Hard not to feel positively middle-aged when acting opposite him, even though he was only two years younger than Hugo. He’d assured Lady Madeline he’d be most comfortable playing an older character. Now, perversely, he wished he’d put in a bid for one of the younger men’s roles, after all. His only consolation was that she was playing Lady Capulet, which meant that they shared several scenes. Only fitting, as she’d got him into this—he still wasn’t sure how.
But “the play was the thing,” and Hugo’s ambivalent feelings towards Bonham could not be allowed to interfere with his performance as Lord Capulet. Smiling genially at “Paris,” he continued his speech:
“This night I hold an old accustomed feast
Whereto I have invited many a guest,
Such as I love; and you among the store,
One more, most welcome, makes my number more.”
“Well-done,” Lady Madeline approved, when the scene was finished. “Though you need to project a bit more clearly on those last lines, Lord Saxby. And Lord Rupert, could you show more of a reaction to what Lord Capulet is saying? You do want to marry his daughter, after all.”
Bonham took the suggestion in good part, Hugo observed. Indeed, he’d noticed that the whole cast appeared to respect Lady Madeline’s authority when it came to the play, showing no reluctance to take direction from a woman. But then, by her own account, she’d been in charge of these theatricals for years; no doubt everyone was accustomed to how she ran things.
As a newcomer, Hugo was fascinated, impressed, and just a little intimidated by her efficiency: her deft handling of so many different personalities, her detailed knowledge of stagecraft, and the seamless way she shifted between acting and directing.
Which she did now, taking the stage with Lady Elaine and Lady Margaret: the Capulet women meeting to discuss Juliet’s possible marriage to Paris. Hugo positioned himself unobtrusively in the wings to watch. All three women were quite good, he realized after the first few lines: speaking the verse as though it came naturally, and obviously comfortable with each other. Lady Elaine was playing Juliet, but far from seeming disappointed about it, Lady Margaret had embraced the comic role of the Nurse, infusing the character’s dialogue with a faint Yorkshire brogue that worked surprisingly well.
And then there was Lady Madeline, imbuing Lady Capulet with a simmering discontent that Hugo had never imagined when he thought about the character: a restlessness that suggested a woman not wholly comfortable with being a mother, nor, he realized with sudden clarity, entirely content as a wife to a man who must be many years her senior. Did he detect a note of wistfulness—even envy—in her voice when she remarked of Paris, “Verona’s summer hath not such a flower”?
Denforth and his circle were also loitering in the wings, talking in low voices among themselves. Every now and then a phrase reached Hugo’s ear, but he was too intent on Lady Madeline’s performance to pay them much heed.
“—just think of the look on her face if I did,” Denforth finished with a chuckle.
“You wouldn’t dare.” Lord Reginald spoke with a boredom approaching insolence.
Hugo winced inwardly, transferring his gaze from the scene onstage to the one backstage. He’d no idea what Denforth had proposed, but that was a red flag to a bull if he’d ever heard one. Once again, he wondered why the Lyons brothers always seemed to be at each other’s throats.
“Oh, wouldn’t I?” Denforth breathed, the light of battle in his eyes.
His brother smiled—no, smirked—unpleasantly. “I’d lay a guinea on it.”
“Done.”
Hell and damnation. No power on earth could halt a wager once money was involved. To which “her” could Denforth be referring? Hugo wondered, his unease growing. Lady Margaret, perhaps? Did the earl mean to play a prank on his future bride, and should she be warned if that was the case? Most likely he meant no harm, but the girl was so young and so very eager to please the man she was going to marry. He thought of Lady Margaret’s face, pinched with fatigue but so determined as she urged her cob after the rest of the hunters, trying to prove she was up to her intended’s speed. To make sport of her would be unkind—and unworthy of Denforth, for all his frivolity.
Hugo glanced back towards the stage, where Lady Capulet, Juliet, and the Nurse were finishing their conversation. He dared to breathe a little more easily when Lady Juliana entered as a servant to announce the arrival of the guests, and all four exited together, without incident.
