Lovers' Vows

by Smith, Joan

  “How did it go?” he asked merrily.

  “Wretched!” She continued without stopping, till Dewar’s arm caught her wrist and drew her back.

  “Don’t tell me he turned violent on you! Swithin is a tame man in a carriage.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Surely he didn’t.... Just what happened?” he asked, startled out of his merriment.

  “We have taken a vow of mutual celibacy, eternal celibacy at that!”

  A slow smile formed on his lips as he glanced to Swithin’s carriage, where his cousin’s helmeted head projected from the window, waving a kiss to Kate, “That won’t last long,” he prophesized.

  “It had best last till you get him away from here!” she said angrily, then pulled her wrist free and hastened into the house.

  * * *

  Chapter 21

  At last, the long-awaited day arrived. The momentous occasion was great enough to get Lady Proctor belowstairs by nine o’clock. She had her own particular problems to attend to. Should she go to the Abbey at noon with the girls for the orphans’ performance and remain through for the evening, or should she spend the afternoon preparing a toilette grand enough to impress the city visitors who were to attend in the evening?

  It was the sort of problem that did not come her way often. She was not of a mind to miss a single moment of Jane's glory but, on the other hand, she had no desire either to take a change of outfit with her and make her toilette at the Abbey without her woman, nor to make a hasty dash home between performances. Sloth won out. She would spend her afternoon in the hands of her woman and the local coiffeur, and entrust Jane’s dressing to Holly.

  “Do her hair the way we decided, Holly, with some of those silk orange blossoms entwined in it for the balcony scene. Dewar had a wedding on his mind when he bought orange blossoms. It is a certain giveaway of his feelings. And for dinner afterwards she is to wear the spider gauze outfit from the balcony scene, only unstitch those curtain things Swithin had put on the sleeves to flutter in the breeze. They will be sure to drag in the soup or knock over a wineglass.

  "Did I tell you what Dewar said to her last night when he brought her home? So very particular, his bringing her alone. He wished a few moments alone with her, you see. He did not come up to scratch as we had hoped, but he said he would call on us in London. He said most particularly too that his aunt would sponsor her at Almack’s, the most distinguished club in London. We were concerned about getting her in. He is planning to take her up. That much is obvious.”

  “Yes, I’ll see to her hair and the outfit, Auntie. I wonder if I might borrow your pearls for the play? Swithin thinks that, as Lady Capulet, I should wear some jewels.”

  “What a pity, my dear, I plan to wear the pearls myself. But I have an old string of fish-paste pearls in my box I used to wear before Bertie ... before. Wear them and welcome. On the stage, no one will notice the difference.”

  “Those are the ones I meant, Auntie! I was not asking to wear your real pearls.”

  “Take the old ones and welcome. Keep them. They will look well with the nice black gown you are to wear. I should wear it to the dinner afterwards if I were you, Holly. It lends distinction. That was a good choice. Idle has a sharp eye in his head for fashion; I’ll say that for him. He can spot elegance a mile away. An excellent idea, having my black silk cut down for you. In the normal way, a youngish girl could not wear black to a party, but this will be a good excuse. Why, you might be putting ideas in Mr. Johnson’s head,” she added recklessly.

  In fact, it did flit across Johnson’s mind that Miss McCormack would make a charming widow when he saw her outfitted in her new elegance. It was unusual to see her without a few layers of shawls around her shoulders that concealed her shape. The black gown was well cut. The pearls lent an unaccustomed touch of elegance, if they were not examined too closely to see that they were beginning to peel.

  The recalcitrant hair, too, had been done up in papers to give it body, so that it held its place fairly well. It was not the word ‘widow’ that occurred to Swithin when he saw his forsaking lady-love enter the refectory hall.

  He had passed the greater part of a sleepless night adding dramatic touches to his future proceedings as a man pledged to a blighted love. He would wear black himself for a while. His violet period had been a success; this would be even more tragical. He would be weary, dispirited; utter long sighs and cast heart-broken gazes on Kate. He rather feared the friends coming from the city would jeer at him, but to see Kate look so elegant, really quite pretty, cheered him. He did not wish to appear more than usually ludicrous, and a pledge of eternal celibacy to a woman who was not even pretty might have that effect. Outsiders would not have time to discover all of Kate’s marvelous qualities.

