Miss Dramatic, page 23
“Where you will do what? Be the grudging squire at Colforth Hall rather than the grudging squire here in Berkshire? I heard you deliver those sonnets, and I agree with Gemma Drysdale. You were good in Derbyshire. Knew all the lines, rendered the gestures so they felt genuine, had ferreted out the nuances and the humor and humility. You are better now. You are…” His own word came back to her. “Magnificent, and when you were reciting those old sonnets, Gavin…”
His gaze had grown guarded.
“I think you were happy,” Rose went on. “You brought every person in the room with you, and those ladies are not a sentimental bunch.”
“What are you saying?”
“I have had one discontented husband. Hammond Drysdale is a discontented husband. The species wreaks mischief, and I have learned my lesson. Your talent is too rare and precious to be ignored by me and certainly by you. I must continue to steward Colforth Hall—harvest will soon arrive—and you must find a way to respect the talent that brings you such joy, even if your family objects.”
“They apparently don’t any longer, not as they once did.”
“Then the hesitation is yours, Gavin, and I will not be the reason you remain restless and… incomplete.”
He left the bed, looking angry and splendid in the altogether “I will be much more incomplete if you swan off to Colforth Hall and leave me here galloping about on a horse who’s more than ready for his first race course.”
“You are more than ready. Resume acting, if that’s your pleasure. Try your hand at directing. Become the patron Drysdale must impress if his troupe is to rise above obscurity. Use your gifts, Gavin. Will Roland be content to while away his years in some shady paddock now that he’s become the fastest horse in the shire?”
“I am not a horse.”
“You are not a jovial squire, or not only that. My worst fear is that five years from now, I will be your devoted wife, and you will be my darling husband, but when I ask you how you’re faring after a day with the tenants and the steward, you will say you are fine—splendid, even—when you’re bored, frustrated, exhausted, and resentful.”
He pulled on underlinen and riding breeches and paused, shirtless. “How could anybody mistake you for anything other than a dragoness in her prime?”
“I mistook myself for a failed wife and a bewildered widow. For the sake of my dignity, please put on a shirt.”
Gavin grinned and twirled, finishing with an elaborate court bow. “You aren’t indifferent to me.”
Rose got off the bed, pulled her chemise over her head, and tried for a glower. “I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, but if I haul you away to my Hampshire lair now, I fear we’ll leave precious treasure behind. You deserve to be happy, Gavin.”
“I deserve to be married, to you, and while you’ve given me much to think about, I don’t want to take over Drysdale’s troupe. He’s right that he knows that bunch. He’s a competent director, and he can get the best out of them. Where did I…?”
Rose handed Gavin his stockings. “I’m not sure what to do with Drysdale. On the one hand, I think Gemma longs to be free of him. On the other, he’s not truly evil. Merely weak and vain.” Dane had been merely weak and vain. Toss in a dash of arrogance and an unrelenting fondness for the bottle, and the combination became stale very quickly.
Gavin pulled on boots and stockings and assisted Rose into her dress. “Shall I decide his fate?”
“What would you advise?”
“He and his troupe will perform, gratis, for all of Hecate’s sailors’ homes every year without fail. They will perform at Chelsea on the same terms, if invited, and for other audiences of your choosing. Drysdale thrives on a challenge, and bringing some laughter and joy into those lives should motivate him to do his best.”
“And also remind him of how fortunate he is. I like it.” She passed Gavin his cravat and was smoothing his hair—or pretending to—when the baying of a hound pierced the morning stillness.
“Fortinbras,” Gavin said, kissing Rose’s cheek. “The coach will be pulling into the Arms within a quarter hour. That dog is more accurate than any clock. Shall I see you back to Miller’s Lament?”
“You’re anxious to get on your horse?”
“Roland will be saddled and waiting for me, but that’s immaterial.”
The horse who had kept Gavin sane over some very difficult months would never be immaterial to him. “You’re angry?”