But his misgivings revived when Denforth, sporting a particularly angelic expression, took his place onstage for the maskers’ scene: a Mercutio ripe for any spree.
Things began well enough. Wilf was doing a decent job as Benvolio, the supportive friend and kinsman that Romeo—played by young Castlebrooke (Alasdair to his intimates)—needed. Hugo would be sure to compliment his brother later. Denforth was also behaving himself for the moment—until his first big speech. Sweeping to the front of the stage, the earl struck a pose and declaimed as he gesticulated extravagantly, “O, then-a I see-a Queen-a Mab, she hath-a been with you-a! / She izza the fairies’-a mid-a-wife, and-a she comes—”
“Stop right there!” Lady Madeline’s voice rang out, sharp as a newly whetted knife.
Hugo had to give Denforth credit: he didn’t so much as flinch when his sister stalked towards him like an affronted cat.
“What was that?” she demanded, eyes narrowing as she stared down her twin.
“Mercutio, he is italiano!” Denforth insisted, flourishing his hands as a few other cast members tittered behind him.
Madeline closed her eyes for a moment, and spoke with strained patience. “He may be, but you are not.”
“Oh, don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud, Maddie!” her brother laughed. “The Nurse isn’t from Yorkshire, but you like Margaret’s accent well enough.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Hugo saw Lady Margaret bite her lip and look down, clearly unsure whether to be pleased that Denforth had noticed her or embarrassed that he was using her to twit his sister.
“That’s because what Margaret was doing actually worked for the part, not against it! Better not to attempt a foreign accent than to do it badly—especially as badly as that. And when it detracts from the play as a whole.” Lady Madeline’s gaze swept over them all with a searing intensity before she turned back to her brother. “We may be amateurs, but we are not clowns, and Romeo and Juliet is not meant to be a farce! Let’s have that speech again—unaccented—from the opening line.”
Denforth’s eyes, still brimming with untrustworthy merriment, gazed into hers a moment longer. Then he shrugged and looked away, though Hugo saw him smirk in Lord Reginald’s direction before resuming his lines. “O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you…”
Hugo exhaled, taken aback to discover he’d barely breathed during that tense exchange.
“That was a close one.” Lord Gervase had come up behind him, so quietly that Hugo hadn’t heard him approach. “I’d credited Hal with more sense. Not that he has much at the best of times, but he knows how Madeline gets when she’s directing a play.”
“Lord Reginald may have put him up to it.”
“Ah. That explains a good deal.” Lord Gervase’s eyes flickered towards his elder sister. “She’s a slave driver, you know—and not merely over amateur theatricals. But she works as hard as anyone else—harder, really—to make something worthwhile happen, so we forgive her.”
Hugo followed the direction of his gaze. “And respect her?”
“That, too. Even Hal, though he’d be boiled in oil before he admitted as much.” Lord Gervase paused, then added lightly, “I tell you, he that can lay hold of her / Shall have the chinks. And a good deal more besides.”
Startled, Hugo turned to stare at him, but Lord Gervase was already drifting off towards another section of the wings, where Lady Elaine and Lady Margaret were sitting.
She works hard, to make something worthwhile happen.
Handsome prai
se, coming as it did from a brother, Hugo thought as he glanced towards the stage again. Denforth had stopped playing the fool and was now delivering a creditable rendition of the Queen Mab speech beneath Lady Madeline’s watchful eye.
Visions of her unfolded in Hugo’s imagination: running a household, raising a family, presiding over countless social functions, all with the same focus and intensity she brought to this. The same passion to make something as good—as worthwhile—as it could possibly be.
A duke’s daughter. An unconventional beauty whose presence drew him like a lodestone. A woman of wit, will, and steely determination. And a good deal more besides.
Under the circumstances, Madeline thought it best to propose a break for tea after the maskers’ scene. Hal had sailed through the rest of the Queen Mab speech, looking all the while as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. And Alasdair-as-Romeo had ended the scene on a note of foreboding, as though he sensed the doom that was to come, even as he accepted his fate.