  He had been pouring his delightful misery into Dewar’s ears just before her arrival. Dew, the dear boy, was being even more than usually understanding, and suggesting exactly what Swithin wished to hear—that ‘eternal’ in such cases meant a month, six weeks at the outside. Kate began walking towards them to remind Dewar to raise the white flag to indicate the afternoon performance. She could not fail to notice that Swithin was regarding her with an unaccustomed ardour. “Kate—stupendous!” he said, smiling sadly.

  “You are admiring my aunt’s pearls,” she said, embarrassed at the compliment, the more so as Dewar was looking on, trying to hide his amusement. “They are false, I’m afraid.”

  “No, I am admiring your aunt’s niece,” Swithin countered. “And what I am admiring in particular is not at all false.” This speech was accompanied by a searching examination of her anatomy.

  “The flag should be raised, should it not?” she asked in a rush, to deflect any more compliments.

  Rex came forward, eating an orange, to suggest that, by Jove, if these were meant as a treat it was a cruel prank to play on an orphan. He had tasted sweeter lemons. “You look very fine today, Holly,” he said, regarding her critically. “You ought to dress up more often. Take the shine out of them all. Where’s Jane?”

  When Jane drifted forward in a cloud of white, it was clear that she too took the shine out of them all. But there was little time for flirtation. With all the preparations to see to—the filling of the orange baskets; the final primping of their outfits; the movable heaters to increase the hall’s temperature; the arrival of Mrs. Raymond’s dancing dogs, who had to be taken outside till the play was over; the final running over of troublesome lines—these and a dozen other details kept everyone busy.

  When, at last, the orphans were shown into the hall, an agreeable sort of fatigued excitement had been achieved, Mr. Johnson pointed out to Holly that Billie McAuley was well enough to come with them. “We have got him a Bath chair, you see. An excellent contraption.”

  “How are you, Billie?” she asked.

  “My legs don’t hurt much now,” he replied. “Lord Dewar says when I can walk he’ll get me a pony.”

  “Ha ha, one of Dewar’s little jokes,” Johnson explained. “When you can walk, you won’t need a pony, McAuley.”

  “I won’t ever walk very well,” Billie pointed out, in a philosophical spirit. “But Lord Byron has got a foot like me, and it doesn’t stop him from riding or boxing or shooting or anything. Lord Dewar says he even dances sometimes, when only his friends are around, and he can swim like a fish. Anyway, I’d rather be like me than blind, like Milton. He was a poet, Miss McCormack.”

  “I have heard of him,” she said, but she knew Billie would not have heard of him if Dewar had not taken the trouble to tell him, to buck up the boy’s spirits. “Here, we shall put you right in the front row, Billie.”

  “I can make the chair go by myself. I have very strong arms,” he said proudly. With a great heave of the arms, and the fingers pushing the wheels, he could make it roll on a flat surface.

  “Plucky little fellow,” Johnson said, looking after him. “Still, it doesn’t do to spoil him.”

  “If he does not deserve a l
ittle spoiling, I don’t know who does, Mr. Johnson,” she answered.

  “There is Dewar going to speak to him now. The boy’s head will be turned with so much attention.”

  Dewar’s attention was not limited to Billie. He passed amongst the boys, making jokes with them, tousling heads, and even raising his fists, with one stocky specimen for a playful bout of fisticuffs. “Keep that right hand up,” he warned. “You’ll never be my bruiser if you can’t learn to keep up your guard.”

  “Abrams was used to be a bully till Dewar took him in line,” Johnson told her. “He has promised to get him a spot in Jackson’s Parlour in London when he is sixteen, to train him up for a bruiser, if he behaves himself. He places more faith in reward than punishment.”

  “Can I see your prads, like you promised,” a thin, slightly wall-eyed urchin begged, when Dewar passed his way.

  “Run along. You’d rather talk to the groom than hear the madrigals, I daresay. But be back here in half an hour for the play. Even a groom should know his Shakespeare.”

