by Nina Mason
“You had, indeed, Miss Georgianna,” the Captain put in. “The Cottager’s wife is a very pretty part, I assure you.”
“Cottager’s wife!” cried Lt. Churchill. “What are you talking of? That is the most trivial, paltry part in the whole of the play. To suggest that Miss Bennet waste her talents on such an insignificant role is an affront to the art of playacting.”
Georgie shrank from the compliment, highly as it gratified her.
“Why, as to that, my good friend,” the Captain returned, “I meant no disparagement to my sister-in-law. But we cannot have two Amelias, and must have a Cottager’s wife. If the part is too trifling, she will have more credit in making something of it. And if she is so fixed against it, let her take the Cottager’s speeches, too. For combining the parts could make no great difference to the story.”
“Certainly not,” Lt. Churchill objected. “You must oblige me, dear friend. Indeed you must. For Amelia is a character more difficult to be well represented than even Agatha. For the role requires the delicacy of feeling and manners only a gentlewoman possesses. Therefore, I firmly believe Miss Georgianna to be the best suited for the part.” Turning to Miss Raynalds with a look of anxious entreaty, he added, “You will yield, will you not? For the sake of the play?”
When the young lady hesitated to reply, her brother again interposed on her behalf. “Upon my word, Amelia should be a small, light, girlish figure. It is fit for my sister, and my sister only. She looks the part, and I am persuaded will do it admirably.”
Georgie, offended by her brother-in-law’s argument against her, wondered after his motives. Why was he so dead-set against her playing Amelia? And so determined that his sister have the role instead. Was he trying to keep her and the Lieutenant apart?—or was he attempting to recommend his sister to his friend?
Georgie looked suspiciously at Miss Raynalds across the table. Was she, in fact, in love with Lt. Churchill? Some of her previous effusions concerning his good looks and charm certainly seemed to validate the suspicion. Were they, in fact, courting in secret? Might that be the tidbit Louisa refused to share? The idea that it might be so activated a spasm of jealousy in Georgie’s breast.
“Do not be afraid of my wanting the character,” she said, vexed by the opposition to her playing Amelia. “For I quite detest the role.”
And so saying, she rose from the table and made to leave the room.
“Wait,” cried the Lieutenant, stopping her in her tracks. “If Miss Bennet will not play Amelia, I would rather be Frederick than Anhalt.”
“Who then, will we get to play Anhalt?” Louisa inquired with a frown of concern.
“Ask the curate, as you earlier suggested,” Lt. Churchill advised high-handedly.
“No,” cried Miss Raynalds. “If my playing Amelia alienates my friends, I have no wish to act the role. Let me be the Cottager and his wife, and let Miss Bennet play Amelia to Lieutenant Churchill’s Anhalt. And let that settle the matter, before more noses are put out of joint.”
A short silence followed her speech, after which her brother said resignedly, “Very well. If that is indeed your wish, my dear, I shall make no further arguments to the contrary.”
“It is indeed my wish,” his sister replied. “I give up the part to Miss Bennet most willingly, for I would probably do it very ill.”
“You are too modest, Miss Raynalds,” Georgie said, returning to the table with renewed enthusiasm. “For I am sure you would play the part creditably.”
“Thank you, Miss Bennet,” she replied with admirable poise. “You are very kind. But the part is yours.”
“In that case,” said the Lieutenant, grinning exultantly, “I shall keep the role of Anhalt.”
As pleased as Georgie was by the present arrangement, she could not think of Miss Raynalds without a twinge of guilt. Sure the girl’s countenance would reveal her true feelings, Georgie looked across the table. To her considerable relief, Miss Raynalds looked all serenity and satisfaction.
If she was the least bit jealous or resentful, she was a better actress than advertised.
Georgie, trying hard to repress the outward display of her joy, picked up the book when the Captain put it down. Flipping forward to Act Three, she skimmed the pages for the scene in which Amelia and Anhalt professed their love for each other.