This time, he kissed her cheek. “No, but I am in imminent peril of begging you to marry me. I appreciate that you’re correct—I love the theater, I love its history and wisdom, its power and frailty. That has been true since I was a boy. I love you, too, and I’m not sure what you’re asking of me.”
Rose was asking him to love himself and his own dreams with the same passion he brought to his care for her. Not a small request, as she well knew.
“Think on the puzzle, then, while I see to harvest at Colforth Hall and wait for letters from the man I adore.”
He kissed her on the mouth. “My family might think I’m running off again if I resume my interest in acting.”
One more kiss and Rose would be doing the begging. “You were not running away from them. You were running toward a dream.”
The dog howled again, and Gavin went still. His gaze became distant, and for the longest moment, he did not move.
“What?” Rose asked, willing herself not to touch his hair again. “Something troubles you.”
“Drysdale will run away.” Gavin grabbed his coat and gave Rose a thorough smacker. “Drysdale is doubtless planning to be on the morning stage. If he gets to London, we’ll never find him.”
“Gavin, what are you…?”
“I’m off for a rousing gallop. I love you.”
“I love you too,” Rose called after him as he loped through the door and took off down the towpath at a brisk jog. “So very much.”
She sat on the bed and munched on a cinnamon biscuit, wondering if she’d just been an enormous fool, or truly wise. Gavin hadn’t really put up much of an argument, and he certainly had not begged her for her hand.
“I cannot have another discontented husband,” she said, finishing her biscuit. “I cannot ever again be a wife made unrelentingly anxious by her husband’s personal discontent.” She tidied up and left the hamper on the balcony, then locked the door with the key above the lintel.
She’d no sooner made her way to the towpath than a thundering streak of horse and rider pounded past. Ye gods, they made a magnificent picture in the predawn mists. Rose blew a kiss in their wake and half hoped Gavin would let Drysdale escape.
Then Gavin would have to step in with the Players, and that might solve several problems at once.
“But is that what would make him happy?”
She trundled up the towpath and was soon in her bedroom, dreaming of Gavin reciting those wonderful sonnets, just for her, and also for a packed theater of misty-eyed women.
Gavin knew all the shortcuts, and more to the point, Roland knew them. Once the horse sensed that the objective was to gain the London road, he needed no guidance. Gavin’s job was to give the beast his head and let him do what he loved to do.
Roland took two stiles in foot-perfect rhythm, streaked across a pasture, splashed through a tributary to the Twid, and cleared the streambank in a single mighty bound.
You were made for this. A ditch, a ha-ha, and one more stile, and Gavin was on the London road, the stage a quarter mile ahead and kicking up a cloud of golden dust.
Gavin applied a hint of leg. “Go, boy. Catch him for me, for Rose, and for the Players.”
Roland’s terrific speed increased yet more, until Gavin was galloping directly behind the stage. The travelers up top waved and began to cheer him on. A small boy stuck his head out the window and nearly lost his cap when the coach careened around a curve.
The coachy was apparently not inclined to pull to the side, which meant more strategy was in order.
On the next broad, sweeping curve, Gavin sent Roland across the field that the thoroughfare bordered. Roland not only made short work of the whole distance, but also cleared the stone wall on the far end as if he were merely beginning his morning romp.
They landed on the road mere yards ahead of the cantering coach horses. Gavin aimed his mount down the center of the lane and refused to give way.
“Git yer wretched arse off the King’s Highway, ye ruddy gobshite!” the coachy called. “Ye be interferin’ with the Royal Mail.”
That expostulation inspired the outside travelers to more cheering.
Gavin put some distance between himself and the coach, then swung Roland around to halt such that the road was thoroughly blocked between venerable stone walls. The coach rocked to a halt amid more profanity from the coachman.
“You are abetting the flight of a suspected felon,” Gavin called. “Put Hammond Drysdale out, and you can be on your way.”
“Are ye oot of yer bluidy mind, Mr. DeWitt?” The guard, a crusty old Scot with whom Gavin had shared an occasional pint, laid his pistol across his knees.
