by Eloisa James
“I believe the Elizabethans felt that the appearance of our Heavenly Creator on stage was particularly abhorrent,” Mr. Bell remarked, leaving no doubt about where his own feelings lay.
Miss Pettigrew rushed in before Viola could say a word. “I am quite certain there will be no such desecration in this play,” she said importantly. “We might hear a voice, perhaps, but there is no reason for someone to actually impersonate the Divine. Mr. Marlowe would never allow it.”
“We should make certain the preparations are proceeding satisfactorily,” Devin said, while Viola was trying to remember whether God appeared on the stage in the Noah play or not.
“Please inform Mr. Marlowe that his seat is waiting for him,” Miss Pettigrew said, indicating the chair beside her.
Viola saw Caitlin as soon as they entered the makeshift dressing area behind the stage. She was laughing with a plump man dressed in what looked like two white sheets with a wobbly halo suspended over his head.
“Maybe he’s an angel,” Devin said.
“I hope so,” Viola said.
She and Devin walked over, and Caitlin introduced Mr. Brisket.
“I do know His Grace, but I’m pleased to meet my lady duchess. I’m a butcher by trade,” Mr. Brisket told Viola. “Many a pork chop on Your Graces’ table came from my shop.”
“I am doubly pleased to meet you,” Viola said, smiling.
“Do you think your costume is quite secure, Mr. Brisket, or would you like a few more pins?” Caitlin asked.
“Goodness, my lady, if you put any more pins into my gown, I’m likely to clank as I walk,” Mr. Brisket said. Caitlin nodded and slipped away to help fix the tail on a young squirrel.
“What part are you playing, Mr. Brisket?” Viola asked, holding her breath.
“Well, I’m a lucky one, I am,” the butcher replied. “Can’t you guess?” He beamed at her. “I’ll give you a bit o’ my lines.” In a fine, plummy tone, he intoned: “Behold, I will destroy them with the earth.”
“You’re God,” Viola said hollowly.
“Trust you to catch it!” Mr. Brisket said. “I’m a bit worried about forgetting the bits about the length of the ark: three hundred cubits, it is, the breadth of it fifty cubits, and the height of it thirty cubits. Lady Caitlin has coached me on it. She’s a splendid young lady, she is.”
Viola nodded, looking around. Lavinia was across the room, pinning a large bow onto the bosom of a curvaceous woman.
“That’s Mrs. Noah. She’s a bit of a shrew,” chuckled Mr. Brisket. “This is a right lively play, Your Graces. These medieval people must have been a spirited bunch. No doubt but it’ll be a success. We’re having a second performance tomorrow night, did you know that?”
Devin nodded.
“All the tickets tonight were bought up by the gentry, which is good for those poor orphans. But our relatives will see it as well. Tomorrow night’s performance will be half-price, just for people like meself. Now isn’t that a splendid thing?”
“Absolutely,” Viola managed. God was a butcher in a sheet; Noah was a drunkard; Noah’s wife was a curvaceous shrew.
The audience was full of the worst tattlemongers in all London, people who could stir up a scandal-broth without the slightest encouragement. Lord knew what they would do when a bishop and an archdeacon left the performance in a fury.
Devin drew her to the side. “Don’t worry,” he advised.
“You’re laughing,” Viola accused.
“I’m not even chuckling.”
She shook her head at him. “You’re laughing inside.”
“Perhaps.”
“It’s going to be a disaster,” Viola moaned.
“Remember, the tickets are sold,” her husband said. “No one can get their money back. Besides, look at that.”
Caitlin was hugging one of the orphans, who was holding up his finger and weeping. Mr. Marlowe walked directly to her. “What seems to be the matter?” he asked.
“Come with me,” Viola whispered to Devin, walking in that direction. When they were close by, she swerved and stepped behind the curtain that served as Noah’s tent, pulling her husband with her.
“What is this affinity you have for hiding?” he asked, his hand sliding down her back and shifting to her bottom. “Why are we always eavesdropping? I’m sure Aunt Knowe wouldn’t approve.”
“Devin!” Viola protested, moving her hips away from his caress.
“If you’re making me hide behind a curtain, you must expect a certain level of intimacy,” her husband said. But he pulled her in front of him and contented himself with wrapping his arms around her.
