Chapter Eight
NURSE
A man, young lady—lady, such a man
As all the world—why, he’s a man of wax.
LADY CAPULET
Verona’s summer hath not such a flower.
—Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet (c.1595)
“What’s this I hear, Miss Barstow, about you bringing on a play at Greenwood Hall?” Mrs. Lamb the postmistress accosted her the following day as Frances and Maria were walking to Perryfield.
“My goodness, how news does travel,” said Frances. “Maggs must have been listening at the door.”
“Wasn’t her. It was the footman Treadle, who then told Maggs and the others. Is it true? Then everyone might stare at that Mr. Hearne all they like, though perhaps he hasn’t the wits to take part.”
“We will see about a play,” Frances returned, “but Mrs. Dere must give her approval. Good morning, Mrs. Lamb.”
“Surely Mrs. Lamb won’t be invited to be in the audience!
” breathed Maria, when they were out of earshot.
“Mr. Midgecomb said it would only be for friends in the neighborhood, which wouldn’t be above twenty people, to be sure.
” Murmuring under her breath, she counted on her fingers.
“…The Lanes, the Chaunceys…Yes. Even if Jane and her Philip could be persuaded to come all the way to Iffley, there would not be twenty.”
“There will not be any at all unless Mrs. Dere says there will.”
The girls spied Lord Dere at a distance on horseback, going to supervise the raking and turning of the hay, but they knew his presence would be superfluous, as he would abide by whatever his niece decided.
Wood admitted them to the morning room where Mrs. Dere conferred with the housekeeper. “Let it be twelve dishes in one course, then,” she said, “including grass lamb, forced and roast beef, a soup, a jelly, turbot or carp or both, and whatever else is good. Thank you, Robson.”
“Is it a dinner, madam?” asked Maria, making her curtsey.
“Certainly. One must return the Eveleighs’ hospitality. Go and practice your music, child, while I speak with your sister.”
Poor Maria could hardly disguise her chagrin to be banished from this interesting conversation, but she slouched away after throwing Frances a mournful look.
“Come,” beckoned Mrs. Dere. “Be seated. Peter hinted at something in the wind when he returned yesterday, and this morning Dorothy sent me a note, but I wanted to sound you before I replied.”
News really did fly in Iffley! Though at least Mrs. Dere had gained her information through sanctioned channels.
“Then Mrs. Eveleigh must have told you that, after reading a scene from A Midsummer Night’s Dream with me last night—a scene Mr. Midgecomb suggested—he then had the idea that we should make our party a theatrical one and represent the play at Greenwood Hall.
Only to be performed before friends and family, naturally.
I’m afraid everyone grew enthusiastic at once, and before Mrs. Eveleigh could express any reservations, we were talking of casting and costumes and scenes and properties!
Mr. Midgecomb had Miss Jarvis and Maria and Peter and Gordon and George Denver all read a little something, ‘just to gain a sense of their capabilities and which parts they might suit,’ he said, and only when all that was done did Mrs. Eveleigh say, very apologetically, that we had better hold off on further planning, until we had gained approval from you and Mama. ”
“And what does Mrs. Barstow say?”
Frances gave a rueful smile. “That she thought it all good fun, and that she would very much like to see the play enacted, but that she did not think it wise for Maria or me to practice a scene alone with the any of the gentlemen, apart from George Denver, whom we have known so long.”
“Good counsel,” said Mrs. Dere.
“And she said, of course, that she would abide by your decision, madam.”
“Mm.” Mrs. Dere had taken up her needlework by this point, that her hands would be busy while she considered, and faint notes carried to them from the drawing room as Maria began her exercises.
Ordinarily Frances might read to her while she worked, but on this occasion she was obliged to sit quietly with her hands in her lap, waiting.
“Dorothy wrote that, despite having so many roles, the play might be represented with as few as eleven actors.”
“Yes.” Frances’ brow creased thoughtfully. “Mr. Midgecomb said that Mr. Hearne…read that it might be done. And though we were all quite eager to know which roles Mr. Midgecomb would assign each person, after Mrs. Eveleigh’s caution, we had to desist, you know.”
Mrs. Dere drew another stitch. “You have now spent two evenings in company with the young visitors, Frances. What is your opinion? Would this activity be suitable for the party, or do you harbor any misgivings?”
She had prepared herself for the question.
“They all three seem to be respectable gentleman,” she answered carefully. “Courteous and—well-meaning. Therefore I would not apprehend any danger from the situation, apart from the possibility of attachments being formed, and I think you have said you would not disapprove such a turn of events.”
