The Grumpy Count, page 5
“Which house should I be looking at?” Anand asks. “Does Jane Austen give us a number?”
“Unfortunately, she doesn’t,” Sandra replies. “But even if she had, it’s likely that it would have been demolished by now. Most of the original houses have since been razed and replaced.”
Liam turns to Margot. “Your illustrious ances—”
He shuts his mouth and grimaces in apology as Margot’s eyes widen with horror. The few who noticed, shift curious looks from Margot to Liam, and back to Margot. Her cheeks are no longer pink. They’re red.
Whatever ancestor Liam was about to mention, it’s clear that Margot had asked him not to.
I turn to Liam and clap my hands together. “OK, chief, where to from here?”
“Already?” Hyacinth pouts. “We just got here! And Liam was about to tell us more.”
“Let’s face it,” I say. “We don’t have a street number. The square was rebuilt. Our first stop was underwhelming.”
“I promise our next stop won’t disappoint!” Liam puts a hand to his heart. “It’s Theatre Royal Drury Lane!”
We head down Southampton Row to the famous West End theater. Liam points out various landmarks along the way. Twenty minutes later, we’ve reached Drury Lane.
This theater is one of my favorites in London. I’ll never tire of how its unfussy, boxy exterior of white stuccoed brick primes me for more dullness, only to be bedazzled by the opulence of its red velvet and gold interior when I step inside. As for its domed central hall with two grand staircases swooping up like in an opera house, it’s downright majestic.
I’ve seen a few musicals here. Its current owner Andrew Lloyd Webber recently spent millions to restore it. The part that Liam talks about is that the theater’s rotunda, staircases, and salons are now closer to their original Regency design.
Way to go, Andrew!
“You’re looking at London’s oldest continuous theater site,” Liam further enlightens us. “This building is the fourth iteration of the original one that burned down. Jane Austen must have seen the third reincarnation before it burned down, too. And we know she visited this one after it opened in 1812.”
“Was she a theater buff?” Melody asks.
“What play did she see here?” Tami inquires.
“She adored theater,” Sandra says. “When she was in London, she saw as many shows as she could.”
“Here at Drury Lane,” Liam adds, “she saw one of the greatest actors of the time Edmund Kean perform as Shylock in The Merchant of Venice.”
With the pics and selfies done, we promenade down the bustling Coventry Street and then Piccadilly Circus to our final stop, Grosvenor Street in Mayfair.
Liam stops in front of a random building.
He singles out Phil and Sarika who play Mr. and Mrs. Hurst. “Your characters have a house on this street.”
Tonya who plays Jane Bennet points at Margot. “This is where I visit our mean girl Caroline,”—she shifts her finger an inch to Peter standing on Margot’s right—“hoping to see you, my beloved Charles!”
He’s always next to Margot like a leech.
Then it hits me—I’m jealous.
What the fuck?
I’m never jealous of the chick I’m attracted to. Not even possessive. I simply never care deeply enough for those emotions. Feeling that way about Margot Nolan while waiting to meet and woo the Key to the Key augurs nothing good.
I’ll nip this in the bud. Peter can have her.
CHAPTER 9
JONAS
Liam bows. “That’s it. The Jane Austen Bloomsbury and Beyond Walking Tour is officially over.”
Sandra launches a round of cheers before we retrace our steps on Grosvenor Street and cut through Soho on our way back to Bloomsbury.
My phone rings as we navigate the winding streets of London’s most vibrant and Bohemian neighborhood. It’s Leo, aka Prince Leonardo Xavier di Borbone, Duke of Savoy, and my best friend since childhood.
“I’m in London,” he says.
“Ha! Me, too.”
“I know.” He tee-hees. “I just bought two last-minute tickets to your show for my current girlfriend and myself.”
“Which night?”
“The last one, next Saturday.”
That’s when I’ll be chasing Giselle.
“Can you change your tickets to any other night?” I ask Leo. “I won’t have time for you, which would be a shame, seeing as we’re rarely in the same place at the same time, and I haven’t met your new girlfriend.”
