Lovers' Vows

by Smith, Joan

  “We will all be happy to have you back with us at the Abbey. After keeping all my promises to you, I have a few words to say on your behaviour, ma’am. You were left in charge of the stage properties. May I know why you so cavalierly abandoned your duty?”

  “I abandoned my duty? No, sir, I must take exception to that. It was your tardiness in dealing with Parsons’s retirement that made my presence at the school necessary. You did leave me some latitude in the matter of attending to your duties in your absence, if you will recall. I made sure you would be more concerned for the instruction of the children than the amusement of the villagers.”

  “You mistake my priorities.”

  “Amusement always comes first, does it? Sir Swithin has already outlined your pleasure principle to me. You must forgive me if I cannot agree with it. I see pleasure as a privilege, earned by first attending to one’s duty. The boys require an education; we do not actually need the frivolity of a play.”

  “Mankind does not actually require anything to subsist but a cave and a slingshot. As society progresses toward civilization, more and more refinements are considered necessary.”

  “Yes, we know what rarefied heights that philosophy reached in France only recently, where Louis was so civilized he bankrupted the nation to provide his luxuries. But you refer, in your own case, only to such refinements as Delft tiles and fountains in your dairy, I collect? Were you happy with the fountain, milord?” she asked icily.

  “Not completely. I had the shepherd’s nose recarved. The modeling left something to be desired. That was not the refinement to which I referred, however. As far as that goes, a fine and stately home in good repair is part of my people’s heritage. They will not live in it, but they like to know it is there, to visit on public day, and to point out to visitors. They appreciate it; it gives them a feeling of being civilized."

  “You cannot be civilized till you can read and write.”

  Swithin, wishing to join the talk, said, “Actually, Kate, that is a misconception. The delights of reading a good sonnet or play are not negligible, but....”

  “The delights of a play are negligible to those who go hungry.” She stopped then, as she was speaking in anger, and implying as well something that was not quite pertinent. So far as she knew, there were actually no starving people in the neighbourhood.

  “Pray continue. You have my complete attention,” Dewar said, regarding her with one brow raised to a dangerous level, his nostrils pinched. “We have got the path put through Evans’s place, we have tended to the orphanage and the roof, and to Billie McAuley; we have got the school a new master and Miss McCormack’s friend a post. What else remains to be done? We grasshoppers on the lawn of life occasionally give a thought to duty.”

  “When you have the welfare of so many in your keeping, you should give more than an occasional thought to it. But it was my intention to thank you this evening, Dewar, not deliver yet another scold. And so I thank you.”

  “You are welcome—may I now know which of my people are starving?”

  “None. You have performed well recently. I suppose you have earned a few hops on life’s lawn.”

  Swithin sighed peevishly. “If we must be insects, let it be dragonflies, with beautiful iridescent wings. Or butterflies, flitting through life, sipping nectar where we may.”

  “An apt simile,” Holly agreed.

  “I have a certain talent for a simile. And you, dear Kate, will be the ant at the picnic of our life. Life for some certain few transcends the everyday business of earning bread. I am of those few, and so is my dear coz. You are not cut out for it, but you will partake of it on your own level, sewing costumes for us.”

  “Never again!” she said, in a steely voice.

  “You must. The arts are vital. Someone must write the poetry for others to read and enjoy, and to use as a gauge—an interpretation, if you like, of life’s mysteries. Only think if dear William had not written his plays. The world, you must own, would be a poorer place. Who cares if he was a little inconsiderate of his wife—leaving her his second-best bed was a gratuitous insult, and unworthy of him, but we must forgive such a man all. And since the glorious plays have been writ, they must be kept alive by performances. It is fallen to the lot of the more sensitive spirits—Dew, myself, our little group—to fulfill this function. Cultural envoys to society at large, you might say. A species of genius, really,” he finished up.

  “I understood a genius to be involved in original work,” she parried.

  “You have been reading French, Kate! How clever of you. I take credit to myself for enlarging your horizons. Genius was perhaps too grand a word, but how boring life would be if we never flattered ourselves.”

