“How is the fermentation coming on?” Dewar asked Mrs. Bartlett as he passed amongst his slaves during one of the tea breaks. This was done daily, to keep them in line.
“Excellent. It will be ready on time for the play,” was her answer, with no hint of displeasure.
“Your trees got back to the conservatory in good form, I trust?” he asked the Hall ladies.
“Oh yes—a few leaves lost in the shipping, and the cold blast of air was not at all—but they are intact,” Miss Hall assured him.
“I see you have added a white flag to the flagstaff for our afternoon performance, Mrs. Abercrombie. Excellent. A very Elizabethan touch. We shall require a black one for the evening. The orphans, you know, are to be treated to our dress rehearsal in the afternoon, with the evening performance for the villagers. It will be a busy day for us.”
Smiles and agreement all around. Not a word of complaint was uttered by any of his helpers.
“Not sewing today, I see,” he remarked to Holly, who sat with the matrons. “Glad you are finished the shirts. Swithin will be here tonight with his drawings for the play costumes.”
“I hope he is not delayed again,” she replied, thinking he would be hard pressed to learn Mercutio’s part.
“He won’t. Mama has asked your aunt to bring the family here for dinner, to meet him. I was to take him to visit you, but this will do as well. Your aunt has already accepted, on the family’s behalf. It will be more useful for us all to meet here, where the stage is erected. I am curious to hear Swithin’s pronouncement on it. I hope he is pleased.”
“You place a good deal of value on his opinion, I take it?” she asked, her own opinion of Sir Swithin rising higher by the moment. For Dewar to give any intimation of deferring to anyone was an unusual turn.
“His judgement is infallible in such affairs. I used to argue with him when first we began working together on a few efforts, but have learned to trust his instincts.”
“I look forward to meeting him.”
“He looks forward to making your acquaintance as well, ma’am,” he answered, then turned to the next lady, leaving his companion pleasantly titillated. He had spoken to Sir Swithin of her and, whatever he had said, it must have been complimentary, as the cousin wanted to meet her.
Holly did not normally take much pains with her toilette. She had a good blue silk gown in which she had been appearing at formal public do’s for the past two years. It was well made, without aspiring to any rarefied heights of fashion. As it was being saved for the Christmas ball held annually at the Assembly Hall, she had no thought of removing it from camphor yet.
No, she would wear her green sarsenet, with her good white shawl to add a touch of fashion. Her hair was carefully pinned up, so that no loose mouse tail would slip its anchor and go tumbling down her back. In honour of Sir Swithin, she wore her mother’s pearl brooch, and felt she had done all that humankind could expect in the way of embellishment.
Lady Proctor saw the evening as one of vital importance. It was the first time the Proctor ménage had been invited to dine at the Abbey
en famille.
She and Sir Egbert had thrice, over the years, formed part of a large party, the invitations coming late enough that there was some question as to which couple had hedged off at the last moment.
This was quite different. Certainly it was a compliment to Jane, and therefore Jane must be shown to best advantage. Her white formal gowns under preparation for her presentation were much too grand for the occasion, but her new rose silk, her mama thought, would do admirably. Pearls around the neck would add elegance without sophistication. It would not do for her to be too sophisticated, as Dewar so frequently mentioned her youth, sweetness, and innocence.
Actually, it was Juliet’s virtue, as manifested in Jane, that inspired his compliments. He hardly seemed to know where the one girl left off and the other began. Lady Proctor, not wishing to rival her daughter, contented herself with a brown velvet gown, devoid of fringes, ribbons, lace, or any trimming, its severity lightened only by her topaz and diamond necklace. This avoiding of her customary ‘elegance’ showed her to better advantage than her usual costume. Her niece told her she looked ‘all the crack,’ and even Sir Egbert, no connoisseur, said she would be the prettiest gel there.
She may have been the prettiest in her husband’s view, but there was no doubt her daughter took the palm in everyone else’s opinion. Rex and Foxey lay in wait for Jane’s entrance, and flung themselves forward to greet her when she came in. Even before her wrap was off, Rex was admiring her gown.
“That’s her pelisse, ninny,” Foxey told him.
“I know it. See a gown underneath. Pink. Very nice pink.”
Miss McCormack’s pelisse was removed without a word. She, likewise, was shown into the saloon without being annoyed with compliments. Once there, Lady Dewar ran an eye over her and said, “All rigged up, eh Holly? That’ll turn Homberly’s head.”
