“Yet it did.”
“It is a good thing that you like to shop. It was not long ago that I drove through the village and saw you doing just that with your mother, Jo. You had a basket over your arm and wore a bonnet that was very pretty and at that moment I knew—I mean to say that I felt—oh, never mind. I was about to say something nonsensical and romantic.”
“I see.” She could have accused him of following her, then and now, but since she had followed him on his first day in the theater, decided against it. “Well, perhaps you shouldn’t.”
He gave her a yearning look but she turned her head away, seizing upon the silence that fell between them to think about things.
After Terence’s departure for London, Lord York had not once visited The Elms. But he had remembered her. She knew that much from hearing him say so while she was hiding in Lizzie’s closet.
His mother had talked to Jo about him now and again, and of his father’s death after a long illness, his brother coming into the title. Her own dear mama had called Gerald a worthless blackguard—strong language indeed for the old lady. Mrs. Shy thought it most unfair that Daniel, the dutiful son, had to struggle so to make his mark in the world.
Terence had not offered much information on the reasons for their unlikely partnership, but it occurred to her suddenly that Lord York was no longer as grand nor as rich as she had naively assumed.
And it was clear, despite his awkward apology for kissing her, that he was not always as proper as he thought he ought to be. Huzzah for that, she thought. Considering that the cat was now out of the bag and he knew that she assisted her brother and Miss Loudermilk … Oh, dear, it was a bottomless bag, filled with cats, and she would not be able to keep them inside if he was to spend as much time as Jo did at the theater.
Had her brother not said that Lord York might be too good? Certainly he did not seem the sort of man who went about kissing women willy-nilly. Or was he?
Jo cast a sideways look at Daniel, and was surprised to see an expression of schoolboy melancholy upon his handsome face. He was eight years older, well born and well bred, and had lived in London for years. Though she had no one to compare him to, it seemed to her that he kissed with sensual skill. He probably had more experience with the physical side of things but perhaps had yet to fall in love.
She, of course, had no experience whatsoever with les affaires de coeur. Love and its many splendors were mostly a mystery to her as yet. But Jo could claim that she had researched the subject in depth, thanks to romance novels, which she bought on the sly, read by the dozen, and gave away to her younger female relations.
She had even bequeathed a few of the racier titles to her cousin Penelope, the family scholar of antiquities. Penelope had read them with an air of puzzlement, saying that she did not see what was particularly thrilling about things like kisses and fond embraces. Jo had felt that it would be a waste of time to explain just why she thought such things were probably wonderful.
And now Jo knew exactly why. Lord York’s masterful kisses were the very stuff of which romance novels were made. That they had been bestowed in a cobblestone alley in back of a theater was, however, not quite right. Romance heroines were usually kissed upon moonlit balconies or in gilt carriages or the like, as far as she knew.
If she had to guess, she would say that Lord York had fallen in love, for no very good reason. And if she had to confess, she knew that she might be in love with him, also for no very good reason. Thus far, their story was very like a romance novel. But exactly how it would end up remained to be seen.
At the moment, Lizzie was screaming her head off onstage.
Chapter Eight
“Lizzie, no!” Jo cried. She had run down the stairs in back of the boxes and onto the stage, leaving Lord York behind. “You will look a fright if you don’t stop!”
Frustrated and utterly furious, the singer was nervously pulling at her red mane, tangling it in a way that would defy a comb and Dora’s best efforts, Jo knew.
“Fetch Ginny!”
“I am right here,” the wardrobe mistress said quietly, walking out from the wings. “What are ye howling about?”
Lizzie flung herself down upon a green-carpeted hill done up with fake flowers. “They won’t let me have the big blacksmith!”
Ginny sighed. “Ye sound like a child screamin’ for a toy.”
“And a very nice toy he is, Ginny. I want him.”