Finding it, her heart beat faster as she read the heartfelt exchange. Might the Lieutenant have an ulterior motive for campaigning so hard for her to play Amelia? Did he perhaps mean to confess his true feelings through the words of the playwright?
Before she could fully turn her mind to the question, general discussion of the play resumed. Shortly thereafter, it was settled that Benedict would be given the choice between playing Count Cassel and Frederick, and Murphy would undertake the rejected role. It was further decided, as a consolation prize of sorts, that Miss Raynalds should read the play’s prologue and epilogue in addition to the roles of Cottager and Cottager’s wife.
* * * *
The first rehearsal took place that afternoon, after each actor had copied their scenes from the book of the play. Christian and Miss Bennet had chosen the drawing room for their practice of the scene in Act Three in which their characters declared their love for each other.
Christian, for one, was nervous. Not about his acting (he would only be reading the lines from his script, after all), but because the feelings Anhalt would confess to Amelia mirrored those he harbored for Miss Bennet. As himself, he could not declare his love openly, of course. To do so would be highly improper. And yet, he so dearly longed to confess the truth to her, even if only in the guise of a dull-witted clergyman.
Did Miss Bennet return his regard? He should not wish it. No indeed, he should not. It was wicked of him to desire her affection. And yet, damn his black heart, he did. Most ardently, as it happened.
“Are you ready to begin?”
“Yes, I think so.”
She looked exceptionally fetching in the pale blue frock she wore. The color brought out her eyes, dark hair, and pale skin. He trained his gaze on her plump, rosy mouth—a juicy strawberry begging to be tasted. It took strength and willpower, but he managed to move away, toward the doorway. “Amelia is alone when the scene begins ... so I’ll just step out and listen for my cue to enter.”
“All right.”
Christian stepped out and after a few anxious moments, she spoke her first line: “Why am I so uneasy; so peevish; who has offended me? I did not mean to come into this room. In the garden I intended to go. No, I will not. Yes, I will—just go, and look if my auriculas are still in blossom; and if the apple tree is grown which Mr. Anhalt planted. I feel very low-spirited; something must be the matter. Why do I cry? Am I not well?”
That was he cue, so he re-entered the drawing room.
“Ah!” she cried upon seeing him. “Good-morning, my dear sir—Mr. Anhalt, I meant to say. I beg pardon.”
“Never mind, Miss Wildenhaim,” he said in reply. “I don’t dislike to hear you call me as you did.”
“In earnest?”
He drew nearer where she stood by the fireplace. “Really. You have been crying. May I know the reason? The loss of your mother, still?”
“No … I have left off crying for her.”
“I beg pardon if I have come at an improper hour,” he said, “but I wait upon you by the commands of your father.”
“You are welcome at all hours. My father has more than once told me that he who forms my mind I should always consider as my greatest benefactor.” She looked down. “And my heart tells me the same.”
She spoke the words with such sincerity, Christian’s heart skipped a beat. “I think myself amply rewarded by the good opinion you have of me.”
“When I remember what trouble I have sometimes given you, I cannot be too grateful.”
“Oh! Heavens!,” he muttered to himself. Then, to her, he said, “I-I come from your father with a commission. If you please, let us sit down.” He moved toward a
pair of wingback chairs and motioned for her to take one. When they both were seated, he cleared his throat and said, “Count Cassel is arrived.”
“Yes, I know,” she replied, wringing her hands.
“Do you know for what reason?”
“He wishes to marry me.”
“Does he?” Hastily, he added, “But believe me, the Baron will not persuade you. No, I am sure he will not.”
“I know that.”
Christian (or, rather, Anhalt) licked his lips. “He wishes that I should ascertain whether you have an inclination …”
She looked at him with her lovely blue eyes. “For the Count?—or for matrimony in general?”
“For matrimony.”
“All things that I don’t know, and don’t understand, are quite indifferent to me.”
