“Hathaway did before, and it will do for this conversation.”
“Did Birdwell send you to dress me down? I never thought I would live to see the day that you did errands for him."
Neville squatted at the edge of the stage. “By all that’s blue, Wiggsley, you are driving the actors quite mad with your indecision.”
Mr. Wiggsley raised both of his chins. “They fail to understand the struggle a writer has in finding exactly the right word to convey the meaning of the scene.”
“They have no concerns about a few words. They are concerned, however, that you are talking about changing the ending of the play when the opening is only hours away.”
“But I have had an inspiration!” He drove his forefinger into the air. “My muse is speaking to me. It must be heeded. If only I had an actor worthy of my work, so I could be certain these words are as inspired as I believe them to be. Then ...” He laughed with delight, and Priscilla wondered if his muse came from a bottle of something intoxicating, for the man acted foxed.
Neville began, “Birdwell will—”
“Not Birdwell, my friend. You.”
“Me?”
“Why not? You always were a far better actor than Birdwell could ever aspire to being. You walked across the stage as if it were a true room or street. You did not strut like a gelding with old dreams of grandeur.” Neville chuckled. “I hope you do not use that comparison in Birdwell’s hearing.”
‘The dolt would not understand the words.” Frustration seeped back into the playwright’s voice. Abruptly he brightened and motioned to his right toward the chair in the middle of the stage. “If you would stand there, young lady, and have the lad step off the stage, and, Hathaway, you join the boy, and—” He handed the pages to Priscilla. “If you would start at the top of the page...”
“Are you asking Priscilla and her son to perform on the stage?” Neville asked as he stood. “Wiggsley, Lady Priscilla is not an actress.”
“Lady?” Mr. Wiggsley snatched back the pages and held them close to his chest as if he feared she would try to take them. “Forgive me, my lady. I had no idea. Unlike Birdwell, Hathaway is not one who seeks the patronage of—” He flushed. “I should not have said that, either.”
Priscilla put her hand on Neville’s arm and nodded toward the playwright. Softly she said, “Do ease his embarrassment, Neville. He is flustered, I daresay, and will not be able to write a single worthwhile word.”
“Shall we begin anew?” Neville asked. “Wiggsley, this is my fiancee, Lady Priscilla Flanders, and her son, Lord Emberson. Pris, allow me to introduce Wendell Wiggsley, the author of the play you watched being practiced.”
Smiling as Mr. Wiggsley bubbled with excitement at the idea she had been viewing his work, Priscilla nodded when he asked if she planned to attend the opening that evening. She started to ask him a question about the scene she had watched, but raised voices from backstage intruded.
“No! I said no, and I shall not have my mind changed.” Mr. Birdwell obviously did not care how far his voice carried.
“But, Mr. Birdwell—”
Neville whispered, “That is Reeve.”
Priscilla nodded as the actor shouted, “I have had more than enough of your stupid comments. It is time you remembered your position, or I shall find someone else to take it.”
Mr. Birdwell charged onto the stage, faltered for only a moment when he saw them looking at him, then continued toward the opposite side. As if on cue, just as he vanished, Reeve burst from behind the curtain. His face became an alarming crimson, but he trotted after the actor, calling his name. Seconds later, Mr. Birdwell reappeared. This time, he walked toward the playwright.
“Wiggsley, where are the final pages of the play? I have to memorize those lines and practice them with my fellow actors to be prepared for this evening.” He pressed his hand over his heart and struck a pose. “I must consider my stature in the Prince of Wales Theater, and I shall not have you ruin it with your incompetence.”
“Nor shall I have my fine words destroyed by an inept actor.” Mr. Wiggsley’s face was red again, but this time with anger. He pounded his fist on the edge of the stage, and his chins jutted toward Mr. Birdwell.
When Reeve bumbled into the table set by the overturned chair, Mr. Birdwell fired a scowl at him as fierce as the one the playwright was aiming at him. Mr. Wiggsley continued to rant at the actor, telling him that he was not submerging his own personality into the part, and Mr. Birdwell ignored him as he vented his own spleen on his servant, who could not hide that he wished he had stayed backstage.
“Neville,” Priscilla said quietly, “I doubt there is anything we can add to this conversation.”
“I agree.” He offered his arm and motioned for Isaac to lead the way off the stage. “Let us hope that they save a bit of that emotion for tonight. If they don’t, the play will be rather flat.”
“And if they don’t, it may be more interesting than we imagined.”
“You sound as if you expect them to come to blows.” He glanced back at the men, who were still blustering at each other. “And you might not be wrong.
Chapter Two
The watch was calling the hour as Neville entered the Flanders’ house on Bedford Square to escort Priscilla and her older daughter, Daphne, back to the Prince of Wales Theater for the evening’s entertainment. A soft light reflected off the yellow walls and flowed down the curving staircase to the black and white tile floor. The cast-iron railing shone from much attention, and not a speck of dust marred the statue, set in a niche, of a young boy and a pair of spaniels.