The wardrobe mistress looked into the wings. “Well, he is still here, talking to Mr. Shy and Hugh. And he certainly seems to be a real man, as ye said, for all that he has such a high voice.”
“He is magnificent. We are perfect together. He makes me and my big bum look … tiny.”
“Now, Lizzie,” Ginny chided, “the audience comes to hear ye sing, not to look at yer bum. The men do look at yer bosom, though.”
“Not as if anyone could miss either,” Lizzie said indignantly.
“P’raps not. But no one will believe that ye’ve magically grown smaller just because ye’re singing with a great strapping man. And they don’t care what size ye are, Liz.”
Lizzie rolled over on the hill, trying to look at her bum. “I think it is bigger. The script calls for a blacksmith who can lift me and Harry Longwood is the only man who can.”
“Still, he does not sound manly, Lizzie,” Jo said. She joined Lizzie on the carpeted hill and resisted the temptation to tug at the fake grass and pick the paper daisies.
“I don’t care.”
“The crowds will laugh if it sounds like two women singing.”
“I don’t care.”
Ginny looked into the wings. “Here they come. Hush, you two. Perhaps our Mr. Shy has come up with a solution.”
Terence peeked out from behind the curtain. “Has Lizzie stopped that fearful shrieking for good? Or is she just resting between fits?”
“She has stopped,” Ginny replied. “Blessed silence prevails.”
“Then I will get to the point.” He came out into the light. “Lizzie, we have decided to cast Harry Longwood in the part of the blacksmith.”
The counter-tenor strode forth and towered over Terence. “I consider myself honored to sing on the same stage with Miss Loudermilk.”
Jo ducked her head to hide a smile. It would take her a while to get used to a fluty voice like that coming from such a big man, but she knew she had to. She looked up to see whether Lord York was still in the box and saw that he too was suppressing a smile.
“But you will not actually be singing, Harry—may I call you Harry?” Terence asked. “The, ah, discrepancy between your voice and your appearance simply is not right for the role.”
“Then what will I be doing?” Longwood asked, looking disappointed.
“I shall think of something,” Lizzie said, casting an admiring look at his powerful physique.
“Lizzie, shut up.” That was Ginny, who smiled nonetheless.
“You will merely pretend to sing, Mr. Longwood. And Fred, one of our satyrs, a little fellow with a remarkably deep voice, will stand behind a screen and sing your part. Fred will be able to see you, of course, and so you will seem to sing every note. But the audience will not see him. It is a trick that requires a great deal of practice but it has been done—many times.”
“Very well,” Longwood replied. “When do rehearsals begin?”
“At once.” Terence grinned at Lizzie. “No more lolling about, Miss Loudermilk.”
She gave him a regal wave of dismissal and went right on lolling.
“Harry, Mr. Newsome is waiting for you backstage,” said Terence. “He will find Fred for you, and you can rehearse in the downstairs studio.”
“Thank you, Mr. Shy. This will be my stage debut, you know. Mother Longwood will be so proud.”
“She will be the only member of the audience who knows that you are mouthing the words of the song. The ushers must not seat her next to the critics. What if she gives the secret away?”
“She would ne
ver,” Harry said, seemingly shocked at the thought.
“Good, good, glad to hear it.” Terence patted the blacksmith on his mighty shoulder, and the big man left.
Tom Higgins came out, dragging a table of light wood, painted to look like wrought iron, and two iron chairs.
“What are you doing, Tom?”
“These is for The Shepherdess. The scene at the rustic inn where the lovers sup,” he replied. “We must test the lighting. Hugh wants it all soft and pink. Says someone gets seduced.”
“Really?” Terence asked, giving Lizzie an arch look. “Who could it be?” He consulted the script and read aloud. “ ‘Our heroine, the trembling virgin, cuts slices from a succulent ham and feeds them to her muscular lover.’ Will we need a real ham, Tom?”
The stage manager nodded. “Don’t see how you could use a papier-mâché one, not if she’s feeding him bits of it. And it ain’t like our Lizzie is a real virgin.”