Madeline had praised his interpretation, commended the other players (Hal included), and generally did her best to pretend that her twin’s earlier prank had never taken place. As it was, she strongly suspected who’d put him up to it, and it wouldn’t do to encourage either of them.
Tea had been laid out in an adjoining room, and the cast promptly descended upon the refreshments as though they hadn’t seen food for a week. After which they separated into small groups, laughing and talking among themselves. Much to her satisfaction, Madeline saw Alasdair and Elaine sharing a corner: acting opposite each other seemed to have brought them closer together. They might not know it yet, but the course of true love appeared to be running quite smoothly for them.
Finding a quiet corner of her own, Madeline sipped her tea, appreciating the way the hot liquid soothed her throat, nibbled at sandwiches and ginger cakes—and allowed herself to relax for the first time in hours. The play was shaping well, and the performers all seemed to be tackling their roles with enthusiasm and good cheer. The rain that had dampened outdoor pursuits for the last three days might have had something to do with that: even the most avid sportsman might prefer a warm theater to a sodden covert in the middle of a downpour.
Apropos of which… searching the room, she spied Lord Saxby by the sideboard, pouring himself a cup of tea. Setting her cup aside, she unashamedly admired the view. The gas lamps shone on Saxby’s fair hair like a halo, though his face and form were delightfully of this world.
Such an attractive man—and as agreeable to speak with as he was to look at. No point in denying that, of all the potential suitors attending this house party, she liked him best. Lord Rupert was a handsome flirt, while the Honorable Clarence Moresby seemed more interested in sport than anything else. Lord Saxby was also an enthusiastic sportsman, but judging from his chivalry on the day of the hunt, other things mattered to him as well.
And he seemed to have taken to acting with a good grace, though she was surprised that he’d chosen Lord Capulet, of all parts! But he’d been firm about his choice, so she’d given up on further attempts to persuade him otherwise. At least they shared some scenes: Lady Capulet’s feelings for her husband might not be of the warmest—Madeline thought she showed more affection for her nephew, Tybalt—but that did not change the fact that they were Juliet’s parents.
Picking up her empty plate, she left her corner and joined him at the sideboard. A hostess should see to the comfort of her guest, after all.
“Is everything to your liking, Lord Saxby?” she inquired. “I hope you’ll try the ginger cakes. They’re a particular specialty of Mrs. Hill’s, especially during the Christmas season.”
He glanced up, smiling. “Thank you—they smell very appetizing.” He placed two cakes on his plate. “Anything else you’d recommend?”
“The deviled ham sandwiches are always good, if you like spices.” Madeline selected one, along with another ginger cake.
“Very warming, on a cold day.” Lord Saxby took two sandwiches and a sausage roll, then glanced around the room, clearly looking for a place to sit.
“You can share my alcove, if you like,” Madeline offered, trying to sound casual. “It’s quiet and it overlooks the Italian Garden, even if all you can see right now is rain.”
He paused, then smiled. “Thank you, Lady Madeline. That would be pleasant.”
Fortunately, the window seat was long enough for two—just. Despite the six inches or so between them, maintained for propriety’s sake, Madeline could feel the warmth from Lord Saxby’s body and breathe in the scent of his cologne: something pleasantly sharp and lemony. Outside, the rain continued to fall, pattering softly to the ground and streaking the windowpane with silvery runnels like tears.
Finishing her cake, Madeline set her empty plate on the broad sill behind them. “Just a little over a week to Christmas,” she mused aloud. “Where does the time go?”
“Christmas always seems to approach at a gallop,” Saxby agreed. “Not that I mind! I heard one of the maids singing ‘The Holly and the Ivy’ this morning as she went about her business, and I was dashed tempted to join in.”
“You’ll hear a lot more of that in days to come,” Madeline informed him. “We always have Christmas music here. Elaine and Juliana are forever singing one carol or other once the greenery’s brought in, or the snow starts to fall.”
“White Christmases must be the general rule this far north.”
“More often than not. It would be nice to have snow, instead of all this rain. Even if it has made people more amenable to staying indoors and learning their lines!”
