Carola Dunn (21 page)

 “Not Neville? Dash it, I daresay it’s not. As for the rest, I shouldn’t worry, my boy.” He patted his son’s arm encouragingly. “Don’t imagine she’ll take exception to a fine, well-set-up young fellow like you.”

 Rusholme was not so certain. Not that he thought Prudence had any objection to his person—he’d had too many hints to the contrary. But he knew the marchioness’s resistance was by no means conquered, not to mention his sisters’ when they found out. Though he was quite prepared to defy them, Prudence might well refuse him rather than set him at odds with his family.

* * * *

 The estate carpenter finished the stage in the ballroom just in time for the dress rehearsal. Unfortunately, no one had thought to check the curtains in advance. Stored in an attic since Lord Easthaven’s previous theatrical Christmas, they were found upon hanging to have provided a feast for moths. Every maid in the mansion capable of wielding a needle was set to darning and patching.

 The dress rehearsal proceeded without a curtain. To everyone’s dismay, the marquis came to watch. Worse, in the middle of the second act the marchioness joined him.

 Aimée forgot every other line. Rusholme’s vigorous baritone emerged as a cross between a squawk and a croak. The stagehands put a chair in the wrong place and Marlow stubbed his toe on it, whereupon he hopped around the stage loudly damning them. Mrs. Hardcastle’s cap and wig slid down over her nose when her son hauled her off-stage. And Prudence was so disconcerted to be flirting with Rusholme under his parents’ gaze that she poked him in the eye with her fan.

 Squinting at her through involuntary tears, he whispered with a wry smile, “The way things are going, you might as well stab me to the heart and put me out of my misery.”

 “They say a bad dress rehearsal means a good performance,” she whispered back, making him miss his cue.

 When at last they stumbled through to the end, the cast found a lavish afternoon tea set for them in the circular, pillared anteroom.

 “Knew you’d need something to cheer you up,” the marquis explained jovially, undeterred by the prospect of disaster.

 The marchioness, in lilac with cherry-red ribbons, seated herself behind the tea-table. Rusholme introduced each of the players to his parents. Prudence was greatly taken aback when Lady Easthaven coolly asked her to help pour the tea. Having presided over her father’s tea-table for years, and taught the correct etiquette to more than one small girl, Prudence had no difficulty—but suppose her ladyship had asked Aimée!

 They made polite conversation about the weather, Christmas traditions, such of the countryside round about as Prudence had seen. Prudence felt oddly as if she were being interviewed for a position, though Lady Easthaven asked no searching questions about her abilities upon the pianoforte, her knowledge of French, or the proper use of the globes. She wondered whether Rusholme had spoken of her intention to return to governessing. Perhaps the marchioness would recommend her to a friend, or even one of her daughters.

 If Lady Julia or Lady Maria employed her, she’d see Rusholme now and then. What more could she wish for?

 The last cup of tea was poured and drunk, the last biscuit and slice of cake consumed. Still coolly gracious, the marchioness thanked Prudence for her assistance. Whether she approved or disapproved, Prudence could not guess.

 As she rose and curtsied to her ladyship, the marquis came over. “Miss Neville, Garth swears your encouragement has kept him up to the mark,” he said genially, taking her hand and patting it. “I’ve you to thank if he don’t ruin the show.”

 “Lord Rusholme exaggerates, my lord. He has worked very hard.”

 “That’s what I mean, my dear. He has a natural talent for most skills he’s had to master, but for this he has exerted himself and it’s all to the good. Wasn’t sure he had it in him, so I thank you.”

 Prudence smiled at him. Though tempted to credit Rusholme’s exertions to her genius for encouraging children to learn, she said candidly, “I believe his motive has been to avoid making a cake of himself before an audience, sir.”

 Lord Easthaven laughed. “Very likely, but he didn’t have to volunteer for the part in the first place, did he? What put that notion into his head, I wonder?”

 His eyes had a teasing twinkle very like his son’s. Prudence suspected he knew Rusholme had hoped to seduce her, but he did not seem to hold it against her or he’d never have let her sit down with his wife.

 Mr. Hardcastle came to thank Lord and Lady Easthaven for the tea-party. The rest of the company were leaving, so Prudence went after them. Rusholme stopped her.