“I should say not. Get a good ham, Tom. It will help Harry keep his strength up,” Lizzie said. She rose somewhat awkwardly from the carpeted hill, and Josephine scrambled to her feet as well.
“It seems an unnecessary expense to have a fresh ham each night, but if we must …” Terence let his sentence trail off.
“Ye can let the bit players and dancers finish it,” Tom said loudly. “They are hungry enough to fight over a bone, since they still have not been paid, Mr. Shy. Nor have I.”
Josephine looked up at Lord York again. His expression was quite serious. She supposed that, having heard Tom’s complaint, he would now insist on looking at the books, as her brother had surmised. She hoped he would not encounter too many unpleasant surprises.
Yet the Covent Garden Company needed a steady hand at the helm. She had not realized that until the moment of truth in Samuel Picard’s shop. Writing letters for Terence to sign and send off to Picard and all the others had been almost a game at first, but not anymore.
The livelihoods of many people depended on the company’s ability to pay what they owed to their players and their creditors. As rude as the shopkeeper had been, he was right. True, Terence had been plagued by bad luck, but it was clear enough that he had no head for money. She did not want to see him end up in debtor’s prison.
If Daniel could teach her dear brother to be more prudent and preserve Terence from that dreadful indignity, she would be eternally grateful.
They needed him. She was glad he was here, looking after things, like a guardian angel … and provider of heavenly kisses in unexpected places. She would not mind more of those. And if it happened that he really was in love with her, then it all might work out very well.
Jo caught Lord York’s eye and favored him with a dazzling smile. Even from here, she could see him blush.
He was a bit of a prig. But he was very kind all the same, she thought. She turned her attention back to her brother, who was talking to Tom in a low voice, and then looked about for something to do, ignoring Lord York for the moment.
Precisely why Jo had smiled at him like that after their somewhat prickly conversation, Daniel did not know. It made his face grow warm. He reflected again upon the very odd things that seemed to happen to him inside—and just outside—this damned theater. Everything seemed subject to change in an instant, as if a capricious magician bent on mischief were in charge.
Lord York knew that he had behaved in a way utterly out of keeping with his character or good intentions.
Now that he was alone in the box and Jo upon the stage, busily rearranging the table and chairs that Tom had brought out, he reflected again upon what he had done. He had just kissed the sister of his good friend and business partner—in the alley, where anyone might have seen them. Yet he had not been able to resist the impulse to do so.
Certainly Jo had grown into a young woman of compelling charm. He would have to admit that, for whatever reason—the advent of spring, the thrusting of tulips, the spells of unseen magicians, the innocent parting of a rosy mouth—he was smitten with her.Yet he ought to have been able to restrain himself, and stick to his plan of courting her properly. Why had he been so impetuous? He could not answer that question.
Perhaps he should confine himself to the fact that he had enjoyed the kiss—well, kisses. Very much. And so had Jo. She had said so, rather boldly.
There was no doubt in Daniel’s mind that Miss Loudermilk was partly to blame for Josephine’s forward manner. The singer’s bawdy jokes and unladylike behavior were not a good influence, but it was not his place to tell Josephine that. Still, if her brother was too preoccupied to watch over her, he himself would have to. Discreetly, of course.
He looked down at the stage again. Jo seemed to be laughing helplessly at something Lizzie had said, and Ginny was laughing as well. But what harm was there in such fun?
For all her pretense of sophistication and light words, he knew perfectly well that Jo was still innocent. A wanton would not have kissed him back with such quivering eagerness, as if the experience was entirely new to her. She had seemed to melt in his arms.
But he must not give in to mere desire. She deserved to be wooed and won and wed. Properly. Formally. Eternally.
His imagination skipped ahead to the best part: sweeping her off her feet with passionate abandon and carrying her in his loving arms to his bed. His mind began to fill in the delicious details of the—
“Seduction scene!” he heard Terence yell. Lord York sat bolt upright with a gasp.
