At one of the many tea breaks, Swithin tucked his flageolet under his arm and ambled up to her. “You know, Kate,” he said, “methinks Dew does not approve of this match I have in mind. Don’t stare! You know you have stolen my heart. I do believe our director is jealous.”
“Jealous!” she exclaimed, colouring up briskly.
“Yes, he is afraid of losing me. We have worked together repeatedly over the years. Quite an artistic history of Albion could be read from our association. We helped traverse the rocky path from dullness to Romanticism, in both literature and painting. To say nothing of our efforts in architecture and music, working together with excellent and, occasionally, even brilliant results. I wish you could have seen our Medea. In fact, I wish you could have
been
Medea. Our
Man of Mode
too was something quite out of the ordinary. But we shall not desert him. You will become a part of our group. Dewar need not fear I mean to desert him.”
“Don’t talk foolishly, Swithin,” she answered. “You know I have no intention of leaving Stonecroft. My aunt depends on me.”
“Ah, but so do I, my pet.”
Dewar strode briskly up to them. “I need you, Kate,” he said. “I have to talk to Bernier about the dinner arrangements for the night of the play, and want you to take Juliet’s last scene from her.”
“What is on the menu, dear boy?” Swithin asked.
“Just something light between performances—a luncheon, with dinner served around midnight after the last performance. Ginestrata perhaps between, to fortify us. With, of course, toad-in-the-hole and black pudding for the gourmets, Rex and Foxey.”
“Ginestrata—excellent, I approve,” Swithin nodded. “It is appropriate—a Renaissance receipt. We will want toast with it. The Madeira must be of the best, Dew, and I personally shall sprinkle the cinnamon, so that Bernier does not overdo it.”
“Yes, do that. Come along, love,” Dewar said, holding his hand out to Holly.
Endearments were sprinkled as heavily as French spices amongst this histrionic company. Jane was frequently called ‘dear’ or ‘sweet,’ and it was not unknown for even the gentlemen to bestow a ‘dear’ on each other, but Holly could not recall that Dewar had ever so honoured her before. She looked at him, startled.
Till that moment, he had not seemed to be aware of any departure from the norm but, as their eyes met, some conscious expression crept into his own. He did not blush, or smile in embarrassment, nor even allow his glance to waver. He just looked a moment longer than was comfortable, then said, “Come,” again, and pulled her up by the hand.
“It is Juliet’s final dagger scene that wants polishing. I am trying to prevent her from becoming Mrs. Siddons. The actual words are few. I would like to convey the idea she rushes into suicide before she quite knows what she is about. An air of distraction, well short of grand heroics, is what I am striving for.”
Dewar had spoken of having to consult with Bernier but, when he reached the stage, he took up a seat to view once more Juliet’s suicide. “That bit of throwing the arms out is poor—overdone. It gives the impression she is going to topple over backwards, and she must fall forward to stop the fall with her hands, or she’ll split her cranium open.” Then he raised his voice to advise Juliet. “Don’t let go of the dagger, Juliet. Hold on to it with both hands, and try sinking slowly to your knees, then falling over. Gracefully.”
"I'll run through it again, Dewar. You wish to speak to your chef,” Holly reminded him.
“No hurry. Let us see Juliet die again first. I have never quite understood this play, you know. I felt it so very contrived, unrealistic, almost un-Shakespearean. Jane’s playing Juliet as an extremely young girl, hardly more than a child, gives me a clue as to its plausibility. I daresay a girl just into her teens might behave as foolishly as Juliet does. It was a lucky notion to stress her youth. Casting older ladies in the role befuddles the motivation, for the person playing the role
becomes
the character, temporarily. For the duration of the rehearsal and presentation, I mean. One cannot imagine a Miss McCormack, for instance, running herself through for loss of a husband.”
“Very true, particularly when she does not have one.”
“There is some possibility that situation may be rectified in the near future, if I am not mistaken?” He turned to look at her, making the words a question.
“You mean Swithin?”
“But of course. He wearies us to death o’ nights with eulogies on your eyes, ears, nose, but, most particularly, your overwhelming personality. An offer is imminent. Will you have him?” he asked, in a bright, casual way, smiling pleasantly.