 “Shall you walk early tomorrow?” he asked. “Otherwise I may not see you before the performance. My mother requires my presence tomorrow as our guests will leave the day after, weather permitting.”

 “Weather permitting, I shall walk.”

 “Then I shall pray for sun, though I know rain does not daunt you.”

 “It depends how hard it rains! I must go. Aimée wants my help with her lines.”

 At the door she glanced back. Rusholme was talking to his parents, a noble family at home in their magnificent mansion. The sight reminded her—as if she needed a reminder!—that not only the guests were soon to depart. The day after tomorrow the company would be on their way back to Cheltenham, and Prudence would be on the stagecoach to London, heading for a future bereft of the man she loved.

* * * *

 Both Prudence and Rusholme were very late for breakfast the next morning. To Salamander’s displeasure, they had walked for miles, sometimes talking, sometimes silently enjoying each other’s company. At least, Prudence was quite content simply being with him and she assumed he could have found an excuse to turn back had he wished to.

 She did not see him again until just before the performance. Surrounded by the rest of the cast in the space behind the stage, they smiled at each other.

 “Careful with that fan!” he whispered.

 “Don’t knock Mrs. Hardcastle’s wig off!” she retorted.

 The play proceeded without a hitch. Young Marlow, sent by his father to woo Kate Hardcastle, lost his way and stopped at the Three Pigeons. Tony, ever mischievous, directed him to the Hardcastles’ house but told him and his companion, Hastings, it was an inn. Meeting Kate there, as if by chance, Marlow was so desperately shy he never raised his eyes to her face. However, when he saw her later in the old-fashioned dress her father preferred, he took her for a barmaid and eagerly pursued her.

 Prudence, her own part going smoothly, for the first time was struck by the parallel between Marlow’s attempt to seduce Kate and Rusholme’s pursuit of herself.

 The differences were more to the point, she decided sadly.

Marlow fell in love with Kate and offered marriage, defying the supposed disparity in their stations. Kate’s renunciation, her fear of his father’s disapproval and his own regrets, were all in fun since she knew herself his equal and their parents’ favour assured.

 Nothing could be less like the situation between Prudence and Rusholme.

 Nor that between Constance Neville and Tony Lumpkin! Their flirting had been solely to mislead the interfering Mrs. Hardcastle. In the last scene Tony joyfully surrendered his Cousin Con’s hand to Hastings.

 “‘I, Anthony Lumpkin, Esquire, of Blank Place,’“ he said, “‘request you, Constantia Neville, of no place at all, for my true and lawful wife.’“

 Prudence blinked at Rusholme. His memory had not faltered throughout the play. How could he suddenly confuse “refuse” and “request”?

 Self-consciously avoiding her eyes, he finished his speech. She turned to Hastings. Either the others had not noticed his mistake or they were all too good at carrying on regardless of blunders to show it. The play ended to tumultuous applause.

 They took their bows. Rusholme was quickly surrounded by laughing, congratulating friends. As they bore him off, he looked back at Prudence, grinned, raised his eyebrows, and gave a helpless shrug.

 “Later,” he mouthed.

 She turned away. She was not sure she wanted to see him later. There was nothing to say but good-bye.

* * * *

 Slipping away from the cheerful hubbub of the Elizabethan gallery, Prudence made her way back down to the ballroom. By the light of her single candle, the guests’ chairs and servants’ benches stretched in untidy rows back into the gloom. The stage was a dark cavern.

 She perched on the edge of the stage, set the candle down beside her, and hugged her knees. Twelfth Night: just two weeks since a tall, arrogant gentleman with amusement in his voice had discovered her lurking behind a curtain.

 If she had known beforehand she was going to fall hopelessly in love, would she have stopped in Cheltenham that day last summer? Yes, she thought defiantly. For a few months her dull, friendless life had blossomed with the comradeship of the company, the thrill of walking out on stage before an audience. For a few days she had known the painful joy of being so in tune with someone his very presence made her happy.

 She saw again his laughing face, his quizzical look, his free, self-confident stride. She recalled his kindness to the children, to Ben Dandridge and little Rosie; and the way he had rushed to her defence against Henry Ffoliot. She heard his voice, warm, teasing, sympathetic.

 His final speech on stage echoed in her head. That slip of the tongue would live on in her dreams through the lonely years ahead.

 She buried her face in her hands.

