Escapade (18 page)

They went together across the hall towards the library. Miss Prentiss and Miss Sheridan exchanged disheartened glances, and Lady Honor, her wine drunk, went to bed without saying goodnight to anyone.

In the library, the ladies wasted no time on serious books, but headed immediately for the two shelves that interested them. They read titles to each other and exchanged views on authors in nearly perfect harmony for several minutes.

“You've read this
Vicar of Wakefield
thing?” the Duchess asked in a disparaging tone.

“Yes, but Primrose was too prim for me to swallow."

“Wasn't he too good to be true? And much too good to be likable. Yes, the sad fact is, a story character needs a wide streak of nastiness in him before you can really take to him. Now, here's one you might like—quite horrid."

“You too, Mama?” a voice said behind them.

“Oh, Patrick, you scared the life out of me, sneaking up behind us like a thief in the night. Are you after something to lull you to sleep too?"

“No, I find Belle's madrigals wonderfully soporific. I am only curious to see what you two are up to. Perverting Ella's taste with your trash, are you?"

“I am delighted to see it is perverted already, and we see very much eye to eye in the matter of novels."

“Horrid novels,” Patrick augmented, with a glance at Ella, who had quite successfully avoided his glances all the evening. “Might I suggest..."

“Never mind any of your silly suggestions,” his mother cut in rudely. “We don't want to read Kant or Goethe or any other old foreigners. What we want is a nice story, don't we, Ella?” Ella was surprised and flattered to be addressed by her given name.

“I don't know why it is mothers are always wanting to have sons,” the Duchess grumbled on. “I wish
I
had a daughter. Any foolish notion this gudgeon takes into his head he tries to palm off on me. Was making me read all about Kant a while back—all to do with imperatives and categories and I don't remember what foolishness. But that's how sons are. They sneeze and we must catch cold."

“I am not familiar with Kant,” Ella said.

“I do not recommend him to you,” the Dowager advised. “You'll find yourself wondering whether the whole world should do as you are doing, and who is to say whether the whole world likes nuts or lobsters or whatever it is you want."

“That was not the point, Mama."

“Oh pooh! There was no point to it. I studied it a week and didn't learn a thing but that Germans are fools, and I had a pretty good suspicion of that already."

Lifting a book from the shelf, the Duchess turned to Ella again. “Monk Lewis, here's what I was about to suggest when this son of mine came crawling up on us. It's horrid; you'll love it, Ella."

“Thank you. I haven't read this one. Good night,” she curtsied to them both and hurried from the room, her book under her arm.

“What a nice young girl she is,” the Dowager said, looking at her son in an innocent manner.

“And you always wanted a daughter,” he added.

“It's a pity she isn't a little better looking, for she would do very well for my daughter, but is not quite handsome enough to make you a wife, I fancy."

“I must concede appearance is not her long suit,” he said, but not in a condemning tone at all.

“What do looks matter when all's said and done? I was no more than passing pretty myself, but your Papa never complained.”

“Hush, Beauty!” he held up a finger and waggled it under her nose. “I won't have my Mother's charms denigrated so. There is no one a hatchet face and a hooked nose become so well as you, Mama."

“And while you're into the butter boat, don't forget my hair. So original the way it has decided to go white in a streak down the center, instead of at the temples, like everyone else."

“Sets off the beak to a nicety, ma'am. Isn't there some eagle with a white streak like that?"

“You're thinking of a skunk, Patrick. Well, it's too bad we are both so unhandsome, Ella and I, but it's always the way. If a woman has so much as one striking feature, she thinks of nothing else and is a dead bore. And if she happens to have a good head of hair and fine eyes, she is insupportable. Not mentioning any names, but if a certain beauty has any more mirrors lugged off to her room, the rest of us won't know what we look like. She has had the pier glass lifted from the green corner room—couldn't see her shoes or some such thing in the one she has, and now I discover she's taken the ormolu hand mirror from the room we used for the ladies the other night. Says she needs it to see the back of her head. If she decides to have a look at her backside, she'll be stripping the big gilt mirror from my saloon."

Patrick bit back a smile and peered over his shoulder to insure their privacy.

