by Nina Mason
All at once, the room felt very close—and altogether too warm. Georgie got up to seek the comfort of cool air for her flushed cheeks. She took refuge in the doorway of the library, where no fire was burning.
The Lieutenant soon found her, saying with the greatest concern, “Miss Bennet, are you certain you are in good health? For, to my eyes, you look exceedingly ill indeed.”
“I was only overheated,” she told him, offering the first excuse that came to mind. “I only need a few moments away from the fire to cool down.”
“I am relieved to hear it,” said he, drawing closer. “For I could not make the proposition I spoke of earlier if you are too ill to take part.”
Her curiosity aroused once more, she looked up at him. Warmth flooded her body when she met his entrancing blue gaze. “Take part? Pray, what is it you mean to propose?”
A smile spread across his face. “If I told you that, it would ruin the surprise.”
He looked up—at the mistletoe over their heads. In her distress, she’d forgotten having put it there.
Butterflies fluttered in her stomach as she studied the intricate knot and diamond stickpin in his cravat. He was the son of the Earl of Wingfield, an ideal match for her. A suitor even her father would have approved, ironically enough, if indeed the Lieutenant meant to court her.
Did he?
He met her eyes with a look that filled her heart with hope. Then, he stepped nearer and leaned toward her, seemingly in slow motion. That he meant to kiss her was evident. She had plenty of time to step back, but her feet were frozen to the spot where she stood.
He set two fingers under her chin, tipped it upward, and brought his lips inches from hers. In that brief-yet-eternal interval before their lips met, she wanted to say something along these lines: If you kiss me, Christian, please do not regret it this time.
All she could manage, however, was a clipped, breathless whisper. “Christian …”
“Georgie, are you certain you are well?”
“Quite.”
In truth, she felt lightheaded, almost dizzy, and altogether off-balance as he fused his lips to hers. Far from gentle, the kiss was rapacious on both their parts. Her arms went around his neck. His encircled her waist, pulling her closer as they devoured each other with lips, tongues, and teeth.
On the pyre of their mutual passion, all her worries burned to ash and scattered on the breeze. Nothing mattered beyond this moment, this kiss, this sweet fire consuming her, body and soul.
Her thoughts engulfed by the smoke, she could only feel. The rock-hard chest crushed against her, the powerful arms holding her tight, the supple mouth writhing against hers. His taste, closeness, smell, and heat overwhelmed her. So did the intense longing pulsing in her womb. She wanted him more than anything in the world. More than life. And she was reasonably certain he wanted her in equal measure.
Then, suddenly, he pulled away, his breathing as labored as hers. “We had better get back before we are missed.”
“Yes,” she said, attempting to hide her disappointment. “I suppose we should.”
* * * *
Happily for Christian, the love of the theatre was so universal, and the itch for acting so strong among his companions, his suggestion to put on a play was met with enthusiasm by all. Even the master of the house, the one person Christian feared might object, was quite alive at the idea.
“I really believe,” said he, “I could be persuaded to undertake any character that ever was written, be he villain, hero, or fool.”
“Oh, yes,” said his sister. “Let us do something. Be it only an act or a scene. For I can think of nothing quite so amusing or harmless—and, I daresay, we have no better way to offset the boredom of being trapped indoors as we are.”
“And for a theatre, the billiards room could be easily converted for the purpose,” Christian said.
“We must have a curtain,” Miss Bennet added. “And costumes, of course.”
“For the curtain, we can use the draperies I took down when I redecorated the master bedroom,” Louisa put in. “And we might use some of the other discards for our costumes. The maids can make them up in no time, provided our requirements are not too complicated.”
“Oh, I do love a play,” Miss Raynalds put in, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Which sort shall we do?”
“That I will leave to the group to decide,” Christian replied.
The discussion continued with unabated eagerness, but nothing was settled upon in terms of the vehicle. The Captain preferred a comedy, Mrs. Raynalds a tragedy, and the young ladies a romance.
