Chapter 6
Rosalind stayed close to Stephen as they waited in the wings before the play began, and not only because they would make their entrances together. Even the most experienced actors felt tension before a performance. Though her protégé hid his nerves behind an impassive face, she sensed that he was ready to jump out of his skin.
Garbed as Oberon, the fairy king, her father peered out at the audience. “A full house,” he said with satisfaction as he turned to the other actors. “I’ll go tell the musicians to start the march.” He slipped away to perform the task.
Stephen gave Rosalind a rueful glance. “Is it too late to change my mind about playing Theseus?”
“I’m afraid so, but don’t worry,” she said soothingly. “You’ll be fine. Mama was right—you make a wonderful duke.”
“Easier to be a duke than an actor, I think.”
“Nonsense. You have the lines down perfectly, and you did very well when Papa put you through your scenes earlier.” She surveyed him from head to foot. In a flowing purple robe and wearing gold chains and crown, Stephen had a natural aristocratic dignity that made him a convincing royal hero. He should be almost as effective in the role as her father was. “Remember, all you have to do is say your lines clearly and don’t fall down. And you have to convey only two emotions—your authority as ruler of Athens, and your love for the woman you are about to marry.”
“You make it sound suspiciously easy, Hippolyta,” he said dryly.
“It will be easy, once you’ve said your first lines,” she assured him. “If you make any errors, I can gloss them over so the audience will scarcely notice.”
The musicians ended the overture and struck up the stirring march that signaled the entrance of Theseus, Duke of Athens, and his affianced wife, Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons. Feeling the tingle of excitement that always came when she was about to go onstage, Rosalind took Stephen’s hand. “Courage, my sweet duke. This is only Redminster, and if you do badly, who will know?”
“The Bard may rise from his grave and smite me,” he said darkly.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said briskly. “He’s slept through centuries of performances that have mauled his work in every way imaginable. You can’t possibly be as dreadful as some of the actors I’ve seen.”
He gave her a ghost of smile, but she suspected that he would rather be almost anywhere than about to go onstage. Luckily their musical cue sounded before his nerves could get any worse. She raised their joined hands to shoulder height, and together they swept grandly onto the stage.
Covertly watching her partner, Rosalind saw the instant when he felt the impact of all the watching eyes. His face tightened into a mask.
She squeezed his hand hard. “Say the words, and don’t fall over your feet,” she breathed in a tone that barely reached his ears.
He closed his eyes for an instant, collecting himself. Then he turned to her and said with a powerful authority that filled the hall, “Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour draws on apace.”
Rosalind caught her breath, shaken by the warmth in Stephen’s eyes. Perhaps because he was not a trained actor, he had none of the mannerisms of the professional. Instead, he radiated a sincerity that for a moment was more real than the stage around them. He was a ruler and a hero, a man among men. He was her beloved, come to claim her for all time. She wanted to lift her face for a kiss and press her body to his….
A cough in the audience brought her back to her senses before she missed her cue to answer him. Calling on her decades of professional experience, she smiled seductively at Theseus—not Stephen, Theseus—and told him in Shakespeare’s lush words how quickly the days would pass until they wed.
As the scene progressed, Rosalind began to feel excitement. A competent troupe would always produce a decent show, but sometimes everything came together and a kind of magic was created. She sensed that this was going to be one of those nights. Though Stephen was not a trained actor, he had an air of command and a compelling masculine presence that brought out the best in her own acting. It was easy to believe she was the warrior queen who had been “woo’d by the sword” and was now about to marry her warrior lover with “pomp and triumph and reveling.”
The rapt silence of the audience told her that they were totally caught up in the illusion of the play. For the rest of the night, their hearts would belong to the Fitzgerald Theater Troupe.
Tormented lovers and parents arrived on the stage to ask the duke for royal justice. Catching the magic, Jessica and Edmund and Jeremiah and the others became their characters in an utterly convincing way.
