To offer the finest entertainment for you to treasure.’
Charlotte and James broke hastily apart and watched almost open mouthed as a motley band of folk in the most fantastic costumes came along the lane, lanterns swinging high on sticks held in their hands. Charlotte came to herself first and ran to open the gate for them.
‘Oh, how lovely, it’s the strolling players! Uncle must have asked them to call after all.’
Chapter Five
Wilfred Clement Fosdyke was a man of bold, swaggering demeanour. Square of frame and face, with a hook nose and eyebrows that bristled roguishly over penetrating blue eyes set exceptionally wide apart, he could as easily have been Shylock as Falstaff and had been known to confuse the two on numerous occasions during his long career. He smiled now upon Charlotte and James, his wide mouth splitting to reveal as perfect a set of teeth as anyone would wish to see. For he was not entirely unhandsome in a waggish sort of way. He hooked his thumbs into the armholes of a bright red and yellow waistcoat plainly visible beneath a long green jacket, and, rocking back and forth on booted heels, let his gaze scan each of them while encompassing the measure of the house beyond. As he seemed satisfied that the occupants would be wealthy enough to pay his bill, his smile grew warmer.
‘And what delectation shall we present for you this evening, my good friends? Is it to be Henry IV or Bluebeard? Or would you prefer a farce, or perhaps a tragedy? We are naturally experts in all styles of theatre so you have only to speak up for we are here to do your bidding.’
Charlotte was so busily engaged in observing each and every detail of the colourful, exotic and in some instances totally outlandish clothes of the company who gathered about him that she was quite unable to answer. She was saved the trouble, for the noise had brought the other guests to door and window, and across the yard strode Uncle Nathan himself, his face set in a grimace of displeasure. Behind him scurried an agitated Dickon.
‘What is the meaning of this? Who the devil invited you, you scurrilous crew?’
Injured pride registered upon Fosdyke’s face and even Charlotte was startled. Her usually placid uncle was looking beside himself with rage.
‘Not you, my good sir, I can assure you of that,’ said Fosdyke with scrupulous dignity. ‘I believe it was your son who engaged us, if that be he who cowers behind you. An action I do not wonder at.’
‘Dickon?’ Nathan swirled about to confront the startled miscreant. ‘What means this?’
‘It means, good sir,’ continued Fosdyke unperturbed, while Dickon’s pale cheeks turned various shades of puce and scarlet as he sucked upon his lip, plainly unable to speak, ‘that we are here, at great inconvenience to ourselves, being as how you live so far from everywhere, to entertain your delightful niece on what we understand to be her special day. Would you have us return those long weary miles with our skills and talents unused?’ The great bushy eyebrows rose in mild enquiry as everyone waited in breathless anticipation for Nathan’s reply. None came.
A chill breeze scurried across the yard, banging a door of the barn and lifting the skirts of a few hens on their belated progress to bed, tossing them carelessly through the pop-hole of their shelter. Charlotte shivered.
‘It was for Charlotte,’ mumbled Dickon. ‘As a surprise.’ He looked about to burst into tears as his father rounded upon him.
‘This is no place to be discussing it, Uncle Nathan,’ put in Charlotte hurriedly. ‘Shall we not all go inside?’ She pressed her cheek against his arm. ‘It has been the very best of birthdays so far; please do not allow it to be spoiled.’
Nathan looked down upon his niece and his determination weakened. These last weeks he had stood out against this outlandish wish of hers to have the strolling players at her birthday; an innocent enough request, but he had his own reasons for refusing. Of course if he was not such a coward he would have come out with it and told Charlotte from the start that he resented all actors because of their effect upon his beautiful sister. But that might have led to other questions, questions he had not the stomach to answer. He’d long been aware of his niece’s love for the theatre and had done his best to squash it. Yet its presence was apparently too strong in the blood to be denied. The only way he could keep her from it would be to chain her to the house. A ridiculous thought. And what was the point of his antipathy, anyway? At some point she would be bound to visit a theatre, but that did not mean she would follow her mother into it. Wasn’t he about to settle Charlotte’s future most comfortably? Nathan glanced across at James whose interested gaze was fixed directly upon Charlotte, and Nathan at once relaxed. The future did indeed look hopeful.