“Since I, too, prefer a romance,” said Christian after a time. “So let us agree upon that much at least.”
“I have no objection to a romance,” said Louisa, “as long as it’s a tragic one.”
“What about Romeo and Juliet?” Miss Bennet suggested. “For I know it’s a favorite of yours, sister dear.”
“Oh, yes,” Louisa enthused. “Do let the play be Romeo and Juliet, with the Captain and me in the lead roles. For, as a married couple, there would be nothing improper in us performing the love scenes together.”
“You are not serious, Louisa,” said Miss Bennet in a low voice.
“Not serious? Never more so, I assure you. What is there to surprise you in my suggestion?”
“We mean nothing but a little amusement among ourselves,” her sister continued. We will have no audience, no publicity. I may be trusted, I think, to play a love scene, with your husband or Lieutenant Churchill. For I can conceive no great harm or danger to any of us in conversing in the elegant written language of an author as venerable as Mr. Shakespeare.”
“I agree with Miss Bennet,” Christian said, “but must tell you, I have already ruled out Romeo and Juliet—or any other play by Mr. Shakespeare. For in all of them, there are too many parts and too many lines to be learned to make the endeavor enjoyable.”
“Oh!” cried Miss Raynalds. “Something has just struck me. This is just like a scene in Mansfield Park, the newest novel by the lady who wrote Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice. Have you yet read it, Louisa?”
“I have,” Mrs. Raynalds replied before turning to Christian. “The play they performed was Lovers’ Vows by Elizabeth Inchbald. Do you know it, perchance?”
“I do, as a matter of fact,” he replied, pleased by the suggestion for several reasons. “For I saw it performed at Covent Garden some years ago.”
“Wait,” said the Captain. “Is not the hero of the play of illegitimate birth?”
“The anti-hero, yes,” Christian answered. “The real hero of the play is a cleric, I believe.”
“Even so,” said the Captain, “I cannot condone a play that celebrates such immoral subject matter as an appropriate choice for our undertaking.”
“I beg to differ, brother dear,” Miss Raynalds said. “Far from celebrating illegitimacy, the play sermonizes about charity, honor, and forgiveness, which, in my view, makes it perfectly acceptable for our theatrical endeavor.”
“I do not know…” As the Captain said this pensively, he looked toward his wife. “What do you think, my dear?”
“I see no harm in performing Lovers’ Vows,” she returned. “For if your sister has already read the play, how can performing it corrupt her further?”
“True enough,” he said, rubbing his chin. Then, frowning at his sister, he asked, “Pray, how did you happen to read the play without my knowledge?”
“It was published in book form and, having seen it mentioned in Mansfield Park, I was curious,” she readily explained. “So, I wrote to my usual bookshop in London to inquire after its availability.”
“Do you still have the book, Miss Raynalds?” Christian asked with intention.
“I do. It is upstairs, in my bedchamber. Shall I go and get it?”
“Please do. And give it to your brother first, to prove to him there is nothing objectionable in the script.”
As Miss Raynalds exited th
e room, Miss Bennet said, “Since I appear to be the only one unfamiliar with the play, would one of you be good enough to give me a summary?”
“With pleasure,” said Christian with a smile. “The play opens with Agatha being ejected from an inn when her money runs out. Too proud to beg, she is desperate. Frederick enters, sees her, and offers her money although it will mean he cannot pay for his own breakfast. She recognizes him as her son, absent for five years as a soldier. He has returned to find his birth certificate, necessary in order to find employment. Distraught, Agatha informs him there is no certificate: she was seduced at the age of seventeen by Baron Wildenhaim upon promise of marriage. Despite the resulting pregnancy, the Baron broke his promise and married another, wealthier woman, and Agatha, turned out of her home, struggled to make ends meet and raise her son alone. Frederick is dismayed at the news, and to find his mother so destitute, so he arranges for her to stay with some charitable cottagers.”