Soon Rosalind and Stephen’s part in the scene was over and they made their exit. Maria was waiting in the wings, dressed in the silvery gown of Titania, the fairy queen. She hugged Stephen exuberantly. Rosalind envied her mother the easy affection of that hug. She herself was too aware of Stephen to give so casual an embrace.
“You were splendid!” Maria said, voice quiet but vibrant. “Wasn’t it wonderful?”
“My Amazon queen saved me from making a fool of myself.” Stephen’s warm gaze met Rosalind’s over her mother’s head. “Thank you for allowing me to act with you. It was an opportunity that few men get.”
Pleased and relieved that he had found the experience rewarding, Rosalind went down to the tiny women’s dressing room to change into a different gown. Getting into another costume was easy.
Becoming a fairy instead of Stephen’s intended bride was harder.
Since his character had only three scenes, at the beginning and end of the play, Stephen spent most of the evening watching from the wings. Jessica sparkled as pretty, perplexed Hermia, Thomas and Maria were fey and charming as the estranged fairy king and queen, and Brian made a delightfully impish Puck. Stephen had never seen the play performed better. Thomas Fitzgerald had created a company to be proud of. Stephen wondered if the players of the West Midlands circuit realized how lucky they were.
He felt a surprising sense of satisfaction at being part of the evening’s entertainment. Not because he was essential; the troupe had managed perfectly well without him in the past. But tonight, in a small way, he had contributed to the dramatic tapestry that held the audience in thrall. There was a power in that very different from the power of wealth and position he wielded as a duke.
As he watched the performance, his mind occasionally drifted back to the pleasure he’d felt in speaking to Rosalind as if she were his intended bride. In those moments he had forgotten his grim fate in the enchantment of a midsummer dream. No wonder theaters and storystellers had flourished since the dawn of time. A compelling, well-told tale brought peace and joy, at least for a while.
Theseus and Hippolyta always appeared together, and soon it was time for them to take the stage again. Rosalind had flitted about as Titania’s servant, her admirable figure set off to perfection by gauzy fairy veils. Now she reappeared in the splendid scarlet gown of Hippolyta, as regal as a queen—or a duchess.
She gave Stephen a swift smile. “You no longer look terrified.”
He cocked a disdainful brow. “Do you think these peasants would dare show disrespect to the ruler of Athens?”
Her smile became a grin. “You make an alarmingly impressive duke.”
If only she knew…
Hunting horns sounded their cue, and they went onstage. Stephen was startled when he and Rosalind were greeted with a spattering of applause. She said under her breath, “They like you, my lord.”
Absurd, of course, but he enjoyed the moment anyhow.
In his last two scenes, he made his speeches with more confidence. He did stumble once on his lines but recovered quickly after Rosalind silently mouthed the right words. He left the stage for the last time with a giddy sense of relief and triumph. The Duke of Ashburton had risked making a complete fool of himself, and survived.
After Puck’s closing speech, the audience exploded into applause. The actors came out to take their bows in reverse order of
their importance. When their turn arrived, Stephen took Rosalind’s hand again. It was beginning to seem natural.
They strode onto the stage and were greeted with enthusiasm. Stephen was amused when a balled-up scrap of fabric fell at his feet and opened into a lacy feminine handkerchief. Under cover of the applause, Rosalind said laughingly, “You’ve made a conquest, Stephen.”
“Gad, I hope not.” Yet he felt a heady pleasure in the applause. Still holding hands, he bowed while Rosalind made a sweeping curtsy that would have done her credit at the royal court. Then they stood aside as the other actors came out for their moment of glory.
When everyone was finally onstage, all the members of the cast joined hands for a bow. Stephen had Jessica on his left and Rosalind on his right. He thought irreverently that his friends would deem him mad if they saw him now, but they would also envy him his lovely companions.
Then it was over. The audience stood and began to leave the hall. Backstage, Thomas threw an arm around Stephen’s shoulders. “Well done, sir. As good a Duke of Athens as ever I’ve seen.”
“I have an aptitude for arrogance, I think,” Stephen said modestly.
Face flushed with excitement, Maria laughed, then said, “Time to return to the Three Crowns. We’ll have supper and celebrate your debut on the boards.”