“Freddy was nibbled by the calf,” Caitlin said. She was staring intently at the child’s finger, and not looking at Mr. Marlowe.
“The calf?”
At that, Caitlin did glance up. “Surely you remember there are live animals in the performance? As you will recall, the Duke of Wynter overruled Miss Pettigrew.”
“I’m a sheep!” Freddy piped up.
“Why don’t you go find your tail?” Caitlin told him, and he ran away.
“I recall there was a rat,” Mr. Marlowe observed. “I didn’t realize that St. Wilfrid’s was welcoming true livestock.”
“Only a few,” Caitlin said. “Mr. Brisket kindly brought two rabbits and a calf from his butcher shop. Oh, and some chickens.”
“Where are the animals?”
“Miss Pettigrew is going to hate this,” Viola murmured.
Surprisingly, Mr. Marlowe didn’t look angry.
“Behind the stage,” Caitlin said.
At that moment they all heard a distinct lowing noise.
“My fiancée detests animals and has strong views about their rightful place,” Mr. Marlowe remarked.
“We all know that,” Caitlin said, her voice perfectly even. “You’ll be glad to know that Sam the rat has not joined the cast. I didn’t want to upset Miss Pettigrew.”
“Too late for that,” Devin said in Viola’s ear.
“Everything seems to be quite well here,” Mr. Marlowe said, smiling at Caitlin.
“Do give Miss Pettigrew my best wishes,” she said. “I hope she will not be scandalized by the animals.”
Mr. Marlowe bowed. “To be honest, Lady Caitlin, I fear the worst.”
She blinked at him.
He dropped a kiss on her cheek. “I will join Miss Pettigrew in the front row.” Mr. Marlowe walked away.
Caitlin looked like a teakettle on the boil.
“Hello!” Viola cried, popping from behind the curtain.
“Did you see that? I will never darken the door of this church again,” Caitlin said in a low, furious tone. “He kissed me, as if I were a light-skirt, and strolled off to sit beside his betrothed.” She scowled at Devin. “St. Wilfrid’s deserves better.”
“I have no doubt,” Devin agreed. “Should I cut him off without a penny?”
Caitlin gasped. “No!”
“He shouldn’t have kissed you,” Viola observed.
Caitlin wound her fingers together. “It’s no matter,” she said, her eyes shining with tears that she determinedly blinked away. “A more important problem is that we’ve had two dress rehearsals and we haven’t managed to get through the play either time. At least Mr. Higgins seems to be fairly sober tonight.”
“Sober?” Viola echoed. “I know the character of Noah is tipsy in the play, but do you mean in real life?”
“Where is Noah?” Devin asked, laughter running through his voice.
Caitlin turned around. “There he is—oh, dear.”
Mr. Higgins was a large, red-haired man wearing a flimsy tunic, the sewing circle’s idea of biblical garb. As they watched, he hoisted a great bottle of ale in the air and drained half of it.
“He takes his role very seriously,” Caitlin said.
“I know him; I’ll just have a word,” Devin said, striding away.
Viola watched her husband stop to exchange greetings here and there. He reached
Mr. Higgins and ushered him out of the room. “Devin is a problem solver,” she told Caitlin. “Likely he’ll take him upstairs to sober up.”
Caitlin looked at her, eyes brimming with tears. “Oh, who cares, Viola?”
“You’ve worked hard on the play, and for the orphanage as well,” Viola said. “You care, Cat.”
“Not any longer,” Caitlin said miserably. “I shan’t be able to help the orphans after tomorrow, Viola. My father is furious.”
“Because of the play?” Viola asked.
“No, no,” Caitlin said. “He doesn’t care about the play; he thinks this is merely a benefit for orphans. Can you imagine if he knew that Noah is drunk?”
Viola winced. “I didn’t remember that part of the play. I had originally suggested The Second Shepherd’s Play.”
“People must have become more sensitive over time,” Caitlin said. “I can assure you, Viola, that the outrage that a drunken Noah might cause would be nothing to the outrage if we had staged the Lamb of God sequence in The Second Shepherd’s Play. If you remember, one of the shepherds had stolen a lamb and planned to cook it for supper.”
