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Restoration

Page 13

by Deborah Chester

“Audition me in front of the company,” he said. “Let them judge my ability to perform.”

  Will put his hand on the banister but paused. From downstairs came a cry: “Will! There you are at last. The most devastating thing has happened.”

  “I know, Hal. One moment,” said Will. He glanced at Noel. “Tell me this. You are so very desperate for us to do this play. Is it a wager that motivates you?”

  Noel grimaced. “Something a little more complicated than that.”

  “Political? Are you an intriguer? Someone from court—”

  “Will!” came the shout. “Come at once.”

  “Please,” said Noel. “I can’t answer your questions. Just believe that it’s very important that the play go on tonight. All I’m asking for is that you perform it. If you need me to carry a role. I’ll do it. Any role. I’m not trying to be a star here. I just—”

  “Will!”

  “I must go,” said Will. He stared at Noel a moment longer, then frowned and shook his head. “It won’t do. I’m sorry, but no.”

  “Wait,” said Noel, but Will headed down the stairs without looking back.

  Chapter 10

  Before he could figure out what he should do next, a warm pulse on his wrist caught his attention. Quickly, Noel retreated to his room and shut the door.

  “LOC, activate,” he said. “What is it?”

  “Response to prior scanning request,” intoned the LOC.

  “Yes, yes? What?”

  “Leon’s LOC has activated.”

  Noel sucked in a surprised breath. “What? Repeat!”

  “Leon’s LOC has activated.”

  “Just now?”

  “Activity has been running for fourteen minutes, twenty-five seconds and—”

  “Stop,” said Noel. He ran his fingers through his hair and paced the floor, trying to take it in. Leon was here after all, somewhere in this city. Excitement filled Noel. There was a chance now, a good chance of success…and return.

  With a grin, he said, “Scan for coordinates. Can you pinpoint his location?”

  “Affirmative.”

  Noel waited until he realized his LOC wasn’t going to supply the answer automatically. In exasperation he thumped it. The technicians had either goofed on prep, or something had shaken loose during travel. The LOC had a pyramid memory base. It should be able to make small basic leaps of logic in spite of not having true AI programming.

  A finger of worry touched him. Thus far, nothing had worked as it should. He should have traveled to 1697, not 1666. He should have connected with Leon immediately upon his arrival. He should have still been wearing both LOCs. His metabolism should not be affected this seriously. His LOC should work smoothly within its programming parameters. If all these glitches meant he was trapped in time again, he didn’t think he could bear it.

  Don’t think about it, he told himself.

  “And?” he said impatiently, prompting his LOC. “You say you know where Leon is? Tell me!”

  “Latitude—”

  “Stop! Translate map coordinates into a street address, the name of a building. Something I can find.”

  The LOC hummed a moment, its pulsing blue light as regular as his heartbeat. “Whitehall.”

  Again he waited for additional information, but his LOC merely pulsed in silence. Noel rolled his eyes.

  “Whitehall?” he repeated. “Anything you want to add to that?”

  “I am not programmed to desire—”

  “Stop. Supply explanation of Whitehall.”

  “Complete or selected?”

  “What do you think? Selected. Pertinent to this date only.”

  “Affirmative. Whitehall is London residence of King Charles—”

  A knock on the door startled Noel.

  “Deactivate,” he said hastily, and the LOC shut down just as the door opened.

  Will stood there, frowning and looking ill at ease. “Talking to yourself, Mr. Kedran?”

  “Call me Noel. And, uh, no. I was practicing some lines.”

  Will nodded. He scuffed the floor with his shoe and cleared his throat. “We’ve discussed it. The others want the performance to go on.”

  Noel laughed aloud and flung up his hands. “Yes!”

  “After the funeral, would you be willing to join us in a small capacity?”

  Noel forced himself to look more serious, but he couldn’t hide the eagerness from his voice as he said, “I told you I’d be happy to play any part. I’ll even shift scenery. Whatever, if you’ll play for the king.”

