by Faith Martin
From outside, she heard the playback of the actress’s recorded voice repeating her lines. And Jenny had to admit that though she might be a bit of a prima donna, she certainly knew how to pack her lines with punch. And if her physical performance matched that of her vocal talents then the guests of the Regency Extravaganza were probably going to be in for a real treat.
‘Vince, you are sure that Philip notified the local press about this weekend, aren’t you?’ the woman went on to demand. ‘I mean, with a proper photographer and everything? Only I’ve got an audition for another ad next Wednesday in Cheltenham, and if I can get my photo in the papers at the same time, it might just impress . . .’
With a sigh, Jenny firmly closed the window.
* * *
Dinner was a triumph — naturally. Muriel, looking very pleased, relayed several ‘compliments to the chef’ throughout the hour and a half that she, Mags and Babs were serving, and by the end of it, Jenny was feeling sufficiently appreciated for her efforts.
Free now to hover in the archway to the dining room and watch for herself the first of the am-dram scenes, she was keen to put faces to the voices — especially that of the smoky-voiced, whining prima donna. Like most people, Jenny felt the attraction of a bit of live theatre.
All the tables were full of replete and happy diners, she noticed with satisfaction, with Min and Silas Buckey looking particularly resplendent in their costumes. Several of the other ladies had their hair dressed up and bedecked with fake jewels, or were wearing wigs that had been set in ornate ringlets, and many of the gentlemen wore silver-and-gold embroidered silk outfits.
Other guests — including both the Oxford don and the foxy-faced lad from the Welsh valleys — were wearing nothing more remarkable than trousers, shirt and jacket; plain dark blue in the case of Dr Gilchrist, and grey in the case of Ion Dryfuss.
This mixed message gave the dining room an odd, somewhat surreal feel, but with the dramatic entrance of the two leading actors, who swept past Jenny without a second glance, it hardly mattered, as all attention immediately settled on ‘Sir Hugh’ and ‘Lady Hester.’
Jenny’s first glimpse of the sultry-voiced prima donna wasn’t a disappointment, and she could see the guests at the tables all felt the same way.
Nearly Jenny’s own height, but considerably more svelte of figure, she had long dark brown hair that had been swept up in a very fetching Regency hairstyle. This had the effect of showing off not only her milky swan-like neck to its full advantage, but also cleverly framed the full beauty of her face. And it was definitely some face, Jenny acknowledged without a modicum of envy. Long, oval, pale, and with high cheekbones, it reminded the travelling cook of the faces she’d seen painted by some of the more famous pre-Raphaelite artists.
Her costume was made of pale green sprigged muslin, with the high waistline that viewers of BBC Jane Austen costume dramas would easily recognise, and flowed in straight, neat folds to fall on the top of some silk slippers in a matching hue. On her arm hung a rather large black velvet and lace-trimmed reticule, embroidered with pretty beading and pulled together with a drawstring clasp.
More than one or two members of the local historical society nodded approval at the accuracy of her gown, and Jenny wondered how the actress had managed to come by it. It had clearly been made for her by someone very clever with a needle, and looked exquisite — and expensive. It was obviously not a rental from a costume shop.
Jenny, standing in the shadows to one side in the arch, watched the little drama with a mixture of amusement and interest. Big, bad Sir Hugh, it seemed, had been taunted by some of the ‘young bucks’ at his gentleman’s gaming club, implying that he was being cuckolded by the young son of a local upstart and insignificant landowner.
Lady Hester demurely denied it, naturally, and put in a few hints of her own that her husband’s gaming was getting out of hand.
As the two protagonists, with flowery phrases and much sweeping about between the tables (presumably in order to engage all their audience in the drama and make them feel they as if they were getting their money’s worth), continued to spar, Jenny’s attention began to drift towards the diners themselves.
