Chapter Seven #2
“How splendid.” She accepted the proffered volume, vexed to find herself flustered.
Why did the man have to be so good-looking?
It had been easy enough to ignore him at table, where the distance between them and the intervening surtout de table of candelabras and Delftware obscured him quite effectively.
“Er—Mr. Tilson and I were just discussing how much we would like to hear readings.” She ought to ask him to begin, she knew, and with anyone else she would have, but what if Mr. Hearne were…
incapable? After his misreading of “coquet,” could he be trusted not to humiliate himself? Would it not be kinder to spare him?
“Will you begin, Miss Barstow?” he asked when she did not continue. “I might choose a passage for you.”
“Oh, do, Frances,” urged Jane beside her. “I would very much like to hear you read. Though—perhaps, Mr. Hearne, Miss Barstow might prefer to choose her own passage…?”
Without seeming to hear Miss Eveleigh’s hint, Mr. Hearne drew up a chair. “I have pored over it and thought of something for everyone.”
Curious, the younger guests drew nearer, and over his shoulder Maria was bold enough to say, “Do you mean you chose something for everyone, Mr. Hearne, or only for a few of you?”
“My sister means, did you pick something for her,” explained Gordon, earning a scowl from the young lady in question.
“Oh, dear me,” said Mr. Hearne, twisting about to peer behind him. “I meant what everyone means by ‘everyone,’ I suppose.” He began to leaf through the table of contents. “If you would like to go first, Miss Maria, perhaps you might give us…”
Maria drew a sharp breath, her eyes meeting Frances’. She wanted to participate, to be sure, and was always quick to resent being excluded, but to go first—!
“What would you say to Mrs. Bauble’s ‘Ode to Content’?”
“Er—ahem. Ahem,” she coughed. “Might I ask to read after I have had my tea? My—er—throat.”
Mr. Hearne blinked at her beautifully, saying nothing, and it was Gordon who rescued her, torn between laughter and contempt at the young man’s vacuity.
“Better have Frances start the ball rolling, sir. She’s a champion reciter at home.
And Peter isn’t too bad, through long practice at Keele’s.
They’re keen on having us speak pieces at school. ”
“Ladies first,” croaked Peter, no more willing than Maria to lead the way before strangers.
“Very well,” Frances said, resigned. She held out a hand for the book. “You say ‘Ode to Content’ would be a good place to begin?”
Meekly he surrendered The Speaker, and Frances sought the appropriate page.
It was true that she loved to read at home, but also true that at home she chose her own readings.
No insipid addresses to nymphs, if she could help it.
She would far rather deliver Portia’s monologue on mercy from The Merchant of Venice or Queen Elizabeth’s rousing speech to the troops at Tilbury.
In his essay which opened the book, Mr. Enfield advised, “Let your pronunciation be bold and forcible,” but how forcible could one be when repeating such silliness as “Thy mien compos'd, thy even pace,/ Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,/And chaste subdued delight”?
All these misgivings Frances kept to herself. Rising and crossing to the fireplace where the wall sconces were lit, she skimmed the poem silently while her auditors found their seats.
Pretend you are at home at Iffley Cottage, and it is just the family to hear you. Be natural. Vary your tones. Pause in the correct places. Elevate your voice where fitting.
By the polite silence in the room and the attentive faces, Frances thought she was acquitting herself well, but she had only recited so far as “Patience there, thy sister meek,/Presents her mild, unvarying cheek/To meet the offer'd blow” when Mr. Hearne began to applaud.
“Excellent, excellent,” he praised.
Frances broke off, confused. “Oh! Thank you. Let me see…where was I? Yes. ‘—To meet the offer’d blow’—”
“Quite delightful,” said Mr. Hearne loudly, shifting in his seat to beam at them all.
“Did you—not want me to finish the poem?” asked Frances.
“Yes, do finish, Miss Barstow,” called Mrs. Eveleigh. “I am quite moved by your delivery. Let us all hold our applause until the end, if you please,” she added, her gaze sweeping the drawing room and ending with Mr. Hearne.
“Oh, yes, I too would like to hear more of Miss Barstow’s delivery,” he said amiably. “But perhaps we might choose something else for her to read. It is only that Miss Barstow has a noble mien, rather than a placid, contented one. The contrast jars, don’t you know?”
“What?” Mrs. Eveleigh demanded with a nervous titter. “Mr. Hearne, you forget yourself with such personal comments.”
But Frances’ brother Gordon laughed. “It may be personal, but you’ve hit the nail on the head, Mr. Hearne. My mother or Mrs. Langworthy would be far more convincing, giving speeches on contentment.”
Frances hardly knew whether to blush at this discussion or to be glad she was spared reading the rest of the poem. Before she could decide, however, Mr. Midgecomb surprised her by joining her at the mantel.