“Clearly medieval plays are more lively than I remembered.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Caitlin said, a tear rolling down her cheek. “This is the last time I’ll attend St. Wilfrid’s or be around the children.”
Viola wrapped her in a hug. “Don’t cry, darling. Devin will fix everything.”
Caitlin sniffed and pulled out a handkerchief. “He can’t fix my life,” she said wearily. “My father threatened to pack me off to the country unless I agree to marry the earl, and I won’t. I refused him this morning.”
“Not the gargoyle-loving earl?”
Caitlin nodded miserably. “I won’t. That’s that, and I’m being sent to the country to become a companion to an aged aunt. She’s very devout. Perhaps her vicar will be interested in starting a Sunday school.”
“Give Devin a chance to fix things,” Viola said, wiping away Caitlin’s tears. “I trust him.”
And she did.
Deep inside, she was utterly convinced that Devin would make certain that Mr. Marlowe didn’t marry Miss Pettigrew.
“We’ve saved you a seat next to us in the second row,” Viola said. “Shall we go there now?”
The chaos was settling down. The lambs, squirrels, and piggies had tails. Mr. Higgins was back, though to Viola’s inexperienced eyes he didn’t look much more sober. He was grinning at Devin.
“All right,” Caitlin said miserably. “As long as I don’t have to speak to Miss Pettigrew. It hardly needs to be said, but she won’t enjoy the performance.”
“I’ll protect you,” Viola promised.
Chapter Thirty-four
At first, The Play of Noah appeared to be going remarkably smoothly. The curtain opened promptly at eight-thirty, and the audience declared the little girl who lisped a welcome to be adorable.
Mr. Marlowe climbed onto the stage, and thanked everyone for their kind support of the new orphanage.
Once he returned to his seat beside Miss Pettigrew, Otis thanked the Duke and Duchess of Lindow for the refreshments to follow; the Duke and Duchess of Wynter for hosting the play in St. Wilfrid’s cloister; Mr. and Mrs. Parth Sterling, who had provided fabric for the costumes and the flood; and the parish sewing circle, who had ably taken on sewing everything from piggy tails to God’s halo.
In the seat directly in front of Viola, the bishop’s back stiffened at the mention of God’s halo, but his daughter talked to him in a low voice until he settled down.
The play proper opened with God’s visit to Noah, who behaved very well during the encounter. Anyone would have been surprised by such a visitor, and only the most exacting of critics could say that Noah overacted by swooning.
True, God’s fluffy halo (fashioned out of a quantity of cotton batting) fell to the side at one point and swung from an ear, but Mr. Brisket discovered it soon enough and put it back with a chuckle. More importantly, he remembered every one of his lines, even the difficult ones enumerating the ark’s cubits of length.
Great shouts of laughter swept the room when Noah’s wife scolded him for wasting his time building a ship (“You’re as thick as Tewkesbury mustard and I rue the day I married you!”). And scolded him for bringing messy animals into the house (“You fat-guts, stewed-prune brained ruffian!”). And scolded him for being a worthless husband (“You bull’s pizzle, you three-inch fool!”)
“‘Pizzle’?” Viola asked Caitlin, and then giggled, figuring it out for herself.
“Mrs. Noah has left the script,” Caitlin moaned.
There was an unfortunate moment when the calf shifted all her weight to Noah’s foot. But while purists—or bishops—could wish that his language were not as colorful, the audience greeted his explosion with great delight.
Viola noticed, though, that the line of black-garbed persons in the front row showed no signs of enjoyment. They were completely silent, shoulders twitching during the more exuberant lines and not even a chuckle greeting the hilarious bits.
At just the right moment, a sea of blue silk flowed from the heavens and rippled across the floor and over the edge of the stage.
The cast made it through the ocean journey with great aplomb. By that point, the audience was roaring with laughter every time Mrs. Noah opened her mouth.
The dove (a cleverly fashioned piece of pasteboard) hopped onto Mount Ararat; the ark landed; the animals were escorted off the stage. Noah was drinking from a hip flask with great abandon, Viola noticed with some alarm. Of course, the Bible did say that Noah drank too much wine. But did he have to be quite so drunk?
