as a clerk for a solicitor. He works for Mr. Raymond, you perhaps remember.”

  “We are speaking of the school, is that it?”

  “I have said more than enough.”

  “You are wise not to try my patience,” he agreed, and turned his attention back to the stage.

  Mr. Johnson was seldom absent from rehearsals. He took a keen interest in all matters pertaining to the play. It was he who suggested a transparent curtain be used as a backdrop to add romance to certain scenes.

  “A brilliant notion!” Sir Swithin praised. “It could create a sort of visual leitmotif, an indication to the audience, if you like, that they are to set their hearts to romance for what is to ensue, when we have Romeo and Juliet in their love scenes. The thing could easily be done. A large sheet of calico with a light behind, and the scene painted with transparent dyes. I shall design it moi-même, and all these clever, wonderful people will paint, under my direction, while you, dear boy,” he turned to Dewar, “can put a bit of polish on those local performers who are to give us the après-drame—the tumblers, jugglers, dancing dogs, etc. Do, I beg of you, take the bear out of my hair as well, or Rex will destroy my creation. Bound to
put a foot through it, you know “

  “A little hiatus is not a bad idea,” Dewar agreed. “I am saturated, stale with this unrelieved play-acting. New ideas are bound to occur with a change of pace. I shan’t spend the day supervising the jugglers, however. I have something to attend to in London. I shall be gone two days, I expect.”

  “Excellent,” Idle said. “In that case, take Foxworth as well.”

  Holly had not forgotten Billie McAuley, still alone in London, despite her two mentions to Mr. Johnson that his face would be familiar to the orphan, and he could be spared for one day to go and deliver him home. Before Dewar left, she found an opportunity to accost him.

  “As you are going to London ...,” she began.

  “That’s why I’m going.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You were about to remind me Billie is still there alone. I had a note from Sir Henry today that he is progressing satisfactorily, and can now be brought home. I asked him to notify me.”

  “Oh,” was all she had to say.

  “Saved myself a lecture, did I not?” he asked, smiling. “Sorry to rob you of one of life’s little pleasures, Lady Capulet.”

  “You misread my character, sir. I do not get any pleasure from lecturing people. Indeed, it is a pleasure to see you acting so properly without reminding.”

  “For a change,” he added, with an ironic little smile. “You must not take the notion I am totally reformed only because I am about to make my second trip on the orphan’s behalf.”

  “The first trip was not wholly on his behalf, I think. Your mother mentioned your going to the city to urge Sir Swithin to join us.”

  “No, I went to deliver Billie, but always believe in killing two birds with one stone. The second bird on this occasion is that the fountain for my dairy is completed. I am to approve it before it is removed from the sculptor’s studio. Do you have any other commissions I might perform for you while there? Don’t be shy to put them forward. Any smallpox victims wanting a cure, lepers, lunatics for Bedlam, or miscreants for Newgate? I already have the pleasure of carrying Rex and Foxworth, so a few more passengers will not be the least bother.”