“No. I wish you could prevent his offering. I have hinted I could not possibly marry as often as he makes these absurd implications.”
“What is absurd about them? Swithin is eligible, and you are not otherwise attached, so far as I know. You mentioned very recently that you have come to appreciate his unique qualities.”
“There is a world of difference between appreciation and love.”
“The one will sometimes lead to the other.”
“This does not appear to be one of those times. Besides, my aunt depends on me to keep house for her in the spring.”
“He could be persuaded to wait till summer, if that is the real impediment.”
“No! I couldn’t ever....”
“Then it is an excuse, not a reason.”
“If you like. Oh I
wish
he would not ask me. I cannot like to offend him after all his kindnesses, but...”
“What is it you dislike? Is it the sort of life he leads? All this business of plays and pursuit of the aesthetic ideal? The
fripperiness
of his life, quite of a piece with my own, in fact? You must not let that dissuade you. He sees you as a sort of counterbalance to that side of his existence. He would not expect to change you, Kate. His only fear is that you will be at pains to change him more than he likes.”
“I have not the least desire to change him at all. He is fine as he is, but not as a husband for me.”
“Yes, but you have not told me
why.
Is it his style of life you dislike, or something more personal? His physical size, shape, whatever….” He threw out one languorous hand to indicate the many shortcomings of Sir Swithin, while his bright grey eyes examined her minutely.
“I simply don’t care for him enough. I
like
him; I could not love him in a million years.”
“You are a romantic. You mean to marry for love, then. I would not have suspected it from you. If you have definitely decided against the match, you had best prepare a firm refusal. He means to speak to you very soon, before he leaves, and we are only here for a few more days.” He turned his attention to Juliet and, after a few words with her, went at last to confer with Bernier on the ginestrata.
Holly remained behind watching Juliet perform, but her thoughts were not with the drama. How very uncomfortable it would be, having to refuse Sir Swithin. How very odd, too, that Dewar had undertaken to question her on the matter. Was Swithin correct in thinking Dewar did not approve of the match? He had seemed rather relieved, she thought, when she told him she meant to decline the offer. He was too well bred not to try to hide it, but some traces of satisfaction had been there.
Yes, when he called her a romantic there had been satisfaction in his eyes. More than satisfaction; there had been approval. Oh, but she was a fool to be a romantic in her position. Marriage to Swithin would change her life dramatically—pitch her into the midst of exciting doings. If she were wise, she would accept. Soon the play would be over, and she would be sunk back into dullness, with Dewar and everyone gone.
That she could return to her charity work gave not a shred of relief either. A premonition of regret was with her, as she sat, staring moodily as Juliet stabbed herself and died, most theatrically, falling into an ungainly lump on the floor.
The day before the play was to be enacted, the players remained late at the Abbey, at work on the details. Bernier had prepared a feast for them, and spirits were high. Holly was placed at table between Rex and Swithin. In an effort to dampen the latter’s ardour, Holly spent the greater part of her time attempting to discourse with Rex.
“So you ain’t coming to London in the spring,” he said. “Pity you must miss all the fun.” This cheerless beginning did nothing to improve her spirits. “My sister’s making her bows.”
“You have mentioned her.”
“Going to call on Jane. Daresay I won’t have a look-in at all. Mean to say, all the beaux....” He cast a glance around the table and uttered a deep sigh. “What is this rot?” was his next speech, lifting a piece of meat on his fork. “What they call a ragoot, I fear. Never guess it from this dish, but Dewar's got a good chef. Can whop up a dandy bubble and squeak. Don’t taste like cabbage at all, the way he does it. Cooks very well, for a Frenchie.” He took consolation from his wineglass, urging Holly to do likewise.
“Give her a chew,” he advised. “She’s no duchess, but she ain’t quite a commoner either.”
“This
ragoût à la Bourgignonne
—certainly not common,” Swithin pointed out, leaning forward to include himself in the conversation.
“Ragoot? Dash it, we’re talking wine!” Rex countered. “You don’t chew ragoot!”
“It is tender,” Holly said, in some little confusion.
“A very tender lady,” Rex agreed. “Cotes du Rhône, I fancy, though I ain’t sure I don’t get a whiff of Provence in the bouquet. Bit of a half-breed, actually.”