From the lower level came the scent of roasted meat and spices. Mrs. Dunham, the family’s cook, must have been making pies. He hoped there would be a piece waiting when they returned after the evening’s outing. No one’s cherry pie was as delicious as Mrs. Dunham’s.
All thoughts of pie vanished from his head as two shadows came down the stairs like heralds announcing the arrival of a medieval lord. He smiled as Priscilla came into view. Her blue gown swished silken secrets when she turned and said something too low for him to hear. The light danced on her hair, highlighting each golden strand peeking from beneath the turban made of the same fabric as her gown. Her cheeks were rosy with excitement as she hurried down
the stairs to where he stood. When she reached him, he cupped her chin and gazed down into her sapphire eyes. He wanted to sweep her to him and kiss her until she was breathless in his arms. He wanted to lose himself in the sweet fires glowing in her eyes. He wanted her. He gently brushed her lips with the kiss he must content himself with for now.
Three weeks from now, they would be wed. Three weeks to restrain the craving that encompassed him each time he beheld her, that consumed him each time he held her. Three accursed weeks until their wedding! Never, not even when he had been a lad watching the pocket of his prey in order to lift a purse, had such a short time seemed so eternally long.
“Can I come down now, Mama?” Daphne called from the top of the stairs.
Priscilla drew slowly out of his arms, and he was pleased to see reluctance in her eyes. He wanted her to want him, too. Her fingers caressed his cheek before he turned his mouth to kiss them.
“Whenever you wish,” she replied to her daughter. Her voice was unsteady, and he resisted smiling at the thought that even such a chaste salute could undo her.
Neville turned his attention to the stairs. When Priscilla took his hand, her fingers trembling, he wondered if he was giving his kiss too much credit. She was obviously anxious about her daughter’s first evening at the theater as part of the ton.
He was tempted to tell her not to worry, but he knew better than to waste his breath. Although Priscilla was a remarkable woman, unlike others he had met, tonight she resembled every mama who was firing-off her daughter. She had taught her daughter well, and now she must trust Daphne to put those lessons to work.
Daphne looked lovely as she came down the stairs. Her hair, the same gold as
her mother’s, curled around her face and was twisted with pearls to match the ones she wore around her throat. Her white gown was simple, as befit a young miss, and she carried a lacy fan in her gloved fingers. She was every inch a young woman embarking on her first Season, but Neville could not keep from thinking of how she had appeared only a few years ago when she had not been any older than Isaac. That time had flown was a cliche. Yet it was true. Now the little girl who had once popped out from behind furniture to scare him was a woman.
Priscilla’s hand trembled again. Very little unsetded Priscilla, yet she was in a flutter with her daughter setting off onto her first Season. He squeezed her fingers gently, and she smiled at him as a footman held out a dark blue silk cloak to her.
“Thank you, Juster,” she said. When Neville draped it over her, his fingers stroking her shoulders, she added, “And thank you, Neville.”
Juster smiled as he opened the door for them. Neville noticed how that smile broadened when the footman looked at Daphne. The young man had suffered a calf-love for Daphne over the past few months, but he wisely knew better than to act on it when Daphne treated him with the same warmth she did her brother.
Turning to Daphne, Neville bowed and said, “Allow me, Miss Flanders.” He offered his arm. “I trust you will grant this old man a boon as you go forth to win the heart of each young man you encounter.”
She giggled, and, for a moment, the little girl had returned. “Oh, Uncle Neville, you are so silly!”
“Am I?” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “Didn’t you know that your
mother had men fading over themselves to get her attention at her very first outing during her first Season? They made quite a pile at her feet.” He raised his hand slowly until it was even with Daphne’s eyes. “This high, I do believe, as they strove to be the first to gain the pleasure of her company.”
“Is that true?” Her eyes were wide as she looked at her mother. “Is that really true, Mama?”
Priscilla laughed as she put her hand on Neville’s other arm after he and her daughter had stepped through the door. “After all these years, you should be accustomed to how Neville enjoys exaggerating. At my very first outing, I daresay I did not speak two words and not many more were spoken to me.”
“Because you were already in love with Papa?” Daphne giggled again as they paused in front of an elegant closed carriage. “No wonder Aunt Cordelia laments even now that you did not give yourself a chance to find an appropriate husband among the
ton.”
“You should not heed your great-aunt on such subjects,” Neville said as he handed Daphne into the carriage. “As you know quite well, Aunt Cordelia is quite prejudiced against the choices your mother has made, both then and now.”
With a mock frown because her aunt still was not accepting of him using the name the rest of the family used to address her, Priscilla said, “That is not a matter I prefer to discuss on the walkway, Neville.” He bowed again and held out his hand to her. When she took it, he had to fight his yearning to tug her to him instead of helping her up into the carriage. Never had three short weeks seemed so long.
He kept his groan silent while she stepped in. Motioning to his coachee, Stuttman, he climbed into the carriage. He received only a regretful smile from
Priscilla before she turned to her daughter sitting beside her. With no other choice, he sat on the backward facing seat and listened as Daphne pelted her mother with dozens of questions. Priscilla’s calm, gentle answers suggested she had responded to her daughter’s uncertainty more than once already tonight.
