Carola Dunn (16 page)

 “I’ll think about it.”

 Denham stood up. “Well, I’m off.” Rather pink-cheeked, he looked down at his friend. “You know, marriage isn’t so bad. I don’t mean you ought to propose to Kitty, or Lady Anne or Lady Estella, but I hope one day you’ll find someone you can love as I love Lottie.”

 He left. Rusholme gazed into the depths of his glass, swirling the brandy as he mused. In the firelight, the tawny liquid was just the colour of Prudence’s hair. His fingers ached to caress those feathery, rosemary-scented curls.

 For all his many mistresses, he had never felt such a yearning before, never felt that one and only one could satisfy him. Nor had he ever felt so protective. He didn’t want Prudence to suffer from the scorn of the servants, the animosity of the ladies, the lecherous imaginings of the gentlemen.

 It was absurd. No matter what he did those attitudes existed already, because she was an actress and everyone knew actresses were lightskirts. The two words were practically synonymous.

 So he had no real reason to be discreet for her sake. However, David was right: To shelter a chère-amie under one’s parents’ roof was unconscionably bad ton. Although Prudence wasn’t yet his chère-amie, he’d continue to be discreet for his family’s sake.

 Restless and dissatisfied, Rusholme abandoned his half-full glass and went up to bed.

* * * *

 “Don’t fuss so, Sera,” Aimée exclaimed as they entered the gallery next afternoon. “After all, it’s not like if your precious earl can’t act worth a damn he’s going to be out on the street in the cold.” She gave an exaggerated shiver. The weather was still clear and frigid, with frost-flowers blooming on the bedroom window panes in the mornings. “Nor the gentry aren’t going to boo and hiss him off the stage.”

 “No,” Prudence admitted, “but how mortifying for him if he is excessively bad.”

 “How mortifying for us if a bloody flash cove turns out as good as us professionals! Anyways, first rehearsals are always a bungle. I’m sure to forget half my lines, even with all your help. Thank heaven it’s only the first act.”

 Lord Rusholme was already there, looking far less anxious than Prudence felt on his behalf. Talking to the Hardcastles, he smiled at her but did not come to greet her. A slight sense of pique mingled with her relief at not being singled out.

 At one end of the gallery, some of the furniture had been arranged for the first scene, a room in Mr. Hardcastle’s house. Its old-fashioned shabbiness was perfect for the purpose. Prudence wondered whether it could be carried down to the ballroom for the performance. Those gaudy gilt and royal-blue ballroom chairs would never do.

 “All right, we’re all here for the first scene,” said Mr. Hardcastle. “Tony, Miss Hardcastle, Miss Neville, you’ll enter stage right, so wait over there if you please.”

 Prudence and Aimée converged with Rusholme in the indicated corner.

 “You remember your cues?” Prudence whispered as the Hardcastles moved to the stage and began their bickering.

 “I believe so. And I practised hallooing when I was out riding this morning, much to my mount’s astonishment.”

 Prudence smiled and Aimée giggled. They fell silent, listening to Mr. Hardcastle enumerating his stepson Tony’s pranks.

 “‘It was but yesterday,’“ said the longsuffering squire, “‘he fastened my wig to the back of my chair, and when I went to make a bow I popped my bald head in Mrs. Frizzle’s face.’“

 Rusholme grinned, but he pulled a wry face when his everloving mother defended him by prating about the delicacy of his constitution. “‘I’m actually afraid of his lungs,’“ she said.

 “‘So am I,’“ said Hardcastle, “‘for sometimes he whoops like a speaking trumpet.’“

 “Halloo!” called Rusholme.

 “Louder, if you please, my...Mr. Lumpkin.”

 “
Halloo!
”

 “Louder still, and not so much as if you’re trying to attract attention, more sheer animal spirits.”

 “HALLOO!” bellowed the earl.

 Hardcastle sighed. “That will do for now. ‘Oh, there he goes.’“

 Tony strode onto the stage, on his way to the Three Pigeons. Rusholme’s superbly tailored morning clothes—buff pantaloons, blue coat, and snowy starched neckcloth—were scarcely suitable, but the natural arrogance of his demeanour was close enough to Tony’s bumptious swagger. He remembered his cues and his lines, and his voice carried well. However, Tony’s impertinent words to his mother emerged from Rusholme’s mouth in the politest of tones, and when he ‘hauled’ her away it looked more as if he was supporting her steps over a rough patch of ground.