“First, this girlfriend will last as long as the previous one, which is not very long. Second, your show is sold out, man! I was lucky to get two tickets.”
“Hold on,” I say to Leo before catching up with Sandra. “Is it OK if I skip the rest of the afternoon? An old friend is in town.”
She nods. “As long as you’re there all day tomorrow for the dress rehearsal and test performance.”
I whisper thank you to her and then ask Leo, “How far are you from Soho or Bloomsbury?”
“Fifteen minutes, unless there’s a traffic jam.”
“Meet me at The French House,” I say.
The legendary pub, which boasts such patrons as Charles de Gaulle and Dylan Thomas, is my favorite watering hole in Soho.
Twenty minutes later, Leo and I are nursing half pints at a table for two in the back.
“How is Matteo doing?” Leo asks.
Ever since Matteo could walk and talk, he and Leo have been getting on like a house on fire regardless of how often they see each other.
I pull out my phone. “Want to say hi? He should be back from school now.”
“Absolutely!”
I call up the nanny’s number. She says they’re outside in the castle’s park, and she’ll get Matteo.
“Matteo! I have your dad and Leo on the phone!”
The jingle of Matteo’s delighted laughter reaches me first. Then he takes the phone from her and I see his face on the screen, glowing with excitement. His wool hat is askew on his head. He readjusts it, panting to catch his breath, cheeks rosy from the cold. The white snow dust on his coat glints in the sun.
“Hey, Matteo!” Leo waves at him. “I’m here in London with your dad. What’s up?”
Matteo waves back. “Hey, Leo! Hey, Jonas! Leo, when are you coming over?”
“Not this month, bud,” Leo says. “But in February or March pretty much whenever your dad says it’s OK.”
Matteo’s eyes widen with glee as a smile spreads across his face.
“Jonas?” he peers at the camera. “Are you there?”
I move into the frame. “I’m here. How about any date that suits Leo during your next school holiday?”
Matteo gives me a thumbs-up.
“Do you mind if we meet in Cannes and not at home?” I ask Leo. “That way, I can mix postproduction work at the studio with the pleasure of your company.”
“Sounds like we’ve got ourselves a plan,” Leo says.
With the deal concluded, we say our goodbyes and I end the call.
Leo gives me a gentle smile. “He’s a great kid.”
“Yes, he is.”
We focus on our half pints for a while.
Leo breaks the silence, “So, tell me, are you enjoying your first professional acting gig?”
“It’s hard work. But yeah, I love it.”
“My girlfriend adores your character, Mr. Darcy.” He rolls his eyes. “Beats me why.”
“Since when does a woman need a reason to be in love with Mr. Darcy?”
“Stop right there before this turns into another rant about women.”
“Are you in love?”
He shakes his head. “But I love women as a class. I won’t let you bad-mouth them.”
“I was just going to share my theory about Darcy.”
He nods.
“He’s a first-class brooder,” I say. “That’s half of the appeal. He rocks at brooding. The other half is that he’s über honorable.”
Leo winks. “The brooding part must be a piece of cake for you.”
“Sure. It’s the honorable part that I struggle with.”
“Cut that crap, will you?” He casts me a hooded look. “If you’re referring to the scandal, no one remembers it anymore.”
“Oh, but they do. And so do I. How could I ever forget?” Almost as an afterthought, I add, “There’s a glaring hole in my life without Stephen.”
The look on Leo’s face reminds me that I’ve hardly said my twin brother’s name in two years. Neither have Celeste or Mom. We still find it physically painful to utter his name. My sister and mother spend a lot of time at his gravesite, cleaning or adding flowers or just hanging. Not me. I haven’t been to Stephen’s grave since we buried him.
Leo sweeps a hand over his forehead. “Buddy, I’m not asking you to quit grieving for your twin brother and your father.”
“I’m not grieving for them.”
“Then maybe you should.”
It’s my turn to startle.