Dewar greeted them all, then cut Jane out from the pack and within two minutes was sitting with her, while Foxey and Rex complained to Altmore that, by Jove, if they’d known this was how he meant to behave, they’d have stayed at the inn and taken their mutton there.
It was for Altmore to do the pretty with Miss McCormack. He was less obvious than the other bucks in his pursuit of Jane, but even he had no control over his eyes, which slid off to the corner every few minutes. Some conversation must be made and, with an amused shake of her head, Holly said to him, “Has Dewar said anything about replacing Foxworth as Mercutio? It will be impossible to put the play on with him, don’t you think?”
“He hasn’t said anything, but he must realize Foxey is hopeless.”
“We were wondering if his other cousin—the one who is to arrive this evening—might be persuaded to fill in.”
“Who, Swithin?” Altmore asked, with a startled look at her. “Good God, no! Where did you get that idea?” Then he laughed as if he would choke.
Holly’s eagerness to see this cousin grew, and continued to grow throughout the dinner, during which several references were made to Swithin, but of so varied a nature that no firm conjecture could be made as to his physical appearance. She was still in a bewildered state when the gentlemen joined the ladies after dinner. Rex, who loved his wine equally as much as he loved Jane, solved the matter of choosing between them with his usual simple expediency. He picked up his glass and a decanter and took them into the saloon, thus securing the choice spot by Jane’s side. Holly sat with her, and learned that she was not the only one whose interest had been piqued by the many references to Sir Swithin. Jane too was on tenterhooks to see him.
“A robust, hearty rascal, this,” Rex said, looking at Jane over his wineglass.
“And how tall is he?” Jane asked.
“Eh? Tall? What the deuce! I am talking about the wine, Jane. A robust fellow, this claret. Got a deal of bottom.”
“We
are talking about Sir Swithin,” Jane told him, with an amused shake of her curls.
“Ain’t robust. Ain’t hearty either. Ain’t much of a rascal, come to that.”
“Yes, but what is he like?” Holly asked impatiently.
“Won’t care for him,” Rex told her. This was the only piece of opinion they could get from him. Dewar and Foxworth were not slow in following Rex into the saloon, and they too pulled up chairs in a semi-circle around Jane, causing Lady Proctor to smile in satisfaction as she cast a meaningful nod in Sir Egbert’s direction.
Observing it, Lady Dewar felt a pronounced desire to shake her son till his teeth rattled. Dangling after the chit, and putting ideas in the mama’s head. As soon as Dewar was seated, Jane turned to repeat her question to him.
“Judge for yourself. Here he is now,” Dewar answered, nodding toward the doorway. With her pulse racing, Holly too turned to follow the direction of his glance. An uncontrolled little ripple of laughter escaped, before her fingers flew to her lips to stifle it.
Sir Swithin Idle twittered in, a symphony in golden hues, looking very much like an overgrown canary, and sounding rather like one too, with his clear, fluty voice chirping a medley of extravagant phrases to Lady Dewar at the doorway. His jacket was of gold brocade, his waistcoat a shade darker, his inexpressibles lighter, his bird-like twigs of legs encased in white silk stockings. His hair was a soft cap of tawny curlets, which had been allowed to grow longer than was the fashion in nonartistic circles, and which Holly suspected was set up in papers every night, like a lady’s.
No one had ever actually seen Swithin apply rouge to his cheeks or lips, but they bore a suspiciously high colour. Six of his ten fingers were bedizened with rings, only the thumb and index finger of each hand escaping adornment. He carried a gold-edged quizzing glass which he held aloft at a dainty angle, and occasionally tapped against his chin.
Rex Homberly made an inchoate sound in his throat, denoting deep disgust, and Foxworth said, “Damn, Dewar, I hope you didn’t ask that painted popinjay to spend the whole visit here.”
“God made it, let it pass for a man,” Dewar replied, with a slightly disdainful smile as he looked from Swithin to his companions.
“Dashed man-milliner,” Rex scolded.
“Occasionally,” Dewar agreed, “but, for the nonce, he is to be our man-modiste, and create the costumes for our drama.”
“Ain’t getting
me
into no yaller jackets,” Foxey warned.