  “When did Dewar become so familiar with the boys?” Holly asked Mr. Johnson. “He spent his days rehearsing the play.”

  “He often takes a run over to the orphanage after dinner, or just before. I have frequently gone with him,” Johnson told her.

  From the orphans, Dewar went on to tease the orange girls, to adjust their mob caps and compliment them on their curls. It struck Miss McCormack that he was very much at home amongst his people, for a man who only visited once in two years.

  She had not thought Romeo and Juliet a play that would give much pleasure to children. Indeed, certain passages had been altered or deleted entirely for the young afternoon audience. How much enjoyment they actually took from the tragedy it was not possible to know, but the children certainly enjoyed the outing. The local school children were there as well. A temporary teacher might have been found for one day, to allow Prendergast to say his prologues, but an occasional dose of Shakespeare was deemed good for them.

  The youngsters, as well as that part of the audience composed of servants and merchants from the village, enjoyed the production, exceedingly. The females of all ages pulled out their handkerchiefs at just the right places. They fumed with fury at old Capulet (Sir Laurence Digby) for forcing Juliet’s hand into a match, shook their heads in disapproval of the old Nurse for suggesting bigamy, shrieked in thrilled horror when a sword found its mark in a duel scene and, in general, displayed the proper reactions to the scenes put before them.

  The occasional forgetting of a line or dropping of a rapier by Rex only added to their pleasure.

  There was no denying the après-drame was the more successful portion of the entertainment for this particular audience. The dancing poodles, decked in pink ruffles and little pointed hats, were adored, and applauded till hands were red. The shrieks of mirth rose to the ceiling when Rex and Foxey donned their horse’s suit and danced with the bear (Mr. Altmore). The bear then balanced a large red ball on his nose, tossed it to the horse, at which time Foxey (still the front end of Dobbin) lifted one foot and kicked it into the audience. This spontaneous (possibly accidental) bit was so popular it was repeated thrice.

  The juggler kept his oranges in the air all at once and, for a few rare moments, also managed to twirl a hoop around one toe at the same time. Music, largely overpowered by shouts and laughter, was provided by the ambulante musico. When it was all over, individual meat pasties were served, with lemonade and those tarts and sweets that had fallen short of perfection and were not dainty enough in appearance to set before the evening guests. A pony’s worth of sugar plums was the parting treat, not despised either, even by the adults.

  It was a scene of merriment that was worth every minute of the effort, every stitch of the needle, every harrowing hour of the rehearsal. It was magical enough to make even a slightly straitlaced spinster realize that pleasure was a positive good. This afternoon had given more enjoyment to everyone than a hundred woolen undershirts or a dozen bottles of hot soup. Holly knew it was a day that would linger long in the memories of the children and villagers. She would not soon forget it herself. It was an occasion, like a coronation in the city or a victory celebration after a large battle.

  When the guests had departed, the cast were served a more elegant repast of ginestrata, toast, assorted fowls, ham, and side dishes. It was the first time any of them had been confronted with a table laden with victuals, but with no chairs for the diners.

  “We are having an informal actors’ meal,” Dewar told them. “Take a plate and cutlery for yourself, and eat where you choose.”

  This movable feast was served in the morning parlour, where chairs lined the wall, while some overflow of people were required to either stand or wander into the next room, a small parlour that had the disadvantage of being away from the food but the counterbalancing advantage of having tables to hold one’s plate.

  The oddness of the party lent it a hue of glamour. The bucks soon took advantage of unconfined seating to place themselves near to the prettiest girls, without having to make conversation with anyone they disliked. Juliet was surrounded by beaux, and Holly found herself herded into a corner by Swithin, who was too full of his new nobility to be hungry and thus forgot to offer Holly much food either. He looked at her with the eyes of a heart-broken spaniel, and an occasional wan smile that quite took away her appetite.

  He would not be lured into his customary eloquence. Every mention of the play’s success was greeted with a world-weary sigh. “Excellent. Quite excellent,” was about all he would say, and that much was said with an effort.