  “Not much danger of that!” Foxworth said.

  Homberly was in some danger of falling asleep, and Foxey becoming obstreperous. Dewar decided to take them home before they became even worse nuisances.

  “You will be at the Abbey tomorrow, Kate?” Swithin confirmed.

  “Yes, if Dewar will notify the students in some manner that school is cancelled for one day.”

  A slight inclination of his head was the only reply he made before saying his good evenings to everyone.

  As they drove home, Swithin whined gently, “She is a hard woman to satisfy. She will keep me on my toes.”

  “You overlook Mr. Prendergast.”

  “She does not love him. Did you not observe the pretty smile on her lips when we entered the saloon? Much brighter than she wore with him.”

  “I noticed.”

  “But a very daunting woman. She can shrivel a man’s confidence in two seconds. I found myself comparing her to an ant, imagine! How degrading, and it was not what I meant at all. The fact is, Dew, I begin to wonder about myself. Do we do right to fritter life away in idle pleasures? When you asked her who was starving, I had an overwhelming urge to say ‘Let them eat cake,’ and that would have been an unforgivable levity in her eyes. I think—oh, dear boy, you will never believe it—I think, after the play, I am going to Heron Hall to spend some months attending to estate business. The very thought appalls, but Kate must not find my affairs untended, or she will find me morally inferior, as she so obviously does you. Are you listening to me?”

  “I’m trying not to. I wish you would be quiet.”

  “Too cruel,” Idle lisped, and fell into sulks.

  * * *

  Chapter 18

  At times, it seemed impossible the play would ever be ready for performance in mid-December. There were the usual number of unlooked-for vexations. The weather turned unpleasantly harsh, causing many of the chaperones to remain home, and the actors to complain as they stood about the draughty refectory hall trying to keep warm at the flames from the two fireplaces.

  The Misses Hall’s oranges were not ripening at a rate to ensure maturity in time for distribution. Rex continued muttering his lines, rubbing his ear and then his belly in consternation, and displaying none of the swashbuckling manner his role called for. Foxey, though he was now reduced to a minuscule part, was never present for it, but out marauding through Dewar’s coverts. Otto Wenger proved not so familiar with the role of Mercutio, after two years, as one might have hoped.

  Reverend Johnson developed a declamatory style not at all in keeping with the sedate, natural effect Dewar was striving for. The actors complained at being able to wear nothing more exciting than their everyday gowns, and took to adding bows, feathers, and glitter on their own, again ruining the overall effect strived for. Worst of all, the star of the production, Juliet, was not coming up to scratch.

  With the best will in the world and a really staggering amount of work, Jane could not remember all her lines. Her dog-eared book sat at her elbow from breakfast through lunch, dinner, and her nightly cocoa. She became so weary with Juliet that she actually broke down and cried one day at rehearsals. Fortunately, this occurred on a day when her mother was not at the Abbey. The outburst made a strong impression on everyone, particula
rly the gentlemen.

  A hushed silence fell over the group, while their eyes, full of accusation, turned as one toward Dewar, the immediate cause of her tears. He had reminded her with some impatience that the play was to be performed in slightly more than two weeks and, if she was ever to put any expression into her speeches, she really must memorize them at once.

  Fatigue, frustration, anger, and embarrassment welled up inside the girl. She wanted to shout at Dewar, but in the end it was a great heaving sob that came out, then she turned and bolted from the stage, out the back door of the refectory hall, to disappear into some small room to recover her composure.

  “Shabby behaviour!” the flower ladies declared. They were firm supporters of Dewar in any and all affairs.

  “Dashed tyrant!” Homberly charged, and was supported by Foxey.

  “Bloody dictator. Won’t stand for this,” Foxworth added, and sat down.

  “Too cruel,” Swithin mumbled, but there was some confusion as to whom he accused of cruelty. He was sitting with Kate in a corner at the time, holding up the tail of his saffron shirt while she stitched some lace on the cuffs. Not what one would expect to see on a shepherd’s shirt, Kate thought, but he assured her that if he were a shepherd he would sell his last sheep to buy lace.