“I am on the king’s business. Hammond Drysdale is suspected of thievery and attempting to flee justice. Put him out, and I’ll trouble you no more. He’s probably disguised as a bearded old man who’s hard of hearing.”
A short conference took place up on the box, and one of the rooftop passengers passed another a coin.
“Drysdale!” the guard called. “If ye be aboard, show yerself.”
The summer sun began to crest the tree tops, one of the coach horses stomped impatiently, and the dust of the road drifted lazily in the morning air. The buffoons on the roof began to stomp and pound on the coach. After a few moments of that nonsense, the coach door swung open, and Drysdale half stumbled, or was half pushed, from the vehicle. A satchel was pitched out after him, nearly hitting him in the breadbasket.
“Thank you,” Gavin said, shifting Roland to the verge. “Mr. Drysdale and I will return to Crosspatch Corners. I appreciate the assistance.”
“I appreciate that colt,” the coachy said. “Likes o’ him deserves to run at Newmarket. He’ll win ye a tidy packet.” The coachy called to his team, cracked the whip above their heads, and rolled off in a fresh cloud of dust.
Roland curvetted and tossed his head, clearly ready to give chase once more.
Gavin thumped his mount on the shoulder. “Good boy. Well done. You are a credit to Crosspatch Corners and to your dam and sire.”
“He’s worth some coin if you can keep him sound,” Drysdale said. “Why the great drama, DeWitt?”
Gavin swung down and took his time loosening Roland’s girth and dealing with the stirrups.
“I gave chase because you were running away.” He took the reins over Roland’s head and began walking in the direction of the village, a good mile up the road. “Come along, Drysdale. The sun will grow hot if you think to tarry.”
“The morning will be comfortable for a while yet.” Drysdale peeled off the false beard and bushy eyebrows he’d been wearing, wadded them up, and tossed them into the ditch. “Wretched stuff is itchy.” He used his handkerchief to wipe away the remains of the glue. “Has your lady decided to have me arrested?”
His tone was jaunty, his smile winsome, and Gavin realized that Hammond Drysdale was a fine actor—off the stage.
“Has your lady decided to be quits with you?” Gavin asked, setting a modest pace.
“I’m sparing her the effort.” Drysdale collected his satchel and fell in step. “When I joined Gemma last night, she was already in bed and sharing the mattress with a vast silence familiar to disgraced husbands. I spent a few hours dozing and thinking in a chair, then decided to, for once, do the right thing.”
“Disappear into London?”
“Leave Gemma in peace. We’re not married, you know. She uses my name for propriety’s sake, but she refused my ring. She deserves better, and with me out of the way, she can find it.”
While Drysdale avoided any uncomfortable interviews with the magistrate. How noble of him. “Gemma is devoted to you. If she’s turned down your proposal, then you’re not doing it right.”
“I assure you, DeWitt, when it comes to marital enthusiasms, I can acquit myself—”
“Not that part. You are a discontented husband, or you would be if she ever agreed to marry you. She needs you to sort yourself out. You steal because you think she wants you to build some grand histrionic legacy, but you’re wrong. Gemma just wants you to be yourself and to appreciate her.”
Roland balked, snorted at nothing, then resumed walking.
“Now you’re the sage of Berkshire?”
“I’m a man in love, and not only with the theater. This path will take us to the Twid.” Gavin would have turned down the indicated track, but Roland chose then to prop, stand very tall, then lower his head.
He repeated that maneuver until a rabbit hopped across the path, which occasioned a sidewise shy that devolved into a surreptitious swipe at the grass.
“Walk on, horse,” Gavin said, tugging on the reins. “If you ever tire of racing, you can hire yourself out as a sentry.”
Drysdale came along as well and without any nonsense. Perhaps he truly hadn’t wanted to decamp for London.
“Word of advice from an old thespian, DeWitt. You don’t fall out of love with the stage. If it’s in your blood, you will starve, steal, beggar yourself, and worse for an opportunity to give Falstaff another go. You’ll wait hours in the cold for a chance to audition for a part as one of the witches, and you will fall asleep more nights than not with a script pressed against your cheek.”