Even worse, on the way out of the ark, Noah tripped and tossed the chicken he was holding into the front row. He ambled forward to retrieve it, but somehow the goat had freed itself as well and fairly leapt off the stage. Faced by a solid line of bodies, he panicked and charged forward, head lowered.
Viola heard a scream, but she was too short to see what was happening; next to her, Devin was shaking with laughter, and down the row, the Wildes were on their feet.
“Where did the chicken go?” Caitlin whispered.
“I can’t see!” Viola said.
Thankfully, Lord Erik Wilde leapt from his prompting corner and retrieved the chicken.
The play began again, and Noah retreated into his tent, upending the flask into his mouth as he did so. His son Ham entered and retreated in horror, shouting. Noah seemed to be having a hard time remembering his grandson’s name in order to curse him—poor Canaan kept hissing his name, while Noah stumbled about calling him Caner and Cabit and Calus.
It was a huge relief when God reappeared and announced, “And the years of Noah were nine hundred and fifty years, and so he died.”
To her dismay, Viola saw that Mr. Higgins, playing Noah, had decided to interpret God’s last lines; he heavily collapsed on the floor. But the cast very properly ignored his prone body as they took their bows.
The ecclesiastics in the front row ostentatiously did not applaud.
Mr. Marlowe climbed onto the stage and thanked everyone again for guaranteeing that the orphanage would be sustained for an entire year.
Viola watched the vicar curiously. He certainly was beautiful, with his gentle eyes and scholarly voice. By way of comparison, she glanced up at Devin. Her husband’s strong chin was set, and he had an expectant look; he was watching the bishop furiously speaking in a low voice to Mrs. Pettigrew.
She had angry red spots in her cheeks and yet a satisfied look, as if she took pleasure in the fact that her worst predictions had been confirmed.
Around them the audience began gathering their wraps, looking both cheerful and expectant while preparing to partake in the Duke of Lindow’s excellent refreshments. His Grace had dispatched most of his kitchen servants including his French cook to the vicarage that morning, and they had spent the whole day preparing splendid confections.
The cast poured out from beh
ind the stage and was surrounded by laughing groups offering compliments.
Not everyone was happy.
Miss Pettigrew surged to her feet. Over the chatter from the crowd, Viola could hear how shrill her voice was, but not what she was saying.
Caitlin and Viola rose and walked with Devin to the end of the row of chairs. “I knew she would hate it,” Caitlin said in a small, unhappy voice.
“It was the chicken, me lady,” a deep voice said. “That dratted bird flew straight at Miss Pettigrew. I think it landed on her shoulder. I couldn’t see clearly because of my halo.”
Devin nodded to Mr. Brisket. “I must congratulate you on a masterful performance of Divinity, Brisket. Not an easy role, and I fancy that not everyone could carry it off, especially given the small problems with your costume.”
The butcher lowered his voice to a low rumble. “I reckon you couldn’t see the bishop’s face, Your Grace, but up on the stage one couldn’t help but notice that his ilk weren’t enjoying the performance. I just thought I’d give you and Lady Caitlin here a heads-up in case they kick up some dust.”
Devin grinned at him. “It’s very kind of you to warn me, Brisket.”
In the front row, Miss Pettigrew had turned to Mr. Marlowe and was shouting at him, her face twisted with rage.
“Hopefully she’s giving him the mitten,” Mr. Brisket said. “My missus has said as how we would find another parish if the rector marries that one. She’s a tartar, and only going to get worse as she ages.”
Viola opened her mouth to defend Miss Pettigrew, but Devin slung an arm around her and smiled. “No point, love.”
Love?
Did he just call her—
“Just one more moment,” Mr. Brisket said with deep enjoyment. “Yep, that should do it!”
Caitlin gasped.
Despite herself Viola looked back at the front. Mr. Marlowe’s face now sported a red patch high on one cheekbone. “She struck him!”
“A solid blow,” the butcher said in a tone of deep satisfaction. “Welp, I’d better join the others. The cast is having its own party, you know. That way we won’t put the swells to the blush.”
“No, you are not!” Caitlin cried. “That is an absurd idea, as I told the sexton when he mentioned it to me. You will all be joining us.”