“Oh, she's not listening. She's up looking at the back of her head."

“I sincerely hope so."

“And if your Miss Prentiss has any more accomplishments, I hope she didn't bring them with her."

“Not my Miss Prentiss. A genius of that magnitude belongs to the world."

“Her mother, the odious woman, tells me we are going to them for the New Year. You may have got yourself trapped into it, Patrick, but pray don't go promising to deliver me to listen to Miss Prentiss present a three-act play. I'd sooner spend my New Year in a damp basement. Told her my brother was coming here, so don't go and let out of the bag he's been bed-ridden these three years."

“Said Ernie was coming, eh? I wonder if that might be sufficient excuse for me to beg off as well."

“You can't very well. She's written you into her play. Lucky you!"

“But I am only the hatchet man. I can't think my lines will be many."

“Go! It's the chance of a lifetime. And mind you have that hatchet well-honed."

“You are an incorrigible old witch."

“Yes, but I don't sing, or write plays, or play any musical instrument."

“True, you make up for your ugly temper by a total lack of accomplishments."

“Go to bed,” she scolded and hooked her arm through his. In perfect harmony they strode through the rooms, blowing out candles as they went. At the door she sighed. “If only she had a little more looks."

“And a little less temper,” he said, cryptically.

The threatening clouds had returned the next morning, so that the much-discussed trip to the village was postponed till afternoon, in hopes that the clouds, in the interval, would either open up and disgorge their rain or blow away. With nothing more interesting to do, everyone lingered over breakfast, talking and planning future excursions. Clare's mother enquired of Ella how she was enjoying Monk Lewis.

“If I tell you I stayed up till two, reading, you will have some idea. Ambrosio is a marvelous villain. Is his streak of nastiness wide enough to please you?"

“With him it is not so much a streak as a total coloration. I thought of half a dozen others you would like after you had left the library. I'll bring them to you after breakfast."

“I still wish you would take a look through Kant's
Critique of Pure Reason
, Ella,” Clare mentioned, obviously to all, not for the first time.

“Critique of Pure Drivel I call it,” his mother challenged. “I don't see why you must go improving Ella's perfectly well-formed mind."

“But I will give you the book,” he smiled at Ella, “and ask you what you think of it."

The Dowager shook her head and exchanged a conspiratorial smile with Ella. It was impossible to give Clare a set-down with his mother at the table, so Ella said no more. Clare hoped she was getting over whatever freakish start she had been in and was feeling happier.

It was Belle Prentiss, with her sharp wits, who first recovered from the shock of this conversation. It had been noted by all the degree of condescension with which Ella was treated by her noble hosts. “If you are interested in literature, Ella, I wish you will take a look at my play on Anne Boleyn—the one I was telling you about. You are to play Jane Seymour, you recall. I hope you have not forgotten."

“What, are you going to Belle's New Year's party?” Clare asked, with interest.

“I am not at all sure I can go. We never make our plans so far in advance. I don't know what Mama may have planned."

“You must come,” Belle insisted. “Clare is to be my ax-man, and lob off my head in a horrid scene at the end, then you and Papa, who is playing Henry VIII, have a lovely scene to close the drama. And you can show me how you made Matilda's head too."

“But really, it is too soon for me to say,” Ella repeated. “However, I should love to read your play."

“I'll send for it."

Several of the gentlemen scowled at this idea, and Ella said, “I didn't mean right now."

“But there's nothing else to do,” Belle countered and sent off for her manuscript.

While the table was being cleared of everything except coffee, a few judicious guests slipped away as well. Harley and Peters vanished. The Marchioness returned to her bed, leaving Honor to guard Clare, which she did by closing her eyes and dozing quietly. Mrs. Sheridan tripped upstairs to look over Sherry's gowns, and Mrs. Prentiss followed her to see what she was up to. The others poured another cup of coffee to keep themselves awake. Sherry took up the
Morning Observer
, and the reading was begun. As there was as yet only one copy of the play's manuscript, Belle undertook to read all parts herself, varying her voice ingeniously to indicate kings, queens, sundry ladies-in-waiting, and attendant lords. At the end of a very long first act, she stopped and asked, in a purely rhetorical spirit, “Do you like it so far?"