Stephen agreed, glad he would have a chance to enjoy the company for an evening before returning home. Then he went down to the crowded men’s dressing room. He’d worn his own shirt and boots and breeches under his purple robe.
He was almost ready to leave when Edmund Chesterfield entered and said waspishly, “So you think you’re an actor now, Ashe?”
Jeremiah Jones rolled his eyes. Stephen gathered that Chesterfield was not popular with his colleagues. “Hardly an actor,” he said peaceably. “Merely an amateur who was given an evening of adventure by a troupe of gracious professionals.” He began to tie his cravat. “By the way, your Demetrius was very fine.”
Mollified, Chesterfield said, “I was good, wasn’t I? Demetrius is a far more interesting character than Lysander.”
Stephen suppressed a smile as he left the dressing room. Clearly a well-chosen compliment went a long way toward disarming an actor’s envy.
He was going to miss these people. He really would.
Everyone in the Fitzgerald Theater Troupe loved a party, and honoring Stephen Ashe gave them a good excuse. After eating the supper prepared by the inn and downing several toasts to Stephen, all were in a mellow mood. The company musicians gathered in a corner and played their instruments for their own amusement, while other members broke into small conversational groups.
Rosalind always enjoyed such evenings. Her father bore the cost, which was one reason why he would never be rich, but the troupe had a warm, familial atmosphere that was rare among theater groups.
Her gaze went across the crowded private parlor to where Stephen was talking to Jane and Will Landers, a young couple who played secondary leads. She asked Jessica, who sat next to her, “Do you still want to cast Stephen as the aristocratic hero of your little tragedy, with him dying of unrequited love for your lowborn self?”
Her sister laughed and swallowed her last bite of pork pie. “He’s far too formidable for me to imagine him pining away.”
Rosalind ate a small spice cake and washed it down with champagne. “He fits in with our lot very well for a gentleman. I think he’s on first-name terms with everyone in the company.”
“That’s because he really is a gentleman,” Jessica said thoughtfully. “The genuine ones don’t have to make a show of their superiority.”
Across the room Stephen laughed at some comment of Jane’s, his habitual seriousness gone. In fact, Rosalind realized as she studied his face, the underlying darkness she had sensed in him was also gone, at least for the time being. She was glad that they had been able to give him that in return for what he’d done. At the same time, she felt an ache at the knowledge that he would leave in the morning. She would never see him again.
The thought emboldened her. “Since Stephen is part of the company, if only for tonight, we should initiate him.”
Jessica laughed, her blue eyes dancing. “A splendid idea! I wonder if his aplomb will survive.”
“It will,” Rosalind said thoughtfully. “He has the kind of bone-deep dignity that will be with him even on his deathbed.”
Jessica got a glint in her eyes as she memorized that thought for future use; then she gave the quick nod that meant she had absorbed it. “I’ll declare the initiation now.” She set down her glass and swept to the middle of the room, raising her arms in a commanding gesture.
“Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye!” she cried out, her trained voice cutting through the talk and laughter. “Since Stephen Ashe has successfully trod the boards with us, it is time to initiate him into the ranks of the Fitzgerald Theater Troupe!”
There was a rumble of laughter through the room, except from Edmund Chesterfield, who scowled. He resented anyone besides himself being the center of attention, which meant that he spent much of his time in a bad mood.
Stephen said warily, “What form does this initiation take, fair Hermia? A ducking in the nearest horse trough?”
“New members of the company must kiss every member of the troupe of the opposite sex,” Thomas explained with a grin.
Jeremiah chuckled. “’Tis no great burden, Stephen.”
“And I shall be the first,” Jessica announced. She bounced over to Stephen and put her arms around his neck, tilting her head back in a lavish gesture that she’d taken from one of her stage roles. She and Stephen made a striking pair. For the first time in her life, Rosalind found herself envious of her sister’s beauty. What man could resist having such a vivacious creature in his arms? Rosalind felt a moment of unworthy satisfaction that his kiss was merely friendly.