“A young wine,” Swithin commented, discovering what matter was being discussed.
“Not an ape leader, certainly.”
As the plates were removed and the wine changed, Rex licked his lips in approval and said, “This is more like. This one is a full-bodied wench.”
“The wine you are drinking should never make you regret the one you have finished,” Swithin pointed out. “The order of wines decrees it.”
“No reason to regret it so long as my glass is full,” Rex agreed.
“You misconstrue my meaning. Wine should set off the meal, as the diamond does the ring, throwing its particular sparkle on each course.”
“Oh if it’s diamonds you’re talking, it’s champagne you mean. Champagne is the diamond of wines, as Alvanley was saying a while ago,” Rex said, with a sage nod, then he tipped up his glass and sat, bleary-eyed, while Swithin at last got Holly to himself.
“We shall enjoy many such dinners as this together soon,” he began. “This
ragoût
is a charm, and the snails à la Bernier to come are a miracle providing, of course, one has a taste for
escargots.
They are fed for a fortnight on milk—there is the secret. Bernier would not reveal it for worlds, but I have been spying about the sheds, and saw them in an earthenware pot, covered in milk. The mystery of the sauce I have still to unravel. There is lovage in it, and coriander, and rue—just a
soupçon.
Similar to the Roman style—
elaeologarum.
We shall experiment at Heron Hall,” he promised, with one of his fond smiles that usually made her want to laugh, but tonight she felt a strong urge to cry instead. It did sound like such fun, to be doing all these silly, extravagant things.
“You know I will not be going to Heron Hall, Swithin,” she replied automatically.
Was she foolish to discourage Swithin? She glanced up, to see Dewar looking down the table toward her. He looked pensive, still and quiet, as though caught in the act of contemplation. He raised his eyebrows in greeting, lifted his glass to salute her, and drank. It was an odd moment, catching her by surprise, almost as though he knew what was in her mind. Dewar glanced to Swithin, then to Rex, then back at her, with a smile. The whole interlude was less than a minute, less than thirty seconds, but when she left the table, those were the only few seconds she recalled with any precision.
The ladies did not retire to the saloon after dinner, nor did the gentlemen remain for port. Dinner was late, and the guests returned home as soon as it was over. Lady Proctor, with a husband to be fed, had not remained past four in the afternoon. She had gone back to Stonecroft, taking her carriage with her.
“How are we to get home?” Holly asked Jane. “I suppose Rex will take us if Mrs. Abercrombie’s carriage is filled.”
“Dewar is taking me home,” Jane replied.
“Oh! I can go with you, then.”
“I don’t think so,” Jane said. “We are dropping off the Halls, and that makes four in the carriage.”
“I can sit bobbin, if necessary.”
“Is Swithin not taking you? Dewar mentioned it.”
“No! You must let me go with you,” Holly said in alarm.
At that instant, Dewar came up to them, carrying Jane’s pelisse. “See if the flower ladies are ready, will you, pet?” he asked her. Turning to Holly, he said, “Tonight’s the night. Ready?”
“Did you arrange this? How
could
you!” she charged. “You know my feelings.”
“Worse, I know
his.
Might as well get it over with. He means to have his say, and will end up declaring himself from the stage tomorrow if we don’t let him do it now.”
“Whatever shall I say!” she exclaimed, in great agitation.
“Say
no,
Miss McCormack,” he suggested. “That was your intention, was it not?”
“Yes, but....”
“Swithin will recover. He always does.”
“What, does
he
make a habit of offering for someone every time a play is put on, too?”
“Too?” he asked suspiciously. “Am I the other amorous fellow? I don’t offer; I just flirt. I am only half a fool, remember? Swithin does not invariably offer either. He likes to surprise himself. He didn’t offer for Juliet when we put it on at Cambridge, I know. Of course, Harry Peacock played Juliet, and he was a little on the burly side for Swithin. He hasn’t made anyone an offer since August, to the best of my knowledge.”
“There is not much honour in it then, is there?”
“You would know better than I what gratification it gives you to be amongst his chosen few dozen. In any case, don’t lose sleep over it. I want Juliet’s mama in her best looks tomorrow. Is your costume ready?”