  “I had better go to her,” Holly said, and ran off to follow her cousin. She soon became lost in a maze of rooms and corridors. She was about to return to the refectory when she heard from a doorway beyond the sniffles of a lady in distress. She hastened forward, then stopped. Dewar had arrived before her, and was drying Jane’s tears, with an arm around her shoulders. His words were unintelligible, but the tone—gentle, consoling, loving—was having the required effect on Jane. The sniffles were her final display of temper. She lifted her pretty, tear-stained face and smiled shyly.

  While Holly stood stock-still, watching but unwatched, Dewar said, “Forgive me, love. I’m a beast, and I am very sorry.” Then he reached down and kissed Jane lightly on the lips.

  Holly slipped away back to the hall, feeling upset and guilty for having seen what was not intended for her to see. When Jane came back, her hand was tucked into Dewar’s arm. His treatment of his leading lady was more gentle from that time onwards, and Jane’s performance markedly better. Dewar’s attention to Juliet during the ensuing days was little short of lover-like. All the ladies were gossiping, lifting their brows, and wondering amongst themselves when the announcement would be made. Swithin, with his alacrity for similes, declared Lady Proctor was as pleased as an Ascot Cup winner.

  “Methinks she gloats prematurely,” he said to Holly. It was his invariable custom to stick to her like a burr. She made not the least effort to be pleasant to him. In fact, the more he stuck, and bothered her with his high-flown nonsense, the harder she tried to shake him off. He blossomed into ever greater blooms of rhetoric, complimenting her on her ‘character' in wearing the plainest gowns she owned when not even he could devise a compliment on her wardrobe.

  “We shall see. I have watched Coz fall in love an even dozen times. He always falls in love with his leading lady. It would not do to suggest he does it on purpose to screw them up to a good performance. Indeed, it would be unfair. You improve my character, Kate. Its being unfair would not have prevented my saying it a month ago, so long as it was clever. I tell you everything. It is a sure sign a man is in love, don’t you think, when he can’t keep any secrets from a lady?”

  “I expect it is only the sign of an indiscreet nature,” she answered, with a great lack of interest.

  “You are the cruellest she alive,” he smiled fondly.

  “Thank you, Swithin. Tell me, what does your cousin do after the performance? With regard to the lady he has been making love to during it, I mean?”

  “He usually leaves the vicinity as soon as possible. Dashes off to the next production, or exhibition, or party. The lady cries willow for a week, then forgets him.”

  “Where do you two dilettantes go after this particular production?”

  “Odd Dew has not said anything. It is unlike him to have nothing in mind. He mentioned doing a Molière thing, but our English audiences are too lazy to appreciate a play done in French. The fault of having nothing lined up may well be my own. I mentioned going to Heron Hall—my home—for a period of quietude and work. Work, Kate.”

  “The drama of Boadicea?”

  “Ah, no. That will be pleasure, sheer self-indulgence. I refer to accounting,” he shuddered. “Speaking to bailiffs, looking at wet fields, admiring animals of a domestic nature.”

  Occasionally Lady Dewar bestirred herself to join the players. “Dear Tante Hélène, do join us,” Swithin offered, drawing up a chair for her. “We were just discussing your son, and what he means to do after Christmas. Has he said anything to you?”

  “Gracious, no. I am only his mother. He doesn’t tell me anything. What have you jacks-of-all-trades in mind to amuse yourselves?”

  “Jacques-of-all-arts would be more to the point, Tante. We are innocent of trades and labour.”

  “Parsons was here this morning, coughing all over me. He has had a miraculous recovery from whatever ailed him. I will be lucky if I don’t come down with a wretched cold. He said something about Dewar writing a book.”

  “The pandect,” Swithin nodded. “Work will not be resumed on it immediately, I think. He has been touching up the Elizabethan bits while they are fresh in his head. New work will require a change of scene, and of lady.”

  “What happened to the Grover gel he was seeing earlier?”

  “Someone or other married her. She was a totally uninteresting female. She would not have done for your fils at all, dear Tante.”