  Will sighed. “I mentioned your humility to the others, and that pleased them. I…Hal and Jack are working on shifting the parts around. It will take a prodigious amount of rehearsal to straighten it out. I fear we won’t do as well as—”

  “It will work,” said Noel, rubbing his hands together. “We’ll make it work. Tell me what I’m to do and I’ll get started while, um, while you’re at the funeral.”

  Will pursed his lips and stared at the floor. After a moment, he asked, “Will you come downstairs and meet the others?”

  Noel hurried out the door. “Of course.”

  Will followed more slowly, and Noel had to wait at the head of the stairs for him to catch up.

  “Tell me,” said Noel. “Will we be performing at Whitehall tonight?”

  “No, Clarendon House. We’re expected there midafternoon. To set up our props and so forth.”

  Frustration touched Noel. He couldn’t go after Leon until he had this play business straightened out. “Right,” he said with false briskness. “That sounds good to me.”

  He started down the stairs, but Will caught his arm. “You shouldn’t be so eager, sir.”

  “Why not? I told you I’m anxious for a job.”

  “We weren’t going to require you to act,” said Will nervously, “but our company has thinned somewhat. Two other players left in the night. I—”

  Noel smiled at him. “Don’t worry, Will. I’ll do whatever is necessary.”

  “Will!” called a man, his voice projecting effortlessly. “Stop dawdling up there. Does he agree or not?”

  “He agrees,” said Will unhappily. “But I haven’t explained everything yet—”

  “Hah!” The man advanced halfway up the narrow stairs to meet Noel. They shook hands, and Noel sized up the actor in a glance. Stalwart, with heavy shoulders and a stomach just beginning to bulge into a paunch, Jack Stewart looked to be about Noel’s own age. He had long fiery red hair and blue eyes framed with long lashes. He wore a brilliant green coat that reached almost to his knees, and lace foamed at his wrists and throat. Ribbons were tied in enormous bows upon his shoes, and he wore pale silk stockings over muscular calves.

  He examined Noel a long while, staring openly, and made him turn around. “Hmm,” he said at last while two more actors appeared from the taproom to watch. “A bit tall, but slender enough. What think you on it?”

  “Beardless,” said one.

  “Nothing to attract a king’s fancy,” said the other.

  “But by candlelight,” insisted Jack, “and at a distance on the stage? Draped and rouged—”

  “Wait a minute,” said Noel, starting to frown.

  The elder of the two sighed and shook his head. “Those dratted boys. They could have stayed.”

  “Yes, yes, and we should have hired Sarah Coxley last summer when we had the chance instead of listening to old-fashioned Arthur,” retorted Jack.

  “Hold it,” said Noel. “Are you trying to tell me that I’ll be—”

  Jack stepped past him and held out his hand. “Hal, give me your wig.”

  The old man, raddled about the jowls and red nosed from years of drink, blinked in affront and grasped his lapels. Puffing out his narrow chest, he said, “My wig? Poppycock! I shall do no such thing!”

  “Stop being such an old blow-bag,” said his companion. Without further ado, he hooked his fingers in Hal’s luxurious periwig and yanked it off.

  Hal’s bald,
pointy head was liver-spotted and he had jug ears. He gasped and made an unsuccessful grab for his property. “Damn you, Darcy! You popinjay! You shameless little scoundrel! Give back my—”

  Blond and impish, Darcy danced just beyond his reach and tossed the wig to Jack, who plopped it on Noel’s head.

  “There!” he said. “That’s more the fashion. What think you, Darcy?”

  The wig was hot and smelly. Its curls lay heavy upon Noel’s shoulders. He hated it immediately and wanted to pull it off and throw it back at its outraged owner.

  “Zounds, yes,” said Darcy, circling him. “’Twill do very nicely. Provided he will take a more demure stance…”

  “You!” said Jack, snapping his fingers imperiously at Noel. “I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Kedran.”

  “Let us see you stand softer. Can you curtsy? Have you any artistry with a fan? Never mind. We can teach you the rudiments of that. Do you know what to do with your hands?”

  Noel’s hands curled into fists. Anger was pounding in his throat. He felt insulted and embarrassed. “You want me to play a woman,” he said.