The other women of the company lined up for their turn, giggling like schoolgirls, even old Nan, who played crones and acted as wardrobe mistress. Stephen entered into the game good-naturedly, kissing the ladies with dramatic flourish.
Rosalind stayed in her seat. She should not have impulsively suggested the initiation as a way to get a kiss for herself. This wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted…
It was better not to think it.
Maria was the last in line. She gave Stephen a smacking buss straight out of The Merry Wives of Windsor. Then she turned and beckoned to Rosalind. “Your turn, my dear. One last kiss, and Stephen will be one of us forever.”
The onlookers applauded. Reluctantly Rosalind rose and crossed the room. When she stood in front of Stephen, she lifted her head and saw stillness in his eyes. He, too, was uncomfortable with the situation. She’d been a fool to start this, for it would cheapen the subtle but real bond she’d felt between them.
He reached out his hand. “Come, my Hippolyta.”
Invoking her stage role made it easier. She was an Amazon queen who went to her lover with pride. Taking his hand, she dropped into a curtsy. “My dearest duke.”
He raised her from her curtsy, and she saw rueful humor in his eyes as he bent for the kiss. His lips were warm, the pressure light, yet she felt an emotional impact through her entire body. Yes, there was something between them, a connection that in another time or place might have blossomed into something deeper. But they would not be so lucky.
Then the kiss was over. Holding his gaze, she murmured, “Thank you, Stephen.”
He said with matching softness, “The pleasure was mine, Rosalind.”
The room broke into applause, and Thomas came over with more champagne for Stephen’s glass. Rosalind turned away, oddly content. She no longer regretted the fact that she had instigated the initiation ceremony. Even a public kiss was better than none.
Stephen’s stomach had been uneasy, so he’d avoided the food and slipped up to his room for a pill. The champagne seemed to settle his digestion though, so he had sipped it throughout the evening. The conversation had certainly been
different from anything he’d hear in a London drawing room. Ben Brady, for example, had explained how to do explosions onstage without burning the building down. Then Brady’s wife, Nan, had raucously confided that she adored tales of virtuous maidens taming wicked rakes, even though she’d lost her own virginity before George III had lost the American colonies. There wasn’t a bore in the whole company, except for Edmund Chesterfield.
After the initiation ceremony, Stephen sat by Thomas and Maria, who lounged in an oak settle telling wickedly amusing tales about their years in the theater. He envied their closeness, and the way their hands automatically linked together.
The sight sent a shaft of loneliness through him. Firmly he repressed it. He’d been lucky in other ways; he had no right to self-pity.
His thoughts were interrupted when Thomas glanced at his pocket watch, then beckoned to Brian. “Midnight. Past time you were in bed, my lad.”
Caught in the middle of a yawn, the boy gave a sheepish smile. “I haven’t translated my Latin lines yet.”
“You can do them in the morning,” Maria said. “As long as you’re finished by noon. And don’t forget to do your sums for me, either.”
After Brian gave his mother a good-night kiss and left, Stephen said, “Latin?”
Thomas nodded. “My Greek is too rusty to teach, but I have the Latin still. The lad’s well into Caesar now.”
Stephen’s brows arched. “He’s lucky to have such a good education.”
Eyes twinkling with amusement at Stephen’s surprise, Thomas explained, “I went to Trinity College in Dublin. Ah, I was quite the likely lad then. The church, my parents thought, or maybe the law.” He shook his head with mock regret. “Then I met this wanton lassie here. Saw her play Juliet in Dublin, and threw all my prospects away to lay my heart at her feet.”
Maria gave a ladylike snort. “Don’t you believe it, Stephen. It’s true that Thomas came of the gentry, but he was born to be hanged.” She gave her husband an intimate smile. “I had my work cut out for me, keeping him out of trouble. Wild to be an actor, he was, so he used his Irish blarney to convince me of his undying devotion. In my innocence, I didn’t suspect that all he really wanted was a wife from a fine old theatrical family like mine to teach him how to act.”
One Perfect Rose Page 7