“All of which tells me that Drysdale’s Players need to find their next venue. Since returning to Crosspatch, I’ve corresponded with a brother and sister who’ve recently opened a theater in Bristol. A general expression of goodwill from one who appreciates… that sort of thing.” The sister had even written back. “I can’t say I know them, but through Tavistock’s step-mother, there’s a distant connection.”
And writing to the managers of a provincial house had been more appealing than enduring the steward’s lectures.
“The Merchants? I’ve seen the place. Splendid appointments, modern design, and not too high in the instep.”
“They aren’t trying to compete with London. They’re offering lighter fare and doing a good job of it. Miss Merchant strikes a hard bargain, from what I’ve heard, but she allows her brother a free artistic hand with the place. I think you and he would understand each other.”
“Ah, but will Gemma allow me to make the attempt?”
Gavin was betting that yes, she would. “She took on the threat of the noose rather than let you bear the risk you’d brought on yourself. That should give you considerable pause. At the turnoff for Miller’s Lament, you will give me the satchel, and I will pass it along to the most discreet footman I can find. When the guests are at lunch, he will unpack it for you. You will tell Gemma that you’ve been for a dawn constitutional along the river, and you have a profoundly sincere apology to offer her.”
“For pity’s sake, DeWitt. I tried that last night. She refused to hear a word of it.”
“No, you did not. You tried to wheedle and explain and excuse what you’ve done. Don’t quote a lot of poetical blather. Tell her if she casts you aside, you will be lost, and you are bloody sorry for your dunderheadedness.”
“You rehearsed that speech with Mrs. Roberts?”
“Not yet, but I’m considering it.”
They plodded along in an odd kind of commiseration. “Why do we pay money,” Drysdale mused, “to watch drama on the stage? All this haring about, lurking behind curtains, the marquess playing me for a fool, the lady thief-takers, or whatever they are, nearly getting caught in their own snares, while the course of true love runs no straighter than the course of yonder river. Jolly good entertainment, as long as it’s not your life.”
Phillip was probably entertained, but then, he was a philosopher at heart. “Who is the fool in this play?”
“That would be me, I suppose. Trying to be clever, convinced you were my nemesis when, in fact, my dear Gemma’s loyalty and clear thinking were thwarting my schemes.”
“You will be a fool if you can’t patch it up with Gemma.”
“And you,” Drysdale said as they reached the path to Miller’s Lament, “if you don’t make Mrs. Roberts your bride, young man.”
Gavin took the satchel. “You needn’t state the obvious. I’ll see you at lunch.”
Drysdale winked and saluted. “‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.’”
Roland lifted his tail and fragranced the morning breeze with le parfum d’un cheval en bonne santé.
Chapter Seventeen
“Drysdale seems more jubilant than repentant,” Rose observed as Gavin accompanied her up the main staircase on the final day of the house party. “I am not feeling jubilant.”
Gavin patted the hand she’d wrapped around his forearm. “I’ll come see you within the month. I’m hoping absence makes you desperate to become my wife.”
Gavin’s demeanor was not that of a lovesick swain, but rather, of a man confident of his objective. Rose took heart from that.
“You will see a woman desperate to finish harvest before exhaustion and inebriation fell every tenant and his family. The weather has been perfect, and that never remains the case for long.”
“These two weeks have been perfect.” Gavin drew her into an alcove at the top of the steps, and Rose went with him willingly. He excelled at small gestures of affection—a touch on her shoulder, a hand on her arm when he whispered some endearment during one of Diana’s sonatas. With the more serious displays, Gavin had become nothing short of genius.
Rose endured lavish and tender kisses and the most perfect of embraces with no witnesses save a bust of some old Roman statesman.
“You torment me,” she said, stepping back.
“I’m getting even for last night. If you don’t want to leave, Rose, then don’t. Come bide with us at Twidboro Hall for the next week. Your stewards and tenants are doubtless competent to get matters under way without you.”