  “Yes, of course. The role of Portia. Without the boys there’s no one else,” said Jack.

  Noel rolled his eyes and barely held back the unwise retort on his lips. Passing himself off as a Shakespearean actor was one thing. Going out in public as a Shakespearean actor in drag was another. He opened his mouth to protest.

  “I told you it won’t work,” said Will. “He’s too old.”

  “But comely enough in the face,” murmured Hal thoughtfully. The old actor seemed to have forgotten his anger and was gazing at Noel steadfastly.

  Noel glared at the old man with fresh hostility. “Not that comely.”

  Jack threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Gad, sir, don’t take affront and wave your codpiece at us. We’ve all played women in our day.” He laughed again. “Our younger days, admittedly. We’d put Will in the part, but he’s too gawky. Now will you show us a more graceful deportment, um, Kedran, or do you want a part at all?”

  Noel swallowed hard, still seething. He had nothing against women, naturally, but he’d never dreamed this would happen. Why couldn’t a woman play the part? Why did they all have to be men? He thought about being painted up and stuffed into a long gown, and his insides seemed to dry up and wither.

  But Jack’s question was no bluff. The blue eyes were steely, and as Noel met them he knew this was his one chance. He cleared his throat self-consciously, and regretted his bravado words to Will about doing anything in order to get a part.

  Focusing his gaze beyond them, and telling himself his manhood wasn’t at stake, Noel forced his stiff lips into a simpering smile, batted his eyes, and minced his way across the room.

  Darcy fell into gales of laughter. Will’s hesitant chuckle joined in. Noel stopped and tossed back his long curls.

  Even Jack was smiling, but he shook his head. “This isn’t Taming of the Shrew,” he said. “Swing your hips like that and the king will forget he’s watching a tragedy tonight.”

  “Yeah, right,” muttered Noel, certain his face was red again. Even the tips of his ears felt hot. “It’s a small but serious role. I know Portia has to kill herself and all that.”

  Hal was still staring at him far too fixedly. Noel glared back. Hal winked at him and Noel jumped as though he’d been branded with a poker.

  He pulled off the wig. “I can do it,” he said. “I gave Will my word I’d do my best, and I’ll keep it.”

  “Well?” said Will resignedly. “Darcy?”

  The blond actor was still laughing. He nodded and walked away with a friendly little salute to Noel.

  “Hal?”

  Hal’s mouth stretched into a lascivious grin. “Of a certainty.”

  “Jack?”

  The titian-haired actor raised his brows. “He’s no worse than Timothy was. That boy was a beauty but he couldn’t act worth a tinker’s dam. I’m willing to risk it.”

  “But before the king!” said Will worriedly.

  Noel opened his mouth, but neither man was paying any attention to him.

  “We could write out the part of Portia altogether. Simply concentrate on the battle scenes. We’re shorthanded and well you know it.”

  “Aye, but Portia is the conscience of Brutus. We’d better avoid the battle scenes. Too hard to stage in someone’s house.”

  “But I think it—”

  “We’ve spent our careers working for this chance,” said Jack angrily. “And I for one don’t intend to throw it away just because you’ve got a case of the collywobbles.”

  “Arthur’s death deserves more respect than to be called—”

  “Nonsense! The old man was past his prime, and you know it.” Jack pulled a strop razor from his pocket. “I say we hire this fellow, and the others agree. You’re outvoted. Will. You may as well face it and get on with the things to be done.”

  Scowling, Will sent Noel an unhappy glance and shrugged. “It seems to be settled.”

  “Thanks,” said Noel. “I think.”

  Jack turned to Noel and handed him the razor. “Welcome to the company, Kedran. Go and shave your chest.”

  Noel took the razor in puzzlement. “I…” He caught on, and his face flamed. “Right.”

  Jack’s laughter roared forth, and he clapped Noel on the shoulder. “Good man! Go and have a dig around in the costume trunk for anything that will fit. Mind, though, you stay out of Hal’s way.”

  Noel felt as though he’d been scalded. “I figured that out already.”

  “He’s prodigiously quick with a pinch.”