“For that very reason I am sent to you to explain the good and the bad of which matrimony is composed.”
She held his gaze for a long, tortuous moment before saying, “Then I beg first to be acquainted with the good.”
Christian drew a deep breath in preparation, for the next speech was rather long…as well as awkwardly intimate. “When two sympathetic hearts meet in the marriage state, matrimony may be called a happy life. When such a wedded pair finds thorns in their path, each will be eager, for the sake of the other, to tear them from the root. Where they have to mount hills, or wind a labyrinth, the most experienced will lead the way, and be a guide to his companion. Patience and love will accompany them in their journey, while melancholy and discord they leave far behind.” He took another breath. “Hand in hand they pass on from morning till evening, through their summer’s day, till the night of age draws on, and the sleep of death overtakes the one. The other, weeping and mourning, yet looks forward to the bright region where he shall meet his still surviving partner, among trees and flowers which themselves have planted, in fields of eternal verdure.”
Miss Bennet—or, rather, Amelia—wore a pained expression that tugged at his heartstrings, despite it being a play. “You may tell my father … I’ll marry.”
She got up and walked to the fireplace, turning her back to him. He rose too and followed, but kept a safe distance between them.
“This picture is pleasing,” he said, dreading the next few lines. “But I must beg you not to forget that there is another on the same subject. When convenience, and fair appearance joined to folly and ill-humor, forge the fetters of matrimony, they gall with their weight the married pair.” Overpowering regret threatened to strangle Christian as he forged onward, knowing the words described his future life with Miss Stubbs. “Discontented with each other; at variance in opinions, their mutual aversion increases with the years they live together. They contend most, where they should most unite; torment, where they should most soothe. In this rugged way, choked with the weeds of suspicion, jealousy, anger, and hatred, they take their daily journey, till one of these also sleep in death. The other then lifts up his dejected head, and calls out in acclamations of joy: ‘Oh, liberty! Dear liberty!’”
Fingering one of the trinkets on the mantelpiece, Miss Bennet said, “I will not marry.”
Christian took a step toward her. “You mean to say, you will not fall in love.”
“Oh no!” she cried. “I am already in love.”
“Are in love,” he exclaimed, his heart beating faster. “And with the Count?”
“I wish I was,” she replied dejectedly.
“Why so?”
“Because he would, perhaps, love me again.”
He stepped closer, his throat tight. “Who is there that would not?”
Turning suddenly, she met his eyes. “Would you?”
“I-I am out of the question.” The words were truer than she knew.
“No,” she said, drawing nearer. “You are the very person to whom I have put the question.”
He blinked at her. “What do you mean?”
“I am glad you don't understand me,” she said, lowering her gaze. “I was afraid I had spoken too plain.”
“Understand you!” He set his fingers under her chin and brought her eyes back to his. “As to that … I am not dull.”
“I know you are not,” she said, her eyes shimmering with tears. “And as you have for a long time instructed me, why should not I now begin to teach you?”
He furrowed his brow. “Teach me what?”
A slight smile bowed the corners of her mouth. “Whatever I know, and you don’t.”
Christian swallowed hard and moistened his lips. “There are some things I had rather never know.”
“Do you remember what I said when you began to teach me mathematics? I said I had rather not know it. But now I have learnt it gives me a great deal of pleasure and … perhaps, who can tell, but that I might teach something as pleasant to you, as resolving a problem is to me.”
“Woman herself is a problem.”
“And I’ll teach you to make her out.”
“You teach?”
“Why not? None but a woman can teach the science of herself: and though I own I am very young, a young woman may be as agreeable for a tutoress as an old one. I am sure I always learnt faster from you than from the old clergyman who taught me before you came.”
“This is nothing to the subject.”
“What is the subject?”
He hesitated. “Love.”
Coming up to him, she put her hands on his chest. “Come, then, teach it me. Teach it me as you taught me geography, languages, and other important things.”