  “I begin to wonder if he will ever find anyone to do for him for more than a month at a time,” she confessed, with a little worried look at Jane.

  “He will never find such a rock, an utter foundation, as his papa found in you, and that is what Dew really needs, I expect. We flighty artistes seek an earth mother, in our deepest heart of hearts. We do not want a female competing with us in beauty and elegance and charm. We want the centre of the stage for ourselves. Some nice, plain, sensible girl.”

  He did not add ‘like Kate,’ though his glance included her in passing. Then he turned his interest to the stage, where he was soon taking exception to Homberly’s nonchalant meandering onto the boards.

  “Good God, Tybalt is supposed to be a hot-headed, swaggering, reckless buck. Only look how Rex is turning him into a puppy. Homberly, dear boy, I say!” he shouted, and darted off.

  “Oh these play actors!” Lady Dewar sighed, rolling up her eyes in disgust at his departing form. “And my own son every bit as bad. He would like to wear the patches of a Harlequin, I suspect, if he did not have to wear his title instead. He delights to act up in that theatrical way, and is always a deal worse when he is with Swithin. They urge each other on, only Dewar don’t dare to pull it with me, or I call him Chubbie to bring him into line. He hates it. He knows I am not taken in by his role of worldly player. There is no doing anything with Swithin. He is past redeeming, but I sometimes entertain the slim hope that the right woman might do something with Chubbie. Your cousin, though she is a pretty little ninny, is not the one. He is at the top of his bent to act the role with her, so I know he does not really care for her.”

  Holly listened closely, then turned her attention to the stage, where Swithin had taken the rapier in his own hand to demonstrate a riposte to Rex. “Come, we shall practice elsewhere, and let our Director get on with Juliet’s scene,” Swithin said.

  “Juliet, my pretty,” Dewar said, “a little more from the lungs, if you please, and not quite so much awareness of your tragedy. Don’t act as though you know the play’s ending, A little-girl-lost sort of quality is what I am looking for, not Mrs. Siddons. Just be yourself, pet.” Then he stopped and looked back over his shoulder toward the rear of the hall.

  “Holly, can you come here a minute?”

  She went
towards the stage. “Would you mind walking to the far door and telling me if you can hear her? This throwing-the-voice business always sends her into her tragic vein. It would be better if she could use her normal tone. Do you mind?”

  “No.” She went to do it. In a few moments, he joined her there to test for himself what volume and timbre Juliet was achieving.

  “We have our choice—a melodramatic bellow or a perfectly inaudible whisper. Which is it to be?” he asked.

  “It is important to hear the words, don’t you think? And really, Dewar, I doubt our local audience will be so critical as you fear. They would appreciate a good rant. They can hear Jane talk anytime. They want to hear her act.”

  “A percipient comment, but the audience will not be composed entirely of neighbours. I have friends coming from London, fellow enthusiasts who are curious to see what I am doing.”

  “It won’t be so bad. You’ll see,” she consoled him,

  “So bad? My dear girl, we are not competing with bad amateur productions. We are competing with the best.”

  “Which do you consider the best?”

  “Why,” he said, considering, “I think my own production of it when I was still a student in Cambridge ranks as high as any I can remember. An entirely different play from this one. I used all men, in the Shakespearean tradition, with a good deal of ranting and raving. A fine production, of its sort. Sir Harold Peacock made an exquisite Juliet. But not so beautiful as Jane,” he finished up, with a long, appreciative look at the stage. “One wonders who Shakespeare had in mind, n’est-ce pas? Certainly not his wife. There is intriguing research to be done on the Bard’s life.”

  “Why don’t you undertake it, as an addition to your pandect, Chubbie?” she asked with a gurgle of laughter, then escaped before he had recovered.

  Jane’s feelings for Dewar were not formally known. She was pleased and flattered at his attention, as any young girl would be. Whether there was more to it than that, Holly had not enquired, and her cousin had not said. Jane seemed equally happy with the attentions of Rex and Foxey. Dewar’s true feelings were also in some doubt.