  “And I’m prodigiously quick with a left hook,” said Noel.

  Tucking the wig under his arm, he hurried away with what remained of his dignity, Jack’s laughter roaring behind him.

  Chapter 11

  At three in the afternoon, they set out from the Horse and Crown in a pair of ponderous wagons laden with props, trunks of costuming, and the actors themselves. The sun was blinding; the air still and dusty. Road traffic clipped past them, stirring up choking clouds of dust that left them coughing and slapping their clothes.

  Noel’s part in the play happened to be one of those left out of his LOC’s condensed version. Wedged into a back corner of the lead wagon, his tailbone feeling every bump and rut in the road, Noel tipped his hat low over his face and surreptitiously studied a dog-eared script, mumbling his lines beneath his breath in an effort to memorize them as quickly as possible.

  The skinny blond actor named Darcy kicked his foot and startled him into looking up. “I thought you knew this play backwards and forwards,” he said.

  Noel tipped the script into his pocket and glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed. Jack and two other men lolled on top of the trunks at the front of the wagon behind the driver. They were chatting and appeared to have missed Darcy’s remark.

  “Nerves,” said Noel with an insincere smile. “You know how it is.”

  “Zounds, yes. I remember my first speaking part. Years ago. How many we shall not say.” Darcy cleared his throat and smiled. “I was a mere stripling and I had to play the wife of some sort of ruffian. My voice was changing, and every time it went deep I got a prodigious good laugh from the crowd. The trouble was, we were doing a drama, not a comedy. The director couldn’t discharge me fast enough.”

  He paused a moment as though waiting for Noel to comment. When Noel said nothing, Darcy took off his plumed hat and waved it to cool his face. “’Tis devilish hot. On days like this I thank God I’m not a ditch digger. Arthur knew the Bard himself, you know.”

  The non sequitur caught Noel’s wandering attention. “What?”

  “Amazing, isn’t it? He actually met the great man when he was a boy.”

  “Uh, Shakespeare?”

  “Of course, Shakespeare. For all of Wycherley’s popularity, there’s none yet who can hold a candle to the Bard. And Arthur claimed he even worked for the man, a
lthough none of us ever quite believed that tale.”

  Thanks to his LOC, Noel knew that Tuptree had been born five years after Shakespeare died. He said nothing, however.

  Darcy continued, “That’s why we gave old Arthur so much respect, God rest his soul.”

  “I thought it was because he was such a favorite at court.”

  Darcy shrugged and crammed his hat back on. His green eyes grew dreamy. “To be favorite to the king…egad, think of it! To give a performance such as would have the courtiers tossing coins and jewels at me. To bow to the king and actually be allowed to kiss the hand of the queen. I tell you, Noel, I’ve dreamed of this night all my life. When I was at Drury Lane I used to hold my breath before going on, praying the king would be there.”

  “Was he?”

  “No. Still in exile in those years. We’ve all had our experience with exile, haven’t we? Or were your relatives Roundheads?”

  Noel blinked. “Uh, no.”

  Darcy scowled. “Those damned Puritans were worse than the plague, closing down theater after theater. I spent my best years, my rising years, on the Continent, scrounging along the provincial circuit.”

  He paused a moment, then added casually, “As did you, I hear.”

  Noel tensed, but took care not to let Darcy see it. So all this casual chatter was merely a cover for some serious probing. Noel wondered who had put Darcy up to it, not that it mattered. Whatever he answered would get round to all of them.

  “As did you?” repeated Darcy.

  Noel cleared his throat. “Not for long.”

  “Shall we reminisce? Those drafty little halls in—”

  “We could compare flea-ridden inns all day long,” said Noel sharply. “And if we haven’t been to the same places, what does that prove?”

  Darcy smiled as though confirming something to himself and glanced at the wagon behind them, where Will and most of the others rode with the props. “Frankly, I don’t give a fig for whether you’re what you claim to be or whether you’re a courtier doing this on a dare, as Will thinks.”

  Noel’s mouth tightened. “Nothing I say convinces him.”

  “Of course not. You lie very badly, my friend.”

 

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