Nathan slipped an arm about Charlotte’s waist and adopted a tone as jovial and light as he could manage. ‘You are right, my dear, as always. We shall all catch our deaths out here and we must not spoil this special day. Inside everyone, and we will see what these people of character have to show us.’
Tables were hastily moved back and chairs rearranged. Two screens were brought to serve as side pieces behind which the actors waiting to appear could conceal themselves. James obligingly helped make the necessary preparations, then sat back with scarcely concealed amusement to view the proceedings.
The orchestra, if it might be termed such, comprised three persons: one old man who sawed valiantly at a violin with more harmony in his exaggerated arm movement than in the music he produced from the instrument. He also turned up later on stage as a second vagabond. Another ancient rumbled upon a drum and constantly checked the row of candles he had set across the front of the `stage’, while a third played upon a flute that sounded remarkably like a penny whistle.
Just when the performance was about to begin there came the flurry of hoofbeats in the yard, followed by a loud rapping upon the door. Charlotte ran to open it to find a coachman in purple and gold livery upon the step. It was so unexpected that for a moment she was at a loss for words before her good manners reasserted themselves. ‘Can I help you? Are you lost?’
‘I believe these people are with me,’ said James’s voice in her ear and she turned to him in surprise.
‘Ah, there you are, my boy,’ came a second voice, and this time Charlotte was confronted by a large elderly lady swathed in several shawls over a brilliant gold and green gown, her smiling, wrinkled face topped by a grey, much beribboned wig so tall it looked in danger of toppling over at any moment.
‘I thought you were unwell, Grandmother, and meant to stay in bed,’ said James, adroitly bypassing the astonished Charlotte to lead Lady Caraddon indoors. ‘Thank you, Charles,’ he said, addressing the coachman. ‘Once you have stabled the horses I’m sure you will find refreshment in the kitchen.’
‘Oh, but of course,’ agreed Charlotte, coming to herself and instantly incensed by this usurping of her authority. She smiled bewitchingly at the coachman. ‘But you must come and enjoy the show first of all. It is about to begin.’
‘Show?’ Lady Caraddon’s voice boomed out in astonishment. ‘What kind of a show are you talking of, girl? It is Charlotte, is it not? What are you doing, answering the door? Have you no servants in this establishment?’ She peered at Charlotte through her pince-nez and Charlotte bobbed a deferential curtsy, smiling politely as she wondered which question to answer first.
‘We were about to be entertained by a company of strolling players, ma’am,’ Charlotte informed her new guest. ‘Or would you care for some refreshment first? You must by very cold.’
‘I shall be frozen to the spot in a trice if I’m not allowed beyond the hallway.’
A comfortable leather chair was at once procured from Uncle Nathan’s study and placed in the centre of the front row so that Lady Caraddon might have a good view of events.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ she said kindly, squeezing Charlotte’s hand in an impulsive display of affection. ‘You and I shall talk later. There is much to be said between us.’
Charlotte took her seat beside this most distinguished of guests and wondered what they could possib
ly have to talk about. She had met Lady Caraddon only once before and that was many years ago when Charlotte had been quite small. She understood from Sir James Caraddon that his grandmother spent very little time in Cornwall these days, so she couldn’t help speculating on what had brought Lady Caraddon on this occasion and why her state of health had been so uncertain and now seemed so heartily wholesome.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ boomed Fosdyke, and Charlotte put all thoughts from her mind to fix her attention entirely upon him. ‘Kindly be seated, for the play is about to commence. We present to you an extract from that now famous operetta The Lord of the Manor in which true love is exalted over rank and wealth, the merits of rural life are emphatically maintained and the foolish pride of the old is overcome by the young. You may laugh at the humour, sob at the tragic and applaud at the end.’
With a regal bow in true theatrical tradition, Fosdyke withdrew and, in a space no larger than a goodly sized hearthrug, the half dozen actors strutted and strolled, declaimed, eulogised and frequently sang at the least provocation with more gusto than tune for a whole hour. Whatever the performance lacked in professional expertise was more than compensated for by the enthusiasm of the participants, by the colour of their costumes, and by the novelty of the entire affair. The audience sat enraptured throughout, more than willing to obey Fosdyke’s instructions by laughing and crying and applauding in all the right places.