He leaned one elbow on the window frame and watched as the carriage turned away from the garden in the center of the square. Traffic was busy on Charlotte Street, and all of it seemed to be going in the direction of Drury Lane. He wondered how many of these people were bound to see Wiggsley’s play tonight.
Blast! Both the playwright and Birdwell should have known enough to hold their animosity in check while in Priscilla’s company. He frowned. Birdwell never thought of anyone beyond himself, but Wiggsley usually had the good sense to recall his manners. The playwright must be more concerned than usual about the reception to his work this evening. Was this Wiggsley’s last chance to prove he still could create the magic of his earlier work?
“Do you see what a bother you men create?” Priscilla asked, drawing his attention back to her and Daphne.
“And what bother is that?” he asked.
His voice must have revealed his thoughts were not on Daphne’s evening, because Priscilla’s smile faded as her eyes narrowed. Daphne’s expression did not change. Blast! Priscilla was becoming too privy to his thoughts. There were times when he appreciated her guessing what he was thinking before he spoke, but at other times, her insight was inconvenient.
“Oh, Uncle Neville,” said Daphne, “Mama was telling me not to fret so much either at the theater
or at the gathering afterward. She says she suspects everyone is equally nervous tonight.”
He leaned forward to rest his arms on his knees. “I suspect she is right. However, you have no need to worry, other than to make sure you don’t step on any of those hearts being tossed at your feet.”
Her nose wrinkled. “What a disgusting image!” Neville laughed when Priscilla arched her brows. He understood what she meant by that, because he had seen that expression frequently. She wore it when she did not wish to give voice to her thoughts of how ridiculous things around them were.
By the time they reached Drury Lane, Daphne seemed to be a bit more sure of herself. Neville considered mentioning that she needed only to behave as she customarily did, but decided he should follow Priscilla’s lead and wisely refrain. Anything he said might unsettle Daphne further.
“We are here!” Daphne crowed, then clapped her gloved hand over her mouth. “Sorry, Mama.”
“It is acceptable to be excited.” Priscilla tucked a curl behind Daphne’s ear. “You need to curb your reactions around others, but you have no need to impress Neville and me. We know you well already.”
“And know that I am a complete block,” she whispered past her fingers.
“Nonsense! We know you are excited about your Season, and if you do not show it to us, you will explode.”
“Now that is a disgusting image,” Neville said as the carriage slowed.
Daphne giggled, then tightened her hand over her mouth. She did not lower it until Neville had stepped out of the carriage and offered his hand to assist her out. As soon as he released it, she clasped her fingers
so tightly together he was surprised he did not hear her knuckles creak.
The Prince of Wales Theater was bright with lanterns hung from the columns along the front. This was one of the smaller theaters, but he had always enjoyed working here. There was an intimacy between the actors and the audience that he had not experienced in other theaters. People were gathered between the columns, both the Polite World, which was busy sharing the latest on dits, and, Neville noted, those who sought any opportunity to relieve the rich of some of their wealth. He fired a scowl at a ragged lad reaching toward Priscilla’s bag. The lad scurried back into the crowd, seeking a less observant victim.
“I think going inside would be wise,” Priscilla said quietly, and he guessed she had taken note of the boy, too.
“Very wise.” He led the way through the heavy doors and into the crowded lobby.
The carpet was well-worn in places, and there was a scent of damp that suggested the roof had leaked. Yet he could smell the lamps burning in preparation for the rising curtain and the tea being brewed so that the audience might have refreshments during the evening. He put his hand on the narrow banister that curved up toward the floors above, where access could be had to the boxes.
“You miss it, don’t you?” asked Priscilla quietly as they followed others up the stairs.
“Yes, although it is ludicrous to do so. My life when I was working here was filled with uncert
ainties, the most dire one being if I would eat that day. I have not had to worry about that since this title was left to me.”
She clasped his arm, her fingers stroking his sleeve. “Neville, you do not need to dissemble with me. I
know you enjoyed the excitement of such a life, which must have seemed wondrous to you at that time.”
“Yes, it was far better than trying to stay one step ahead of the watch.”
“You should have Mr. Wiggsley write about your adventures.”
“So you could know every detail?” He kept his smile in place, but he was eager to hear her answer. Priscilla never had interrogated him about his past, even though she must be as curious as others were. As a parson’s wife, she had seen the darker sides of poverty. She still might be disconcerted by some of the experiences he had had, and he did not want to distress her. Priscilla had a tendency to want to heal everyone’s pain. Even though he had come to terms with his past years ago, he was unsure if Priscilla would believe that, for she had mentioned more than once how she would never wish that her son would have to face the challenges Neville had.
‘The French say that truth is far more improbable than any tale one could devise,” she said.
“Quite true, Pris.” He drew back a thick red drapery. “And it also quite true that we have reached our box.”
Priscilla smiled as she looked around the box. The carpet and the wall coverings were as simple and worn as the rest of the theater, but the quartet of chairs appeared comfortable. They would have a view of the whole stage, but were not so far away that they would be unable to see the expressions on the actors’ faces.
The Wedding Caper Page 2