 The soft thud of footsteps crossing the ballroom swiftly approached. “Prudence, don’t cry!”

 “I’m n-not c-crying,” she said fiercely as Rusholme sat down beside her and his arms encircled her.

 “No, love, of course not, but take my handkerchief anyway.” His forefinger under her chin, he raised her face and blotted the tears, then thrust the handkerchief into her hand.

 She blew her nose. “I didn’t mean to cry.”

 “It’s my fault. I should have spoken sooner, but it would have been so awkward for you if...if you don’t....” He took a deep breath. “I, Valentine Tregarth Warrender, Earl of Rusholme, request you, Prudence....”

 “You don’t have to propose to me just because your tongue twisted at the wrong moment.”

 “Shall I tell you why it twisted? Because I’d been practising. After trying to contrive a pretty speech of my own, I decided to take the easy way and adapt Goldsmith’s, but I didn’t mean to say it on stage. It’s lucky ‘request’ slipped out—a possible confusion—not beg, entreat, implore, any of the others I’ve considered. Dearest Prudence, will you marry me?”

 Their two candles gave just enough light for her to see the hope, the longing, the diffidence in his eyes. For a moment, acceptance hovered on her lips. Goldsmith came to the rescue, Kate’s speech, imprinted by constant repetition. She pulled away.

 “No, my lord. ‘Do you think I could suffer a connection in which there is the smallest room for repentance? Do you think I would take the mean advantage of a transient passion to load you with confusion? Do you think I could ever relish that happiness which was acquired by lessening yours?’“

 “‘By all that’s good, I can have no happiness but what’s in your power to grant me.’“ He too had learned the lines. “‘Your beauty at first caught my eye, but every moment that I converse with you steals in some new grace, heightens the picture and gives it stronger expression.’ Oh, bedamned to Goldsmith! Prudence, I love you. If you can say with absolute candour that you don’t love me, never will, and abhor the thought of being my wife, then I shall leave.”

 She couldn’t. Reaching up to lay one hand against his cheek, she said softly, “I do love you, Garth, but how can I marry you and condemn you to the anger of your parents and the contempt of your equals?”

 “To misquote.” He smiled, so tenderly that Prudence’s heart lurched. “For my equals, those whose opinions I care for are those who care for me and who can only rejoice in my happiness. As for my parents, when I told them my hopes, my father wanted to welcome you to the family without further ado. I must warn you that he is in some confusion and may continue to address you as Miss Neville for some little time.”

 “That is preferable to...my real name,” Prudence declared, then asked hesitantly, “And your mother?”

 “I will not pretend Mama is overjoyed. After all, I have just rejected the three unexceptionable brides she found me. However, I have persuaded her to regard you as the daughter of a respectable clergyman, and she complains bitterly that I have answers to all her other objections. When I set out to search for you, she was giving orders to the housekeeper to prepare a guest chamber for you—Lady Estella’s, I believe.”

 “She is very certain I shall accept you!”

 “But I am not. Please, Prudence, put me out of my misery!”

But his eyes laughed and his arms had somehow sneaked back around her while she was not attending.

 Well, not attending closely.

 “Oh, Garth.” With a sigh, she laid her head on his shoulder. “I cannot think of anything more heavenly than being your wife.”

 “The very first thing I learned about you was that you have excellent taste!” he said triumphantly, hugging her so hard she squeaked. “I wonder how soon I can talk Mama into letting you redecorate the ballroom?”

 Prudence laughed. “Not until she is accustomed to having an ex-actress for a daughter-in-law.”

 “Then the sooner she begins to grow accustomed the better. When shall we be wed? Dash it, I foresee one last difficulty.”

 “What?” she asked, dismayed.

 “Since I must insist on an unquestionably legal marriage, the banns must be read not for Constance Neville, not—thank heaven— for Seraphina Savage, but for Prudence Figg. Can you bear it, my love?”

 “For your sake, and considering I need never hear my odious surname again, I shall endeavour to bear the ignominy.”

 “Ignominy! I do believe I fell in love with your vocabulary before I paid any heed to the rest of you. The rest deserves a little attention now.” He pulled her onto his lap and kissed her.

 Fire in her veins, Prudence melted. If she had known his kiss was like this, she’d never have been able to resist there on the ice, or out on the terrace. Yet how much sweeter now.... Reason faded away and she was all sensation.