“You mustn’t pay Adam any mind,” he told the room.
“He is very particular about ‘casting,’ you could call it. That is, the person delivering the speech should be well suited to it, in his opinion. I suppose it comes of all the years of acting we have done at Christ Church. From the time we were undergraduates we got up a show every winter and a play every summer.”
“Did you?” said Frances. “What sort of plays?”
“Shakespeare, mostly.”
“Then I should like to hear some,” Frances declared. “Here. There are many extracts in The Speaker, if you would favor us with one.”
“Hold, Miss Barstow,” he said. “You cannot let me chase you from the stage after six stanzas. It happens that, before we received the Eveleighs’ kind invitation to join them in Iffley, we had thought to get up a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream during the long vacation, and if Hearne here thinks you have a ‘noble mien,’ perhaps we could ask you to read a little Titania for us. ”
Frances’ lips parted in surprise.
“Yes, and—I will read Oberon.” Mr. Midgecomb said this with a snap of his fingers, as if it had just occurred to him. “We had once thought of me playing Oberon.”
“But are there any excerpts from the play in Enfield?” asked Frances, perusing the contents again.
“Never mind Enfield,” blurted Mr. Tilson, springing up. “I happen to have the library copy we might read from, with favorite scenes marked.”
Then, before she could say Jack Robinson, Mr. Midgecomb had the octavo volume open to Act Two, Scene One, and Mr. Tilson had scurried back to his seat.
It was all quite suspect. She could hardly say as much, however, and, despite being caught off guard, Frances was willing enough to read the new material. Pasting a smile on her features, therefore, she said, “If you like, I am willing.”
It was enough.
To her amazement, the often stammering, lovestruck Mr. Midgecomb metamorphosed before her eyes. He threw his shoulders back. He tossed his head, slicing the air with sharp nose. He placed one hand on his hip.
“My word,” whispered Frances.
“‘Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania,’” thundered Mr. Midgecomb, brows beetling.
Putting a hand to her lips and clearing her throat quietly, Frances choked back giggles. She did not dare raise her eyes from the page but affected icy disdain and replied, “‘What, jealous Oberon?’”
It did not take long, however, before Frances was caught up in the quarrel between the fairy king and queen, and she forgot altogether to be self-conscious. It also helped that she could stare at the book, rather than at Mr. Midgecomb’s affectations.
“‘Not for thy fairy kingdom,’” she vowed in conclusion. “‘Fairies, away. We shall chide downright if I longer stay.’”
This time it was Jane Eveleigh who burst out first in applause. “Oh! Oh! I wish you might read the entire play, Frances, Mr. Midgecomb! And how I wish you had been able to bring out your play this summer. I would have delighted to see it, wouldn’t you, Mama? Annabel?”
Such enthusiasm overwhelmed Mr. Midgecomb, and he flushed scarlet, his breast swelling with pride. Frances thought his eyes even glistened with what might have been tears.
As the applause and approbation began to diminish, she saw Mr. Hearne give one last, mighty clap of his hands, a clap so large he smacked Mr. Tilson next to him, who then started to his feet.
“Say, Midge, did you hear what Miss Eveleigh said? She wishes we had been able to bring out our play this summer. Wouldn’t that have been famous?”
Mr. Midgecomb started. “Oh, right. Right. Yes. Famous. Well—er—we are much happier to be here, thank you, and the play will have to wait until we are back in Oxford. Because Hearne says—that is—Hearne read that you need a minimum of eleven actors for A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and for that many people we will require all hands to the pump. ”
“But—I daresay we could find eleven people,” ventured Maria, “if it really is so few. Why, there are twelve of us just here. I know we Barstows read all the time, though we have never been in a real play, and Peter and Mr. Denver have done as much at home or school, I imagine.”
Mr. Eveleigh held up a hand. “Now, now, Miss Maria. You must excuse me from such duties. I am no actor.”
Jane wailed in disappointment. “Oh, very well, Papa, but surely you will help us, Mama?” She turned on Mrs. Eveleigh.
“My dear girl, it sounds very amusing for the young people, but I would prefer to be your admiring audience as I am this evening. Perhaps something else might be chosen, requiring fewer people…?”
“What about you, Annabel?” Jane asked her cousin next.
Miss Jarvis fidgeted. “Oh, Jane. I suspect I would be quite wooden, but I am willing, if it pleases you.”
“It does please me. Let me see, if we all participated we would only need one more person.”
“Our sister Sarah might do it,” Maria suggested, “if she were given the smallest parts because our nephew Bash wants watching still.”
“She would make eleven,” said Mr. Midgecomb, his eyes meeting Mr. Hearne’s. “There. It’s done.”