“Given the season, I’m a little surprised that you’re not doing a Nativity play, instead of Romeo and Juliet,” he remarked.
“We did a Nativity play once when I was sixteen,” she confessed, “but were expressly forbidden by our parents ever to attempt another.”
His brows shot up. “Good Lord, as bad as that?”
“We had the brilliant idea to stage it in a tithe-barn, with live animals.” Madeline shuddered at the memory. “Never again! Hal swore up and down that Mary’s donkey wouldn’t disgrace itself at a pivotal moment, but…” She pulled a face. “You can imagine the rest!”
Lord Saxby chuckled. “Blame it on the natural contrariness of donkeys!”
Her lips twitched in an answering smile. “Capulets and Montagues are child’s play by comparison! Speaking of which, are you enjoying rehearsals? I thought you did very well today.”
“Thank you. As it happens, I am enjoying being in the play, more than I thought I would.” He paused, his brown eyes serious. “You and your family have set a high standard, especially when it comes to speaking the verse. I don’t want to let you down.”
The commendation surprised and touched her. “You haven’t so far, Lord Saxby. I think even our Mr. Joliffe would approve of your delivery. And he would never tolerate sloppy elocution from his students!”
He brightened visibly. “You relieve me, Lady Madeline. Perhaps I shan’t embarrass myself, after all.”
“We have two more days of rehearsal,” she reminded him. “And a costume fitting tomorrow. Costumes always help. It’s so much easier to believe you’re who you’re pretending to be—king, prince, beggar—when you look the part. We always have at least one dress rehearsal before the actual performance.” And Madeline would ensure that Lord Capulet was handsomely garbed, as befitted the character’s station—and his portrayer’s manly attributes.
The men playing the younger roles would have first claim on doublet and hose, she reflected. But there were rich-looking robes and tunics suitable for older roles: and who was to say that Juliet’s father wasn’t still a fine figure of a man? Something in dark blue or deep red, to emphasize Lord Saxby’s fair coloring and make it shine like a crown…
“Lady Madeline?” Her name, spoken in Saxby’s rich baritone, recalled her to the present.
“Forgive me, Lord Saxby.” She gave him her most winning smile, surprised at how na
tural it felt to smile at him. “My mind wandered for a moment.”
“Understandable, given how much you have to occupy it. I just wanted to tell you how impressed I’ve been by your Lady Capulet. I’d never thought much about the character before,” he added. “But your interpretation has made me want to take a closer look at her.”
“Thank you for the compliment, my lord. I’ve found that if you go back to a play and look it over carefully, you can find things that tell you more about a character, which can help shape your performance,” she explained. “Even casual utterances like Lady Capulet mentioning that she was close to Juliet’s age when she became a mother. Whereas Lord Capulet—”
“Must be forty, if he’s a day,” he finished.
“Closer to fifty, I’d say. Remember when he and his cousin are reminiscing about going masking thirty years earlier?”
Lord Saxby winced. “Ah, yes. I’d almost forgotten.”
Madeline raised inquiring brows. “Regretting your choice? I still think you’d have made a splendid Prince Escalus.”
“I’m afraid I’ve always considered Escalus a rather thankless role,” he confessed. “He’s the fellow who shows up now and then to scold everyone, but to whom no one listens until it’s too late. Not even his cousin Mercutio heeds him, which doesn’t say much about his influence—or his effectiveness as a ruler!”
She hid a smile. “There’s something to that, I’ll concede.”
“At least Lord Capulet has a part in the main action,” he went on, warming to his theme. “And I have the added compensation of sharing scenes with you.”
Madeline stilled. So did Lord Saxby, as though just realizing what he’d said. They stared at each other, the silence between them so pronounced that it was like a sound in itself.
Madeline could feel her face heating. Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks: / They’ll be in scarlet straight at any news. A swarm of butterflies seemed to have taken wing in her stomach as well, their flutterings intensifying with every moment that she gazed into Lord Saxby’s warm brown eyes. But an answering warmth was also spreading through her, golden as honey and every bit as sweet.
The Advent of Lady Madeline Page 5