As he relayed the story, Christian was made uneasy by the similarity to his own situation, though, thankfully, he’d not gotten Miss Stubbs with child—nor married another. Tempting as he found the idea.
“In Act Two, Frederick leaves his mother to go begging for money,” he continued. “In his absence, the cottagers, not knowing Agatha’s history, tell her Baron Wildenhaim is now widowed with a daughter. Meanwhile, the Baron tries to determine whether his daughter, Amelia, loves her foppish suitor, Count Cassel. Unbeknownst to the Baron, she instead loves Anhalt, a poor clergyman, and he her.”
Interrupting him, Miss Bennet asked, “Pray, who do you have in mind for the roles?”
“Upon my honor, I have not yet thought that far ahead—nor would it be prudent to do so until the Captain has approved the play.”
She flicked a glance toward the Captain and her sister. “Well, if he does, I hope you will keep me in mind for the role of Amelia. And perhaps my sister for the part of Agatha?”
“I certainly shall,” he said. But only if he cast himself as Anhalt, so he could play the love scenes with her. “Now, may I continue?”
“By all means.”
“In Act Three, Frederick, now desperate for money, attempts to rob the Baron and Count as they go hunting. Unaware the thief is his illegitimate son, the Baron has Frederick arrested. Meanwhile, Anhalt speaks to Amelia about the pros and cons of matrimony, on the Count’s behalf at her father’s request, only to learn she loves him instead. He, in turn, confesses his love for her. They are interrupted by the butler, who tells them of Frederick’s attack and arrest. When her father enters, Amelia pleads for the unknown young man to be spared, but the Baron is adamant that Frederick be hanged as an example.”
“Oh, dear. Poor Frederick.”
“Indeed, but there is still hope. For, in Act Four, Frederick learns from Amelia who he attacked. Later, Amelia, having learned from the Butler of the Count’s rakish ways, tells her father, who confronts the gentleman. Count Cassel replies that he is a man of the world, and reminds the Baron that many men have behaved likewise. Confused and embarrassed, the Baron dismisses him; Amelia re-enters and reveals her love for Anhalt, who interrupts to announce that Frederick has come to speak to the Baron. Frederick reveals who he is to his father, who is much affected by what he has learned.”
Christian himself was again much affected by the parallels to his own life. So much so, in fact, that he began to question the wisdom of performing this particular play.
“In the final act, Anhalt explains to Agatha some circumstances that mitigated the Baron’s previous conduct toward her. Frederick and Anhalt both recommend that the Baron make amends by marrying Agatha. After some anxiety over the social differences between them, he agrees, and in gratitude, allows Anhalt to marry Amelia. Agatha then enters the room and all are reconciled.”
“Well, I for one see nothing immoral in what you’ve relayed,” Miss Bennet remarked. “Except, perhaps for the roguish ways of the Count and Baron. But all’s well that ends well, I suppose.”
“Indeed,” said Christian, still harboring the sincere hope things might end well for them, too.
A few minutes later, Miss Raynalds returned with the book, which she promptly gave to her brother. “Thank you,” the Captain said, opening the book. “I shall read it with an eye toward propriety. Though, admittedly, I am less concerned than I was initially, now that I’ve heard the synopsis.”
“In that case,” said Mrs. Raynalds, “might I suggest myself for the role of Agatha?—if my dear husband will consent to playing the Baron, of course.”
“You are getting ahead of yourself, my dear,” said the Captain in a mildly scolding tone of voice. “For I have not yet approved the play, let alone considered what part I might wish to perform.”
“You could always play the Count,” Miss Raynalds volunteered.
Her brother chuckled. “I think Churchill much better suited to that role. Do you not agree, sister dear?”
Pricked by his friend’s barb (and more so by its truth), Christian said, “I had in mind to play Anhalt, the clergyman.”
“I thought we might invite Mr. Goddard, the new vicar, to play Anhalt,” Miss Bennet interjected.