He turned away. “Pshaw!”
“Ah! you won’t,” she said, sounding hurt. “You know you have already taught me that, and you won’t begin again.”
“You misconstrue … you misconceive everything I say or do,” he said with rising desperation. “The subject I came to you upon was marriage.”
She waited until he met her gaze before saying, with a curtsey, “A very proper subject from the man who has taught me love, and I accept the proposal.”
“Again you misconceive and confound me.”
“Aye, I see how it is,” she said with actual tears in her eyes. “You have no inclination to experience with me ‘the good part of matrimony:’ I am not the female with whom you would like to go ‘hand in hand up hills, and through labyrinths’—;with whom you would like to ‘root up thorns’; and with whom you would delight to plant lilies and roses.’ No, you had rather call out, ‘O liberty, dear liberty.’”
Her words, which hit too close to home, nearly undid him. “Why do you force from me, what it is villainous to own? I love you more than life! Oh, Georgianna! Had we lived in those golden times, which the poet’s picture, no one but you. But as the world is changed, your birth and fortune make our union impossible. To preserve the character, and more the feelings of an honest man, I would not marry you without the consent of your father. And could I, dare I, propose it to him?”
“You … said my name,” she said, eyes glittering.
He blinked at her in confusion. “I said what?”
“In your last speech, where you declared your love, you said Georgianna instead of Amelia.”
He swallowed hard. “Did I? I was unaware …”
* * * *
Georgie gave him a trembling smile as she gathered the nerve to solicit from him some reassurance of his regard for her. “Do the words you spoke apply to me in any measure? Do you, in fact, have feelings for me beyond friendship? You have said not, but I suspect otherwise…and now stand before you, ready to confess my own tender feelings for you.”
“Oh, Georgie,” he cried, clearly distressed. “You cannot know what agony your candor stirs in my breast.”
“But … I do not understand,” she said, searching his eyes. “Why should what I told you cause you anguish?”
He seemed to struggle within himself for several moments before he said, “Because I am not at liberty to act on your feelings … or my own, for that matter.”
“Pray, what prevent
s you from doing so?”
He turned his head away. “That is the difficult part to explain.”
“But please do explain it, Christian … or I shall drive myself mad endeavoring to guess the truth.”
Clearing his throat, he turned back to her, his countenance grave. “First, you must know how ashamed I am of the position in which I now find myself. If I could, I would choose … differently. Upon my soul, I would. But, alas …”
When he did not continue, she pressed him to do so. “Oh, do speak on, dear friend. Before I die of suspense.”
“Oh, Georgie.” In a sudden display of deep anguish, he covered his face with his hands. “I have been such a fool. Some years back, when out of my senses, I made a promise—a vow I deeply regret but cannot break without serious repercussions. Oh, Georgie, if only—”
“Georgie, my stars!” Louisa’s shocked cry shattered her sister’s last nerve. “What are you about?”
“We were only talking.” Georgie colored under her sister’s censorious glare.
Louisa drew nearer, holding up her candlestick to cast more light upon her sister’s features. Then, turning to Lt. Churchill, she said with undisguised rancor, “I have a mind to throw you out in the cold, you wicked man. And if you dare trifle with my sister again, you will leave me no choice but to do just that—regardless of what she or my husband might say in your defense. Now leave us, so that she and I might have a private word before we rejoin you in the parlor.”
The Lieutenant slunk away like a naughty schoolboy and, when he was safely out of earshot, Louisa vented her spleen upon her aberrant sibling. “What can you be thinking? Have I not made it clear that he is untrustworthy?”
“You have made nothing clear,” Georgie returned, fuming with indignation. “And until you do, I shall continue to act in a manner which will, in my own opinion, constitute my own felicity, without reference to you or your veiled insinuations.”
“You refuse, then, to heed my warnings?”
“You have given me no warnings,” Georgie cried in frustration. “Only a vague hint and a stupid book to read!”