  Dewar moved amongst the company, being polite and praising their afternoon performance, with a few suggestions for the evening show still to come. Spotting Holly’s predicament, he brought her a plate of sweets for dessert. “It went well, don’t you think?” he asked them both.

  “Excellent,” Swithin sighed, then forced himself to add, “I hope it does not augur a disaster this evening. When the dress rehearsal goes well, the performance is usually marred.”

  “Everyone will be more nervous this evening with your company from London in the audience,” Holly mentioned. “They should be arriving soon, should they not?”

  “They have been trickling in this half hour. They are being shown to their rooms, and will be fed something before the play. I must go to them very soon. Try some chantilly, Holly. You must keep up your strength for tonight.”

  A little conspiratorial smile told her he sympathized with her in her predicament. As he walked away, she noticed that he was really very considerate. He thought of everyone, noticed the little problems that beset all his crew. He thought to compliment the flower ladies on the sour oranges, and even had a kind word for Jane’s brothers, who had spilled a bowl of nuts on the floor.

  Most of all, he was attentive to his leading lady. How had he worked his way to her side when there were at least half a dozen bucks vying for her attention? Jane smiled softly at him. She looked, quite simply, ravishing. I forgot to put the orange blossoms in her hair! Holly thought, with a pang of guilt.

  Everyone felt, as soon as they returned to the refectory hall, that there was an increased tension in the air. Performing for orphans and school children was one thing, performing for a sophisticated London audience, accustomed to the professional works of Covent Garden and Drury Lane, was another. The flag had been changed from white to black, indicating an evening performance. Candles were lit along the wall brackets in the room, and the footlights were ready to be illuminated. The transparency was not yet in place, but it too would be used to greater effect in the evening performance.

  When the gentry from the neighbourhood began arriving and taking their seats, the cast went behind the curtain to prepare for the great moment. Peeps from behind the curtain into the hall showed the city folks now taking up their places—dark-suited gentlemen with opera glasses, slickly barbered hair, and very white hands. And the ladies! There were real diamonds sparkling; th
ere were ostrich feathers in their hair; there were turbans; and there was a good deal more of bare shoulder and bosom than had ever been seen before in Harknell. ‘Indecent,’ the Misses Hall called it. Even Mrs. Raymond, frequently chided in the village as a bit of a dasher, thought it ‘fast,’ and wondered if she dare have her new spring gown re-cut to this style.

  When, at last, the madrigals were sung and the curtain about to be lifted, the crowd stopped coughing and chatting. The director went to join his friends in the audience. Mr. Prendergast cleared his throat nervously, straightened his cravat and strode out to initiate the play:

  “Two households, both alike in dignity,

  In fair Verona,…”

  he began, in a somewhat tremulous contralto voice. By the time he finished, “our toil shall strive to mend” came out in his normal baritone. No lines—at least, no essential ones— were forgotten on that night. Rex Homberly did not drop his sword. Juliet achieved some semblance of the tone Dewar had been striving for the past weeks. The lamps had the desired effect on the transparency, causing a wonderful view that roused even city folks to a surprised “ah!” when first it was revealed.

  At intermission, oranges and nuts were passed, and the ambulante musico strolled amongst them, sadly piping his flageolet, and wishing he had thought to have his lute shipped down from Heron Hall instead. A flageolet was not tragic enough for him now. It was an instrument for Pan, not fitting to Swithin’s new mood. But, by slowing his tunes down to a dirge, he caught the essence of the mood he sought. Several of his friends asked him what ailed him in any case, and heard, at great length.

  The play recommenced and continued on its course, uninterrupted till the end, with only an awkward fall by Juliet at the climax to flaw perfection. She caught her toe in the hem of her skirt and tripped, landing with an unromantic thump.

  But, when praise was being distributed afterwards, this was seen as a cunning device used by the director to heighten reality. “Daresay that is what would actually happen,” said Mr. Dickens, the manager of Drury Lane. “The whole done with great originality, Dewar. You have excelled yourself. Ingenious to have used such a pretty set of youngsters for your cast. Your Juliet—superb! And her mother, Lady Capulet, played by an incomparable. There was a new twist. Who is she, by the by? The best voice I have heard in several years. I do not exclude our professional ladies either.”