Even Lady Caraddon was moved to call, ‘Bravo!’ As for Charlotte, she was enthralled. She sat through the entire performance without speaking a word or taking her eyes from the action. She marvelled at the dancing, was moved by the wistful heroine and convulsed with laughter at Fosdyke’s rendition of Moll Flagon. He looked so completely incongruous in women’s clothing with his breeches peeping out beneath the tucked up skirt. And his expressions were so comically lugubrious that she could scarcely contain her giggles. It was only as the small troupe of actors had taken their final bow and were being justifiably regaled with ample helpings of supper and hot punch that she came to herself as if from a trance.
‘Did you enjoy it?’
James’s deep voice against her ear made Charlotte jump. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, eyes bright as she twisted in her seat to look up at him. ‘Didn’t you? Such cleverness. So much verve and energy. And how everyone clapped.’
‘And what of you, Grandmother?’ James enquired, though not taking his eyes from Charlotte’s face.
‘Lot of nonsense,’ said she. ‘But there are worse things in life than enjoying a bit of nonsense now and again. Have to admit I quite enjoyed it. Sharpened my appetite for supper, though.’
‘Oh, I’ll fetch you some,’ cried Charlotte, jumping up.
‘Don’t bother. I’ll find my own.’ The old lady gave a sudden grin. ‘I’ll get more that way. Don’t forget, we are to have words later.’ She nodded briskly, making the fruit and feathers that decorated her wig lurch quite perilously, and Charlotte held her breath until normal motion had been resumed. She found it almost impossible to stifle her laughter as she returned her attention to the Lady’s grandson.
‘Might I get you some supper?’
‘I have feasted in plenty,’ he said, and from the look in his eyes Charlotte had the oddest notion that he meant more by this innocent remark than might at first be evident. Could he be referring to that kiss? She pushed the memory from her mind for fear it would reveal itself in her expressive face.
‘It must be the loveliest feeling in the world to please so many people,’ said Charlotte, aiming for safer ground. ‘Better to please but one,’ said James quietly, coming closer, causing her to catch her breath.
‘Indeed no, the young lady has it right,’ interposed Fosdyke, thrusting himself between them so that James was forced to step back and away from Charlotte, and she felt a piercing disappointment that this moment of intimacy had been broken. ‘There is nothing so heart-warming as a spontaneous accolade. I suspect the young lady has talents of her own, were she brave enough to reveal them to us. She certainly lacks nothing by way of charm and beauty.’
Blushing hotly, Charlotte hastily denied any such thing. ‘Though I do love to read Shakespeare and Sheridan and was enchanted by this, my first view of live theatre,’ she added.
Fosdyke raised the eyebrows along with his booming voice, in shocked surprise. ‘Your first viewing? My stars, what a sad indictment upon your education. Had no one the wit to teach you anything of life beyond cows and sheep?’
Charlotte was momentarily nonplussed by this outcry but, gathering her wits, swiftly came to her uncle’s defence. ‘No, no, that is far from the case. Uncle Nathan has taught me a good deal about art and literature, geography and science. I know nothing of the farm, that is left to Dickon.’
‘Ah, science,’ said Fosdyke in scoffing tones. ‘A passing fancy. And, if you ask my opinion, the sooner it passes, the better.’ He chortled with laughter at his own joke and Charlotte attempted to smile with him. ‘But there, let us hear some of this education. ‘Tis your birthday, after all, and you too must entertain your guests who have come so far to honour you. If you so love poetry and plays then I shall find you a piece to recite to us. Come.’
Not one to listen to protest, Wilfred Fosdyke took Charlotte firmly by the elbow and led her behind the screen.
‘Fanny, Fanny!’ called Fosdyke, and the girl who had played the wistful heroine reluctantly returned from the supper table, a chunk of pie still clasped in her hand. Hair a black tangle, eyes brilliant blue set in a high-cheekboned face, she had an almost gypsy-like appearance. Though probably no more than eight and twenty, she looked considerably older. Her red striped dress failed to quite confine the abundant bosom and Charlotte swiftly averted her eyes from the décolletage.