Many of the locals and historical society members were obviously wrapped up in the story and performance being given. But Jenny noticed, with a hint of surprise, that Dr Rory Gilchrist was almost alone in the company, in that he seemed to be watching Sir Hugh’s performance more closely than that of Lady Hester. Whilst, interestingly enough, the handsome young Welshman’s eyes seemed to be fixed on the actress, whose husky, sexy voice so effortlessly filled the room. But was he merely admiring her elegant appearance and theatrical performance, as gay men sometimes did (if he was in fact gay), or was it the actress herself who was captivating him? In which case, he was very much heterosexual!
As Sir Hugh and Lady Hester’s quarrel rose to ever more acrimonious heights, culminating with Sir Hugh finally warning his wife that if he found her in young Truby’s company again that ‘dire consequences would ensue to that villain’s detriment,’ Jenny’s attention wandered on to the American couple.
Min, dressed in something that looked more Victorian than Regency, and bedecked with diamonds that Jenny sincerely hoped were paste, was clearly enjoying herself enormously, and following the theatrics with avid, shining eyes. Her husband too looked amused and entertained, and there was no question that he had eyes only for the young actress.
A sudden wave of applause alerted Jenny to the fact that the performance was over, and the next instant a furious-faced Sir Hugh stormed past her, followed more demurely by his wife. After a few seconds the two of them returned to the dining room and took a bow, then disappeared again, presumably to change into their normal clothes.
Jenny, with a gentle sigh, made her way back to the kitchen, where she made sure that Mags and Babs had left everything in good order for the following morning.
* * *
When Jenny made her way through to the bar about an hour later, it was clear that the actors were still in residence, back in their civvies and holding court at opposite ends of the room. The coterie around the actress, naturally, was far larger than that of the one around Vince/Sir Hugh.
Jenny, ordering a large gin and tonic from Richard behind the bar (one drink per night was part of her wages!), made her way casually over towards the less crowded end of the room and took a window seat at a small table for two.
Perhaps she should put kedgeree back on the breakfast menu? Her thoughts of old-fashioned culinary delights were interrupted when she noticed the last few members of the historical society take their leave of Vince, stranding him with only a glass of wine for company.
Without his costume and wig he was revealed as a sixty-something man with white hair and rather weak-looking brown eyes. He smiled affably as Dr Rory Gilchrist approached him. Clearly, Jenny mused, the two men must already know each other.
‘Rory — so what did you think?’ he asked, confirming her guess. ‘Not bad for an old ham, eh?’ He was clearly feeling flushed with success over his performance.
‘Does the Law Society know what their supposedly respectable rural solicitors get up to in their spare time?’ Rory asked archly. ‘And those silk trousers of yours looked painfully tight.’
‘Oh don’t remind me — they pinched like crazy. Still, at least I didn’t have to fake having a face like a sour lemon. Did it show from the way I walked?’
The Oxford don laughed genially. ‘No, you were all right.’
‘And now I suppose you want an introduction to the lovely Rachel Norman?’ Vince asked dryly, nodding across the room to where his fellow actor was now holding court. ‘Most men do!’
‘She’s quite something,’ Rory agreed carelessly, following his line of sight. ‘And that voice! What a pity she can’t actually act.’
Vince gave a surprised bark of laughter and discreetly turned it into a cough. Over her gin and tonic Jenny bit back her own desire to laugh. So she’d
not been the only one to notice a certain stiffness and overdone theatricality about the woman’s performance.
‘Don’t tell her that for Pete’s sake,’ Vince pleaded. ‘She’ll go right for your jugular! As it is she’s the leading light of our little am-dram group, and the only one of us with any professional credits to her name.’
Rory’s eyes widened. ‘You’re joking! You mean she’s actually been on a professional stage? Doing what — walk-on parts?’
‘Don’t be unkind,’ Vince said, but without any real heat. Clearly the prima donna considered herself to be a cut above her fellow am-dram members, and in Jenny’s experience people with such a high opinion of themselves weren’t usually all that good at making friends with others.
‘As a matter of fact it wasn’t the stage — it was television,’ Vince continued, correcting his friend with a wry smile. ‘Oh, not an actual programme, just some adverts.’