“If the vicar agrees to take part—which I doubt—then let him play Frederick,” said Christian crossly. “For I have my heart set upon Anhalt. And you would not wish to disappoint me, would you, Miss Bennet?” Locking gazes with her, he invidiously added, “Unless you’d rather play the love scenes with Mr. Goddard. In which case, I will graciously step aside.”
“If he’s anything like Edmund Bertram,” Miss Raynalds interjected, “he would not agree to playing any role—nor approve of us staging a play at all. Even a private one. Or, I should say, especially a private one.”
“And who, pray, is Edmund Bertram?” asked Miss Bennet.
“The straight-laced hero of Mansfield Park,” her sister answered.
“Ah, well. Then perhaps we’d best leave the Curate out of it,” Christian chimed in.
“Yes, I agree,” said Miss Raynalds. “For we do not need any priggish clerics hanging about spoiling our fun.”
“No, indeed,” Louisa agreed. “Nor do we need it getting round the parish that we’ve been performing scandalous theatricals in the Billiards Room.”
“I could not agree more,” the Captain concurred. “If we are to do this play—or any other, for that matter—let it be known only to us.”
There was a lull in the discussion before Miss Raynalds said, “Could we not ask Mr. Murphy to play Frederick? For I understand he was on the stage in Dublin before he went into service.”
“It seems only natural then that Mr. Murphy should play the butler, rather than Frederick,” said Miss Bennet.
“If Mr. Murphy is agreeable, let him play Frederick and the Butler,” Christian suggested. “For I believe the two characters never share the stage at the same time.”
“Yes,” said Miss Raynalds. “You are right. But who then shall play Count Cassel?”
“I have someone in mind for the role,” Christian told them all.
When he did not offer the name after several seconds, the Misses Bennet and Raynalds implored him to end their suspense.
“My brother, Benedict,” was his reply. “He’s been invited to spend Twelfth Night with friends in Wales, and asked in a recent letter if he might break his journey here. Since the Captain and Mrs. Raynalds were generous enough to consent to his coming, I replied to his request in the affirmative.”
“How exciting!” Miss Raynalds remarked. “When is he to come?”
“He will be traveling up from Oxford, where he’s at university,” Christian explained. “So I expect he will arrive a few days after he receives my letter. And knowing his fondness for acting, I am certain he will jump at the chance to play Count Cassel.”
Nine
Over breakfast the next morning, Capt. Raynalds announced, to everyone’s delight, that he approved the choice of Lovers’ Vows. “With a few omissions and slight alterations, I
can see nothing objectionable as to its fitness for private presentation.”
He then expressed an interest in undertaking the dramatis personae of Baron Wildenhaim, to his wife’s Agatha, “If that is acceptable to the rest of you.”
It was; and, eager to get started, the company unanimously decided not to wait until Christian’s brother arrived to begin rehearsing. Someone else, they all agreed, could easily read the part of Count Cassel in his absence, as well as all the other uncast parts until they were filled.
Georgie, wishing to play Amelia opposite Lt. Churchill’s Anhalt, made her bid for the role, only to be opposed by the Captain, who wanted his sister to have the part.
“It falls as naturally, as necessarily to her,” said he. “For the play was her idea.”
A short silence followed, during which Lt. Churchill took up the book and, with seeming carelessness, was turning over the first act. “I must entreat Miss Raynalds,” said he, “not to engage in the part of Amelia, or it will be the ruin of all my serenity. You must not, indeed you must not.” Turning to her, he said, “For I could not in good conscience play a love scene with the sister of my closest friend. Every feeling revolts against the propriety of doing so. Having you in the role, I fear, would provoke me to suppress the passions I might otherwise bring to the role.”
As he said this, he glanced at Georgie, who tried to hide the blush brought on by his preference. For she did not believe for a moment the excuse he’d given in support of herself being cast as Amelia. She believed it even less when he reddened and stammered after Louisa said, “And why, pray, would your passions not be similarly suppressed with my sister in the role?”
Turning to Georgie, Louisa said, “Let Winnie play Amelia, and you, the Cottager’s wife.”