He leaned forward in the box to listen to the conversation on the stage and sighed with relief. Terence was talking to the stage manager about the play.
He ought to go down and not sit alone in the empty box, indulging in romantic fantasies. He decided to join them.
“Tom, do you need someone onstage while you try out different effects?” Terence asked.
“It would ’elp,” Tom said.
Lizzie sauntered off to the wings with one arm slung around Ginny’s shoulders. “Don’t look at me. I am going to my dressing room for a lie-down. I shall need to keep my own strength up. Harry Longwood is coming by for tea before the evening rehearsal.”
Ginny snorted.
“While I am sleeping, Ginny, it would be very nice if you would go out and fetch some cakes. I am famous for my hospitality, you know.”
“Is that what you call it, Lizzie?”
The two friends left through the corridor, and the sound of their banter soon faded.
Terence looked at his sister. “Jo, that leaves you to stand in for Lizzie. Are you ready to ruin your reputation at last?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“I was only joking. But Tom needs someone to sit at this table while we work on the lighting. No one is watching, and therefore it cannot be said that you have gone on the stage, even if you are on the stage.”
“I think I understand.”
“Then please sit down.” Terence pulled out a chair for his sister. “Ah, hello, Daniel. I was wondering when you would come down from the box and join us. Are you ready to examine the books—it is deadly dull work, I assure you—or would you like to keep Jo company?”
She gave him another damned dazzling smile. Lord York sat down in the other chair.
“Closer, Daniel.”
“What?”
“Move your chair next to hers. You two need to be quite close. This is a—”
“Seduction scene,” Lord York said stiffly. He did not meet Josephine’s gaze.
“Very good!” Terence exclaimed. “So you were paying attention. And I thought you were just daydreaming.”
“I never do, Terence.”
“More’s the pity. Daydreaming is a blissful occupation and very good for you, you know.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, never mind,” Terence said affably. “I suppose I do too much of it, eh?”
“Aye,” Tom said.
“What? Where were we, Tom? And what are you doing with that little snipping thing?”
&n
bsp; “Trimmin’ the lampwicks, sir. There, done. And now for the effects.”
Lord York watched as the two of them picked through various screens used to cast a tinted light upon the stage, and leaned a few against the wall. Jo seemed disinclined to talk at the moment. He could not think of a word to say himself and looked out at the vast, empty theater.
He would concentrate upon the business at hand and not think about anything amorous. Perhaps he would count the seats.
There were far too many. Covent Garden Theater held three thousand.
He could not quite imagine what the appreciative applause of six thousand hands sounded like to performers onstage. He supposed it was thrilling.
But if that same three thousand did not like the play, or the pantomime of the nymphs and satyrs, or the singing castaway, the house would erupt with hisses and catcalls and flying vegetables.
The thought was sobering. Everything had to be made ready by opening night, and made to the highest standards of theatrical craft. Lord York was not sorry he had covered the expenditure for McNeel’s materials.
Instead of counting the seats, he began to do sums in his head, something he had always found calming. Approximately three thousand people at such-and-such number of shillings per ticket equaled … quite a lot. Damnation. His thoughts were more jumbled than before. Having Jo so close—their chairs were almost touching—was much more interesting arithmetic. One plus one equaled … two happy hearts.
He fought to control his wayward thoughts once more, casting about in his mind for a surefire squasher of moony feelings. He hit upon accounting. There was nothing at all moony about accounting. The numbers added up or they did not.
He suspected that Terence’s numbers never did. Perhaps money was being wasted in one area that might be better spent in another. Certainly it was imperative that the players receive their back wages as soon as possible.
If he had to pay them as well from his own pocket, it was worth it. Despite Terence’s airy reassurances, a hambone once a week divided among the cast would not suffice.
Lisa Noeli Page 8