 As Prudence had suspected, rudeness to a female was utterly unnatural to him. His natural acting ability held only as long as the part was not at odds with his own character.

 Hardcastle had them repeat the scene a couple of times, then sighed again and said, “No doubt it’ll improve with practice. Are you ready, Miss Hardcastle?”

 Aimée muddled her way through, her speeches erratic but her lively, teasing manner to her indulgent father perfect. Then Prudence joined her, to discuss their respective suitors. She was very much aware of Rusholme watching her, and when she called Tony a “pretty monster” she couldn’t help glancing at him with a smile. He grimaced at her.

 A moment later Constance Neville was describing her cousin Tony as “a good-natured creature at bottom.” Prudence managed not to look at Rusholme, but from the corner of her eye she saw him nodding vigorously. She almost laughed.

 Next came the tavern scene. The stage-hands shifted tables and chairs and took their places as Tony Lumpkin’s low drinking companions. Tony seated himself at the head of the table.

 Prudence knew Rusholme had taken the sheet of music of his song for one of his sisters to play for him upon the pianoforte, but she had not heard him try it. She was as surprised and delighted as the rest when she heard his resonant, tuneful baritone. As he finished the refrain of the third verse, “Toroddle, toroddle, toroll!” the players burst into spontaneous applause, adding their bravos to those of his alehouse friends.

 “Don’t tell poor Ben I said so,” Aimée said to Prudence, “but your earl sings a sight better.”

 “He’s not my earl,” Prudence said crossly, her pleasure spoilt. Tomorrow they were to rehearse Act II, and she’d have to pretend to flirt with Rusholme. Somehow she must persuade herself to regard him solely as Tony Lumpkin or she would never be able to do it.

Chapter 7

 “The gamekeeper says the lake’s frozen over, my lord,” Samuel announced, bringing a pot of fresh coffee into the breakfast room.

 “Hard enough for skating?” Rusholme asked.

 “Yes, my lord. He walked all round the edge and right across the middle.”

 “Splendid,” crowed Lady Estella. “I hope you have skates, Rusholme.”

 “Plenty. The lake—it’s more of a large pond, really—quite often freezes during my father’s Christmas house parties.”

 “I’ll go with you after breakfast to check that it truly is safe.”

 Rusholme cried off on the grounds of having a rehearsal. Though he was not at all sure he was progressing in Prudence’s affections, the play was proving useful for at least one of his purposes. Lady Estella had to be satisfied with the several other gentlemen who offered to escort her.

 “If your report is favourable,” he consoled her, “I shall certainly skate this afternoon.” So, undoubtedly, would a great many other people. There was safety in numbers.

 His breakfast finished, he turned his eager steps towards the Elizabethan gallery. Today Prudence had to flirt with him while he rebuffed her. He was looking forward to the switch, anticipating no little amusement.

 On the way, he was waylaid by his older nephews and nieces. They had heard about the ice.

 “And we want you to take us skating, Uncle Garth,” said one of the boys. “It’ll be much more fun than with our mamas and papas telling us to be careful all the time.”

 “We don’t mind if you bring that lady,” William added. “You know, the one who helped us pick holly; the one Sophie thought was a wood elf. She’s a Trojan.”

 “I rather doubt she’d be able to come,” Rusholme said with regret. Chatting with an actress met by chance in the presence of his sisters’ children had been bad enough. He could not actually invite her to join them.

 “Then you will take us?” they clamoured joyfully.

 Having trapped himself he gave in. “But sliding, not skating,” he said, remembering a great many painful falls when he learnt to skate. They would fall sliding, too, but with luck do themselves less damage.

 “All right. We’ll fetch our coats and boots.”

 “Not yet! I’ll take you for an hour before luncheon if you are all ready and waiting. I have to rehearse now.”

 “Is acting fun? Grandfather says we may watch you on Twelfth Night but Grandmama says we may not.”

 “I’ll see what I can do,” he promised.

 The rehearsal had already started when he reached the gallery. As Tony did not appear until near the end of the second act, the delay didn’t matter, but Hardcastle looked so relieved at Rusholme’s arrival that he resolved never to be late again. The manager must have feared he had deserted them. He had forced himself upon the poor man and it was up to him not to disrupt the company’s schedule.

 To his disappointment, Prudence was sitting between Mrs. and Miss Hardcastle, intent on Hastings and Marlow on stage. She gave no sign of noticing his arrival.