‘Fetch Miss Charlotte a shawl. She is to do a piece from The Grecian Daughter.’
‘What? Her? Never.’
‘Fanny!’ The single word slipped silkily off Fosdyke’s tongue, but the listener must have recognised the note of chastisement for she vanished in an instant, to return with a cashmere shawl in soft blues and greens which she tossed negligently at Charlotte.
Fosdyke arranged it demurely about Charlotte’s neck and shoulders and she looked expectantly up at him, thinking inconsequentially that he was not as old as she had at first imagined out in the darkness of the yard.
‘Here is the piece. Scan it briefly while I make the usual introduction.’ So saying, he thrust a small leather-bound volume into Charlotte’s shaking hand before striding out on to the ‘stage’ once more. Seconds later it was Charlotte’s turn to follow him out there.
It was a moment to cherish.
Stepping out to face her audience and drawing a deep breath, she launched herself into the words, read from the book clenched so tightly in her hand, and at once forgot their presence. She recited the piece with all the sensibilities and emotion which came so naturally to her, feeling no shyness, no embarrassment before these people whom she knew so well, and an inner part of her felt surprise at this. Her confidence grew till she was able to relax and even lift her eyes occasionally from the book and look out over the blur of faces, their rapt attention almost tangible. The speech which she read was that of Euphrasia speaking of her great love for her father who lay weak with starvation in the tyrant’s prison. It was a gloomy piece, full of sentiment and tragedy but popular, and when her closing words sank into silence she thought for one breathless moment that she had failed. But then someone sniffed back a tear, she saw a handkerchief employed, and another; then the whole audience was applauding, many people upon their feet and cheering, and Charlotte felt her cheeks burn with pleasure and pride.
Only now did she allow her gaze to focus upon a lean face with grey, almost black eyes that glittered with what she could only describe as admiration, laced with intoxicating desire. She caught at a sob in her throat, her heart seeming to skip several beats. Holding out her skirts between damp palms, Charlotte gave a deep bow as she had seen the other players
do, forced her gaze away from James and smiled upon her relatives and friends who smiled back in flushed delight, pleased for her success.
Later, Lady Caraddon came to Charlotte to personally congratulate her. ‘Should’ve known you’d have talent, girl. Just like your mother. Chip off the old block, eh?’
Charlotte felt herself grow still. ‘You knew my mother?’
James, coming to join them, noisily cleared his throat. ‘Have a care, Grandmamma. Perhaps now is not the time. Take no heed of her, Charlotte. She likes nothing better than to gossip.’
‘Tch. Be quiet, boy. Of course I knew her mother. Everyone knew her mother. She was a wonderful girl, sweet and talented, and I for one never believed half of what they said about her.’
James rolled his eyes heavenward, then very firmly took hold of his grandmother’s arm and attempted to steer her away with an unusually firm admonition to let things be. If someone must put the child in the picture, and her uncle evidently didn’t have the stomach for the task, his grandmother was the last person in the world to act as surrogate. She possessed even less tact than himself, which he admitted was not saying a great deal.
‘This is Charlotte’s birthday party, hardly the moment for revelations of this nature,’ he whispered fiercely but, though his grandmother may well have capitulated, he had reckoned without Charlotte.
‘What is it you keep from me?’ she asked, white faced. ‘I’d much rather know than worry over it all night.’
James looked at Charlotte and saw how she trembled, and an overwhelming pity for her took a hold of him. Yet he had no wish to become involved. It was not his problem. ‘Come, Charlotte,’ he said briskly. ‘Put the matter aside for now. I’m sure you’ll welcome a sip of wine after your recital.’
Constance Caraddon chortled with delight. ‘What’s this, boy? Stealing her from me already? So that’s the way the story goes, eh?’ Lady Caraddon smilingly took a step away from them both. ‘Perhaps my grandson is right.’ And glancing up at him she gave her most beguiling smile, used when she had manoeuvred someone exactly into the corner she had chosen. ‘It would be far better were he to tell you himself.’
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