He looks away, before turning back to stare me in the eye. “You’re stuck, man. You’ve been mentally stuck in some early stage of grief for over two years now.”
Interesting observation. “And you have a recipe for unsticking me?”
He chews on his bottom lip. “I don’t, but there are people who do. Get help. I don’t know… See a therapist. Join a group.”
“And become a pathetic whiner who cries in public?”
“You don’t need to cry. Just talk.”
Before I can stop myself, I blurt out the truth, “I can’t talk about Stephen.”
We drink in silence.
“Fine, then don’t,” Leo says at length. “Keep him in your heart without talking about him. But do yourself a favor and turn the page on the rest.”
I know Leo means well. In fact, I don’t disagree with him. It would be dumb to deny that the most sensible course of action is to cherish Stephen’s memory without fixating on the circumstances of his death. That fixation has now poisoned every aspect of my life including my relationships and my worldview. What Donna did to Stephen has shifted the misgivings I’ve always had about the fairer sex to an antagonism that’s not healthy—or reasonable. I’m aware of that.
A part of me truly wishes I could go back to the way I was before. But in my twisted reality, that shameful, dirty, tragic morning is as fresh as if it were yesterday. It just won’t fade away, no matter how much time goes by.
Will that wound ever mend?
There are times when it looks like I can get on with my life. The pain goes away when Matteo says something involuntarily hilarious, or when I’m absorbed with work, or when I dance or spar with Margot Nolan. That last one is a recent, inexplicable addition.
But then something reminds me about the ugliness of that fateful morning, and the festering resumes. I go back to ruminating, overanalyzing, and wondering how none of us saw it coming. Could Mother or I have prevented it? Could she have been more vigilant with Dad? Could Celeste have seen through Donna? Could any of us have stopped Stephen from getting into his car? Is my ancient family’s previously spotless name marred forever? Do my fellow countrymen ridicule us behind our backs?
What does the royal family really think about mine? Does the Reigning Prince Richard despise the d’Alenqs? Do Max and Theodor make jokes about us? Did the lewdness of my father’s last moments shock Princess Felicia and the Dowager Princess Gertrude?
It shouldn’t, given Prince Benjamin’s “adventure.”
Gertrude’s younger son, Felicia’s late husband, had had an extramarital affair. Prince Arnaud was born of it. But Benny’s liaison had happened during his yearlong separation from Felicia, shortly after Theodor was born. Felicia, afflicted by a severe form of baby blues, banished Benny from the palace. He settled in Cannes where he met Arnaud’s mother. Later, Felicia got better, Benny groveled, she took him back, and they had two more kids. The couple lived happily ever after, until Kurt Ozzi had Benny poisoned, which resulted in a prolonged illness that killed him.
But in comparison, the royals’ scandal isn’t remotely as offensive as ours.
“Let it go,” Leo says, breaking me from my thoughts. “If not for your own sake, then for Matteo’s. Can you do that?”
“I know I should.”
“But will you?”
We look at each other.
His defeated expression tells me he sees the answer in my eyes.
CHAPTER 10
MARGOT
It’s happening.
I peek into the Sky Hall through the narrow gap in the plywood set wall.
The technician’s flickering the lights to get the audience’s attention. Spotlights highlight the center of the hall. The hubbub gradually dies down. The fidgeting and shifting stop. When the audience is perfectly silent as if mesmerized, I know they’re ready. The technicians scurry around to do some last-minute fine-tunings and disappear through side doors. The musicians warm up playing softly to themselves and testing their instruments.
The first of our seven performances is about to begin. And begin it will with a ball.
As soon as the velvet curtains whir open, the musicians burst into an energetic, sparkling tune. Overhead, the crystal chandeliers light up all at once, bathing the hall in their warm glow. The audience gasps. They begin to applaud so hard you’d think we already delivered the show they came here for.