‘Ah,’ Rory said. ‘But I don’t recall seeing that face on the screen, even trying to sell me something.’
Vince laughed. ‘Shussh, she’ll hear you! Actually, her first break was as a hand model for a designer hand lotion. She has such lovely long fingers and slender hands, if you care to notice. And just recently she did a voice-over for those lingerie ads. You know the ones . . .’
He went on to describe a recent advert for some saucy underwear that, now that it had been mentioned, rang a distant bell for Jenny too. She’d thought that sexy voice had sounded vaguely familiar!
‘And of course, with a voice like hers, she’s just signed a contract to do some more. She’s all set to go to the studios soon to do the recordings.’
‘Good for her,’ Rory said, without much interest.
‘Of course, what she really wants is to be a legitimate and very well-paid actress, naturally,’ Vince added with a knowing smile. ‘She sees our poor little group very much as a stop-gap, I’m sorry to say. What’s worse, our little gigs barely keep her in pocket money. And who knows — perhaps the ads will turn out to be a stepping stone for her. She has a way of wrapping people — and by that I mean men, naturally — around her little finger. So maybe one of the production people will be able to get her an audition for something better.’
‘A bit part in a soap opera?’ Rory volunteered, again without much interest. ‘Vince, I really need to speak to you about that little problem of mine . . .’ Here the Oxford don suddenly lowered his voice and looked around. And instantly spotted Jenny, sitting unobtrusively at the nearby table and now looking vacantly out of the window at the darkened village square beyond.
‘You know, that little matter I told you about last week? It’s becoming more and more urgent. She’s already driven me out of Oxford — that’s the main reason why I signed up for this little shindig of yours, to give me a bit of respite from her for a few days. Perhaps we can go to my room . . . ?’ And so saying, out of the corner of her eye, Jenny noticed the academic take his friend firmly by the elbow and begin steering him away.
Jenny, deciding that it was high time that she too went to bed, tossed back the last of her nightcap and made her way towards the bar. As she did so, she passed by the outer fringes of the crowd grouped around the husky-voiced Rachel.
‘Now, Mr Buckey, you’re making me very jealous! You really have tickets at Stratford to see David Tennant? What’s he playing in — Richard II, is it? Or is it one of the other kings? Whatever, I’m so envious.’
Jenny, glancing across the gaggle of heads, was just in time to see the American grin happily. ‘Oh, I don’t claim to know much about Shakespeare. But when in Rome and all that . . .’ Silas shrugged one meaty shoulder in mock modesty.
‘And I’d bet a globetrotter such as yourself has actually been to Rome, am I right?’ Rachel carried right on flirting.
Even dressed in tight black designer jeans with a plain white silk men’s shirt left to drape loosely across her hips, the actress looked good. Real gold glittered at her ears and throat, and as she spoke she reached out and tapped him playfully on the top of his arm.
Silas preened happily.
By his side, his wife looked unhappy at her husband’s obvious pleasure at being flirted with by a pretty girl, and sipped morosely at a Bloody Mary.
Jenny was just about to slip past the bar and into the corridor, where the door at the far end gave access to the upper floors, when her glance happened to collide with a familiar and attractive face.
Ion Dryfuss was watching the exchange between Silas Buckey and Rachel intently. And something about the look on his face chilled her to the bone.
Quickly turning away from it, Jenny felt a hand reach out and land gently on her left wrist. She looked down with some surprise at the dirty fingernails and then up into an ancient, wizened face.
‘Hello. You’re a sight for sore eyes! A gal with a proper figure! Make an old man very happy and have a drink with me?’
Jenny smiled back at Old Walter. No doubt the village eccentric wanted her to buy him his next round. Still, a compliment was a compliment!
With a shrug, she nodded patiently. ‘Well, how could a gal refuse an offer like that?’ she asked, her blue eyes twinkling.
CHAPTER THREE
‘You really shouldn’t encourage the old rascal,’ Richard Sparkey warned her, but had already poured out a pint and was moving it across the bar towards the old man.
Not surprisingly, Old Walter pounced on it with glee.