“Nor would I, Frances, as far as I know. To this point I share your opinion on the gentlemen. Mr. Midgecomb does indeed seem already fond of Jane Eveleigh (which is not to say she yet returns his feelings), but I think Mr. Hearne and Mr. Tilson have their virtues as well.”
Frances could not prevent a skeptical lift of her brows, but she gave a polite murmur of agreement.
“Certainly Mr. Tilson is pleasant to converse with, since I have been seated twice beside him at dinner. He is, perhaps, not as handsome as—Mr. Midgecomb or Mr. Hearne—but he compensates with his good nature and intelligence.”
“Mm.”
Clearly Mrs. Dere was not in perfect agreement here, and Frances dutifully asked, “What opinions do you have, madam?”
“I myself was seated beside Mr. Hearne at Sunday’s dinner and found him good company.”
“Do you mean that you liked to look at him?” Frances probed. “For he doesn’t say a great deal.”
“He is shy, I believe. One of those retiring, academic types who does not strain to put himself forward. But when he is asked questions, his replies are to the point.”
It was unthinkable to contradict Mrs. Dere, but such was Frances’ incredulity that she came near it.
“In your generosity, madam, you must beware of attributing your own powers of conversation to those around you. I wonder if it is…shyness on Mr. Hearne’s part or more that he has, in fact, little to say.
” Because his head is so empty owls could roost in it!
“Nonsense,” her companion rejoined. “Just because a young man is not a rattle does not mean he has nothing worthwhile to contribute when called upon. I learned he is a second son with a much older brother and that he prefers reading to cards but would willingly play a hand at Perryfield if I asked.”
And what was that, Frances wondered, but nothing at all?
An uneasiness had been building in her midsection which had nothing to do with whether Mrs. Dere would or would not approve the playmaking.
No. This disquiet stemmed from a suspicion that, in so short a time, her benefactress had already anointed Mr. Adam Hearne as Frances’ chosen match. Mr. Hearne, the blank Mr. Butterfly?
Giving herself a surreptitious thump on the sternum for courage, Frances managed a chuckle.
“He prefers reading to cards? Did he mean reading to himself or reading aloud? It must be the former, because then he might proceed at his own pace. I could see how card-playing or reading aloud might…tax Mr. Hearne’s faculties. ”
Mrs. Dere threw her a sharp look, which Frances sustained with as bland an expression as she was capable of, hoping her thumping heart could not be heard at a distance of four feet.
“He is an Oxford don, Frances,” she said after a moment. “Which means he may not shine in mixed company through lack of practice, but surely he is capable of both kinds of reading, having had to do both for years as an undergraduate and as a fellow.”
“Yes, I suppose he has.” She remembered his comment in the Greenwood library, that once he managed to get things into his head, there they stayed. What an inordinate amount of time he must spend, getting things to go in!
Her mind ran like a mill race. Why should Mrs. Dere prefer Mr. Hearne to Mr. Tilson, assuming she had resigned Mr. Midgecomb to Jane Eveleigh?
Not that Frances loved Mr. Tilson, but, given the choice, she would prefer a husband with a brain than otherwise.
Should she pretend a mild preference for Mr. Tilson, to steer Mrs. Dere away from the other one?
“Thank you for your observations, madam. I will strive to preserve an open mind about Mr. Hearne until I know him better, as I imagine I will come to, whether we try the piece or not.”
As if she read her young charge’s mind, Mrs. Dere set her work aside and patted the sofa cushion.
“Come here, my dear. I am not saying you must love Mr. Hearne—do not look so surprised! I can guess how a clever girl like yourself might dismiss someone prematurely because he suffers from a degree of awkwardness, but that is something a good wife and being more in society will help him overcome.”
“Yes, madam,” said Frances, unable to keep a dismal note from her voice. And then she did resort to Mr. Tilson. “But do you not think Mr. Midgecomb and Mr. Tilson equally agreeable and without any—unfortunate—trait to overcome?”
“As I noted, Mr. Midgecomb’s heart appears already given to Miss Eveleigh,” she replied briskly.
“Which is not to say it cannot be retracted, especially as she does not yet appear to return his feelings, but I am being practical here, Frances. And, yes, Mr. Tilson will do, although Mrs. Eveleigh tells me his fortune is not as large, and I did hope for a more distinguished match for you.”
“Oh—‘distinguished’! Who am I, madam, but a poor relation dependent on the baron’s charity?”