 Hardcastle returned to the scene, and Rusholme watched Prudence’s bright face as she laughed at the misunderstandings of the three men. She was beautiful, and the thought of her in another man’s arms was unbearable.

 Had she left a lover behind when she came to Easthaven? Had she bid him
adieu
or only
au revoir
? Or, worst of all, was she involved with one of her colleagues?

 Marlow and Hastings were both personable young men and competent actors, and she was Hastings’ beloved on stage. In fact, she had a scene alone with him before her scene with Tony. Rusholme didn’t want to watch it. He wished the children had delayed him longer.

 Prudence rose and moved with graceful dignity to take her place ready for her entrance. As she passed Rusholme, she nodded soberly and murmured, “Cousin Tony.”

 “Garth,” he whispered.

 With a tiny but determined shake of the head, she continued on her way.

 The scene was not as painful as Rusholme feared. Hastings met Constance Neville with outstretched arms, but she only clasped his hands briefly. The warmest words they exchanged were “My dear Hastings,” and “my dearest Constance.” Rusholme saw no sign of a consciousness of intimacy between them, and he didn’t think Prudence was a good enough actress to hide it if it existed.

 Actually, loath as he was to admit any inferiority in Prudence, Miss Aimée Orlando was a far better actress. In spite of her garbled speeches, Kate Hardcastle’s scene with the bashful Marlow was a delight.

 Then came the scene Rusholme had been waiting for. To mislead her aunt and guardian, Constance Neville pretended to acquiesce in Mrs. Hardcastle’s plan to marry her to her unwilling son. He protested mightily as she followed him on stage.

 “‘I tell you, Cousin Con, it won’t do!’“ Rusholme found it difficult not to grin, impossible to infuse his voice with the necessary petulance. “‘I beg you’ll keep your distance. I want no nearer relationship.’“

 He fled to the back of the stage, Prudence at his heels. While Hastings buttered up Mrs. Hardcastle at the front, Prudence laid her hand on Rusholme’s arm, smiled up at him, a fixed, unnatural smile, and batted her eyelashes. She looked as if she had something painful in her eye.

 “Stop,” called Hardcastle. “That won’t do, Miss Savage. You need a fan. Someone find a fan. My lord—Mr. Lumpkin, I mean— pray turn your back on her, fold your arms and scowl. No, just partway round, the audience must see your face. That’s better. Let’s take it again from your entrance.”

 The fan somewhat improved matters, but Prudence remained stiff and clearly ill at ease. She didn’t seem to know how to flirt, nor to have any desire to learn. Rusholme wanted to reassure her, to promise he’d not profit from the situation by taking unwanted liberties, to explain that his aim was to win her, not to force her.

 This was neither the time nor the place.

 “Once more,” Hardcastle ordered. “No, you still haven’t the way of it, Miss Savage. I suggest you apply to Miss Orlando for lessons in coquetry. All right, we’ll go on.”

 Mrs. Hardcastle called Tony and Constance to come and measure heights against each other. Hardcastle explained to Rusholme how to jerk his head back and to one side while Prudence cocked her head to the other side, to give the appearance of a sharp blow without actual contact. This they managed to his satisfaction.

 “‘Oh lud!’“ she cried, “‘he has almost cracked my head.’“ She clutched her head and stumbled forward in so realistic a fashion Rusholme was afraid for a moment he had really hurt her though he’d felt nothing.

 Turning, she peeked through her fingers at him, eyes a-sparkle. The uncomfortable flirtation over, she was once more enjoying herself. Satisfied, Rusholme exerted himself to respond with churlish sullenness to Mrs. Hardcastle’s reproaches.

 The women left the stage and Tony proceeded to vilify Constance to Hastings in thoroughly abusive terms. With Prudence watching and laughing at him, Rusholme let himself go and ended the act with a snatch of song to a burst of applause.

 “Not bad, my lord,” Hardcastle observed hopefully.

 Much as Rusholme wished to talk to Prudence, he had to rush off to keep his promise to his nieces and nephews. Scraped hands, bruised knees, and one bloody nose made him regret not having invited her. She would have known how to cope! However, he returned the children to the house with no limbs broken.

 After luncheon, with only a couple of hours left of midwinter’s short daylight, he went back to the frozen lake with most of the younger guests and a few of the older. Though an icy breeze blew fitfully from the northeast, the sun shone and a shrubbery of evergreen laurels and junipers sheltered the lake.