He was one of those men who could have been any age between sixty and ninety, and had deeply tanned and weathered skin. His wildly unkempt hair needed trimming and he was wearing a distinctly disreputable pair of faded brown corduroy trousers held up by bright and incongruous scarlet braces. His Hawaiian-style shirt was two sizes too big. Boots so ancient that they could have featured on the Antiques Roadshow were hooked carefully around and under the rungs of his barstool, cannily anchoring the old man to his seating.
‘Thank you, young lady, you’re a gentleman,’ he said, somewhat confusingly, as he pulled his pint glass possessively towards him. ‘And don’t be fooled by what young Richard here has to say. He doesn’t in the least object to pulling the pints for me. In fact, the more of ’em the better you like it, eh, Dickie boy? Must fill up the coffers! Just make sure you don’t serve ’em to any minors or let one of the trustees catch you swearing, eh?’ And so saying, he began to chuckle.
Richard Sparkey shook his head wearily. ‘Give it a rest, Walter, or I’ll bar you,’ he threatened, but his voice sounded more resigned than genuinely aggrieved.
It certainly made Walter chuckle even more. ‘Go on, tell her how you and the missus have to be paragons of the community or else,’ Walter egged him on.
Seeing Jenny’s bemused expression, her employer smiled weakly. ‘Old Walter thinks it funny, the unusual way that we came by the inn,’ he explained. Resting his elbows on the bar, he lowered his head and voice in the gesture common of a man about to impart a confidence. Obligingly, Jenny also moved a step closer and lowered her head until they were only inches apart.
‘Most pub landlords are either employed to run their premises by a brewery, or, if they’re running a freehouse, by either buying a building outright and getting all the relevant licences — the lucky buggers — or else getting a business loan and a mortgage from a bank.’
‘Right,’ Jenny said, following him so far without much difficulty.
But Walter chuffed into his beer at this. ‘Go on, tell ’er about old Celia Grimmett. That family always was bonkers! Everyone in the village knows that. Her father was a lay preacher at the chapel. Never would let his womenfolk wear trousers! Hah, wish he would have — old Ma Grimmett had legs like tree trunks.’
Jenny, feeling more bemused than ever, again turned to Richard Sparkey for enlightenment.
Richard sighed. ‘This place used to belong to an old lady called Celia Grimmett. It was just a large family home back then — one of many properties that they owned and used to rent out to utterly respectab
le, middle-class people. Like Old Walter here said, her parents were puritans, and wouldn’t have approved of pubs. So, on the face of it, a person less likely to bankroll an inn is hard to imagine.’
‘Ah. But I reckon old Celia always did have a bit of a spark left in her, even if she was careful to hide it!’ Old Walter put in helpfully here, nodding his head enthusiastically.
‘Anyway,’ Richard swept on hastily, ‘when the village pub went belly up ten years ago, the local mafia — sorry, the parish council and other concerned citizens — approached Celia for help. Saying how much a community needed a local gathering spot and all that, and I dare say it appealed to the old bird’s sense of civic duty or something. Anyway, the upshot was she agreed to allow this place,’ Richard nodded around him, ‘to be converted into a “proper” inn. It had to offer rooms for guests, and serve food provided by local farmers, thus becoming a little more upmarket then a mere pub. She also agreed to let us buy our ales from our local artisan breweries. Although she herself would never set foot in here once we started selling alcohol, mind,’ he added with a grin.
This sent Walter off into another paroxysm of childish chuckling.
‘And although she agreed a private mortgage arrangement with me and Muriel, there were certain other conditions attached,’ Richard admitted. ‘As you can imagine, for a woman of strict principles they were rather old-fashioned. In short, it stated that my wife and I had to be “sober and upright” law-abiding citizens, and generally be above reproach in all ways.’
‘I’ll say. No swearing now, Dickie my boy, or you’ll be out on your ear,’ Walter crowed.
Jenny blinked. ‘Is he serious? Surely she couldn’t have imposed conditions on you as Draconian as that!’