“Nor breeches either," Rex seconded, though in fact he often wore yellow breeches.
In a soft aside to Holly, Jane said, “My, isn’t he pretty? I love his curls.”
Before answer could be made, Swithin was kissing his fingers to Lady Dewar and mincing across the room towards them. He drew to a stop in front of Jane, and took up a pose with one hand lifting the quizzing glass to examine her, the other placed on his hip. His left leg bore all the weight of his slender body; the right was daintily crossed over it, the toe pointed forward, just touching the floor. Holly found herself waiting eagerly to distinguish the first words uttered by Swithin.
“Quite right, Dewar, my dear boy,” he chirped languidly, his gaze never wavering from Jane. “She is Juliet. Stand up and give us a pirouette, dear, and let us see you all around.”
Jane obediently arose and turned in a circle slowly, looking back over her shoulder with a questioning face as she did so.
“Exquisite! It will be a delight to dress you,” he declared, lowering the quizzing glass and gesturing dramatically with both arms outflung.
“Land that caper merchant a facer for two pennies,” Rex mumbled under his breath, while Foxey said he’d do it for free.
“Who else have we got assembled here?” Swithin ran on, always in his high, grating voice, with something a trifle querulous in it, as he peered through his glass.
“Altmore—ah, the perennial Romeo. Dear boy, you must be fagged to death, playing the juvenile hero forever. Foxworth—Homberly—hmm. Attendant lords, scene-swellers, one does sincerely hope. And you,” the glass turned to Holly. “... Nurse to Juliet?” he asked, raising his brows and looking so extremely silly with his lips pursed that Holly could scarcely keep from smiling.
“I am playing Lady Capulet,” she managed to say.
“Ah, yes—the golden voice! Had I heard you speak sooner, I would have known. Dewar, old chap, dead on, as usual. A golden-voiced warbler. She will make us a superb Lady Macbeth one of these days. Or, if she is half so ill-natured as you say, she would make a divine Shrew. A
Shakespearean
shrew, to be tamed. A Kate!” he told her, as she glared first at him, then spared one flash for Dewar. “Oh my, such dangerous orbs! I come to comprehend the phrase ‘a killing glance,’ which always sounded so overdone before.”
Dewar stepped forward rather quickly as Holly drew in her breath to attack. “Everyone—I want you to meet my cousin, Sir Swithin Idle. And I shall make my guests known to you too, Swithin.”
“Only stage names, I do implore, Coz. An excess of names is too wearying after a day of travel. And what’s in a name after all? I am no saint, I promise you, though I was born on July fifteenth and bear the bishop’s name. All a hum. I shall reserve all my faculties for the task before me. I have brought you
bales
of the most exquisite material with me for costumes.”
With an embarrassed smile at the Proctors, Dewar managed to insert their names very quickly. Swithin looked at them, said nothing, then turned back to his own thoughts. “We must look the materials over
ensemble,
you and I, Coz. I await your opinion of them. A
stupendous
spider gauze with iridescent threads in blue and green and shimmery, for Juliet’s party. Oh, I adore it—and a fairly satisfactory lutestring. One would not have thought it possible to wear lutestring, would one, but the colour, you will agree I know, is unexceptionable. A brocade for Lady Montague, stiff and formal. You will want that quality in her gown.
“For Nurse, you will want a plain striped cotton, with a white apron and cap, and I think I shall give her dirty fingernails. A nice common touch, a sort of symbolic suggestion of the earth, as she is an earthy wench. She suggests bigamy, you know, to Juliet.”
“A striped cotton and white apron sounds very English,” Holly said, “and very modern.”
“Yes, Kate, we are doing the play in contemporary dress, as Shakespeare himself did—in contemporary English dress, that is,” Swithin told her. “I believe I forgot to tell you that, Dew, old chap. As you are returning to the true flavour in your casting—faultless, by the by, from what I have seen—I am on thorns to see your thrust stage—ah—as I was saying when I interrupted myself—mmm, yes. I have decided to use contemporary dress.
C’est tout.”
While his listeners raised a vociferous protest, with even Jane adding a shy demur to this notion, Dewar stood thinking, biting the interior of his cheeks to aid concentration. “I like it, Swithin,” he said, when the outrage had died down. “I like it excessively. An excellent idea. I am so glad you are here. There are dozens of details I have been wanting to talk to you about.”