But I believe I know what inspired such emotion in them. At this point, it obviously isn’t the actors’ play or the immersive aspect. Nor is it the clever props, scenery, or digital projections. They’ll impress later when they transform this room into Meryton, Grosvenor Street, or Netherfield Park… But right now, it’s Sky Hall itself. Its sheer size, the height of its ceilings, the elegance of its windows, the intricate patterns of the gold leaf on the walls, the antique furniture pieces, the moldings, and the grand chandeliers. If someone held a worldwide contest for the best Regency ballroom, this magnificent Georgian hall might just win.
Most of the actors are already in the room, mingling and interacting with the audience. But my fancy-pants party consisting of my sister Louisa, her husband Mr. Hurst, my brother Charles, myself, and Mr. Darcy will remain backstage a little longer.
I glance in the mirror, adjust my miniature wireless mic, and twist left and right to inspect my sides.
Perfect—as it should be.
For this inaugural ball, Caroline Bingley is dressed in a lovely flowing gown cut in cream muslin and gold-trimmed silk. The Empire-waist gowns that our wardrobe master Tami picked for me were the best of the lot. She added some tasteful yet showy costume jewelry including a pair of earrings so artfully polished you’d bet they were real diamonds. She then pinned my hair into a high chignon and pulled a few locks out to frame my face.
Caroline is dressed to kill. She has both means and a purpose—to entrap Mr. Darcy.
Phil and Sarika who play the Hursts join me, their expressions focused. We do a quick breathing exercise. Phil brushes an invisible speck off Sarika’s sleeve. She fluffs his cravat. The three of us wish one another good luck, making sure to not say thank you.
Peter arrives next and plants himself by my side.
And then I see Jonas.
His dark hair is styled into short romantic curls peeking from under his top hat. He has long sideburns that suit him just as well as the evening stubble or the clean shave. His bottom half is clad in tall black Hessians and cream close-fitting breeches that show off his narrow hips and firm abs. A dark cutaway tailcoat hugs his broad shoulders, tapering down to his waist. Underneath it, a silk waistcoat is buttoned over an immaculate white linen shirt with frilly cuffs, a high collar and a lavish cravat.
I’d swoon now if I were a real Regency lady.
Stop gawking, Margot!
“You look beautiful,” Jonas says to me with an oddly annoyed look on his face.
Confused by such conflicting clues, I mutter, “Why, thank you.”
It’s almost time.
Peter offers his hand. “Ready?”
I roll my eyes, channeling Caroline Bingley. “To suffer through an evening of forced merriment among giddy country folk?”
My friends grin, their facial muscles relaxing a bit.
I expel a resigned breath. “Oh well, I suppose we must.”
The master of the ceremonies opens the door in the fake wall and announces us to the room, one by one. The room exhales audibly at “Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
With a tiny nod to each other, we lift our chins and step out into the limelight.
The first twenty minutes sail by on cruise control.
Our first audience is amazing. They’re eager and responsive without being so zealous it would damage the performance. Elizabeth Bennet knows all her lines. There’s improv happening everywhere, and it’s all good. The cast and audience members mingle, converse, laugh.
Well, most of us do.
Jonas, on his feet, is observing the crowd with a darkly blasé, very Darcy-esque air. Phil, Sarika and I sit around, eyeing the others and making snide gossip, just as we’re supposed to do.
Later, I dance with Phil’s Mr. Hurst. Darcy asks Sarika’s Louisa Hurst for the honor, while royally ignoring Elizabeth, just as he should at this stage. Our party is too good for the countryfolk.
What Mr. Darcy isn’t supposed to do is stare at me. He keeps shooting my Caroline insistent looks that I don’t know what to do with. And so, I look away.
For the next dance, Caroline will deign to trip the light fantastic with an extra who plays a local dignitary. He’s heading toward me with Peter’s Charles Bingley—my beloved brother—who will introduce us before he runs off to dance with Jane Bennet.
But Mr. Darcy gets to me first.
He pivots, blocking me from Peter and the extra. “I am afraid the lady has a previous engagement for this dance.”
Peter, the extra, and I freeze up in shock.