“Very interesting,” Lady Sara volunteered.

“Devilish long speeches,” Bippy added. “Mean to say you expect people to memorize all that stuff?"

“The fact that it is in blank verse makes it easier to learn. There is a rhythmical flow to it, you see."

“Didn't notice,” Bippy commented.

“I am taking the hardest part myself. I have the longest speeches."

“Yes, I noticed that. Don't know how you could have written it, much less get it all off by heart. Must be a devilish clever girl."

Belle colored prettily at this judgment, though it was hardly a new one. She looked around for some repetition of this praise. Ella sat in appalled silence. She had never heard such nonsense in her life. To suppose that Anne Boleyn could have stolen a king from his lawful wife and changed the course of history, if she were the prim little soul Belle had made her, was unthinkable.

“What do you think, Ella?” Belle asked directly.

“It is very good, only—it is not quite my idea of what Anne Boleyn was like."

“I have read several books about her. It is historically quite accurate. I checked all the dates and everything."

“Oh, indeed, I didn't mean to criticize in that way."

“She's too mealy-mouthed,” the Duchess said bluntly. “Put a little rumgumption into her. Our Miss Austen would know how to go about it, eh, Ella?"

“I do feel your main character lacks liveliness,” Ella said, putting her thoughts more modestly.

“Yes, but what do you mean exactly? She is very lively. I have her playing on a lyre for Henry, and doing that little dance, you know, when he is having dinner at her Papa's house..."

“Oh, yes, she don't lack for talents,” the Duchess said, in a strange voice.

“I meant in the speeches,” Ella explained. “You know, where Henry is trying to lure her to marry him."

“No, he is merely trying to seduce me, at first."

“I wasn't quite sure, but it seems to me Anne ought to do more than keep repeating that she has too much regard for the marriage vows, for in the end she hasn't, you recall. I thought of her as being more active—actually trying to get Henry to get rid of Katherine of Aragon in some manner."

“It is clear she must have been a conniving little hussy,” the Duchess continued. “You don't show that side of her, and that is her most interesting side. What do you. think, Patrick?"

“She didn't get to my part. I have been waiting in expectation of a few early scenes with me honing up my ax."

“The ax-man has only the one scene, but if you will promise to learn the lines, I will make you someone else. Archbishop Cranmer has not been cast yet."

“No, I wouldn't like to give up my ax."

“Patrick has great plans for his scene,” the Dowager said playfully, but refrained from exchanging a look with her son, though she gave him a sharp nudge with her elbow. Across the table from them, Ella looked up, and the Dowager winked at her. A strange feeling of its all having happened before came over her, then she remembered it was on the occasion of the sick headache.

“Have you thought up a good piece of business with the ax?” Belle asked. “I am very happy to get ideas from everyone."

“I thought it might be effective if I—ah—hesitated a little, as though I could not bear to sever such a lovely head from its shoulders. Then too it will prolong that really minuscule part you have given me. No more than a walk-on."

“That is an excellent idea, and you might say—well, what you just said, about severing such a lovely head."

“Not historically accurate, I fear."

“There is no way of knowing at this late date what was actually said. When I spoke of historical accuracy, I was referring to the general lines of the story—the names of the characters involved, and the dates, and so on. We must add the little realistic touches to make it..."

“Realistic,” Bippy supplied.

“Yes, that's what I meant."

“Jolly good idea."

“And I shall put in your idea too, Ella, and make myself more conniving."

“That was the Duchess's idea,” Bippy pointed out.

Belie smiled and thanked them all for their help, while wondering at their temerity in telling her how to write a play.

At the termination of the discussion, Sherry came forward from the end of the table holding the
Observer
in her hands. “Only see what that horrid Prattle has said about us today,” she chirped, pink with pleasure to see her exploits mentioned in print again.

Belle was so eager she dropped her manuscript all over the floor in an effort to wrest the paper from Sherry. Ella's mind leapt back to what column this would be and tried to make herself inconspicuous. Belle, whose voice was up to anything, took it upon herself to read once more.