Chapter Eleven
After two or three Conferences, he drew Stakes and declined the Dispute.
“I fear I’ve made a hash of my chances with any of the young ladies,” John Tilson sighed.
It had been decided the full party would gather at one o’clock for the first reading of the play, but the three Oxford dons met after breakfast for billiards.
“You certainly did,” replied Adam. “Rating me, with that maniacal gleam in your eye! Mrs. Markham Dere no doubt thought you on the point of running me through.”
“As he was,” put in Midge, “if there’d been so much as a pen knife at hand.”
“And to call me names! In light of such bad behavior, it would only be good sense for her to warn Miss Barstow off, and likely Mrs. Eveleigh as well.” His carrom pocketed a ball, and Tilson groaned.
“But—how was I to help myself, when you were playing like such a dunderhead?”
“I was playing ‘in character,’ dear boy. I could hardly be expected to be a wizard at whist.”
“Of course you could have,” insisted Tilson.
“We might have explained it away. We might have said that, while being a perfect dunce at everything else in life, you had an inexplicable native sharpness for anything involving counting. That would have covered all future card games and indeed all games of chance, should the party move on to dicing or other forms of gambling.”
Hearne pocketed another ball. “Your aftersight is shrewd, John. But if, in your foresight you have additional suggestions to cope with situations yet unknown, do share them, and I will do what I can to put them into practice.”
Sighing, Tilson slapped his cue against his open palm. “I haven’t. Though perhaps we might hint that you do, in fact, continue to discover hitherto unsuspected talents. Such a statement could act as a carte blanche, to be called upon when needed.”
“Say away,” agreed Adam. “But such a strategy should be used sparingly. I have already told Miss Barstow that I can remember things if I try very, very hard to do so, for instance. If I suddenly discover a multitude of new faculties, my entire act may fall apart.”
“We can’t have that,” declared Midge instantly, “because I flatter myself that I begin to make progress with Miss Eveleigh. Last night at whist I managed to string several speeches in a row without impediment, and she even laughed once at an attempted witticism! Therefore I must insist that Adam reveal no new talents. It wouldn’t be fair. Or sportsmanly.”
“You’re just trying to improve your odds,” complained Tilson. “Your sluggish wooing has already cost you a few crowns of the ten-pound wager.”
“I want to win Miss Eveleigh more than I want to win the wager,” Midge retorted. “You’re just cross because by ruining your own chances with Miss Barstow, you lowered her odds of finding a husband by half.”
Now Tilson threw down his cue. “Well—what of it?”
“Surely even you wouldn’t have tried to marry her just so you could win a few pounds from us, John,” Adam chuckled.
But the gambler’s gleam lit Tilson’s eye again.
“True. If I married her, all I would have would be those few pounds I won from you, portionless as she is. No, no. As I see it, I have two remaining chances to triumph: one, I delay Midge winning Miss Eveleigh for forty more days; and, two, I get you to marry Miss Barstow, Adam. Or Miss Jarvis, I suppose.” He rubbed his hands together eagerly. “What odds did we give Miss Barstow?”
Throwing down his own cue, Adam dug out his pocketbook and pincered a banknote from it. “Here, you madman. Take ten pounds for letting Midge court Miss E at his own pace and another ten for leaving Miss B and me out of your calculations. You see? You’ve won without even having to win.”
“But what’s the fun of that?” cried Tilson contrarily, tossing the notes back at him. “I want the thrill of victory.”
“And I want the clear conscience of not wagering upon the happiness of respectable young ladies,” Adam returned.
“Yes!” blurted Midge, extracting his own pocketbook. “I want that as well. And to be left alone. Here’s twenty from me.”
“That makes forty altogether, Tilson. And when you count the forty you would surely have lost, had we let you go to Ascot Heath, you’re now eighty pounds to the good.
Why, that’s more than you would likely make in a year as a curate.
” Adam grinned at him. “It appears I am indeed good at anything involving counting.”
His friend grimaced. “Including those numbers which Dawson the mathematics tutor calls ‘imaginary.’ I don’t want anything I haven’t won fair and square.”
“It’s either ‘win’ under these terms or cancel the wager altogether and draw stakes,” Adam replied, folding the notes into a missile and pelting Tilson with it.
“To draw stakes, all parties must agree to it,” retorted Tilson, hurling back the missile once more. “Otherwise the wager stands. I’ll consider Miss Barstow at ten to one. She’s pretty enough, but if you and Midge refuse to marry her—”
There was only time for one more round of flinging the notes at each other, however, before the door opened and Denver looked in.
“Whew!” he whistled, seeing Midgecomb and Hearne hasten to stuff the money back in their pockets. “High stakes, lads. Are you coming? After some discussion they’ve decided we should hold the reading on the terrace, and the footmen are carrying chairs out.”
The day was dry and mild, with clouds floating lazily through the blue, casting occasional shadows over the faces and pages.
Frances was prepared to be delighted. They were starting!
Here she sat with her very own copy of the play on her lap, and because it was her very own copy, she was free to underline and annotate as she pleased.
She might have wished that both Mrs. Dere and Mrs. Eveleigh had not deemed it necessary to witness this official commencement, but she was determined to enjoy herself and not think once about their matchmaking schemes.
“I assume you will continue as the acting manager, Mr. Midgecomb?” asked Mrs. Eveleigh.
“I will, madam,” he answered, with his habitual glance at Mr. Hearne, “and Mr. Tilson will assist me with—er—prompts and stage directions and such.”
“Why not Mr. Hearne for that?” Frances asked before she thought. “He has already read the play very carefully, as I learned last night.” She regretted speaking the next second, for Mrs. Dere bestowed an approving nod upon her, and then Mr. Tilson sprang up to second her suggestion.
“That’s right!” he said. “Amazing mind for words, has Adam. Let Adam be the prompter and assistant acting manager. He will sit upon this chair nearest those speaking in each scene. Come, Hearne, take this seat beside Miss Barstow, for we open with Theseus and Hippolyta. Adam will be a far better assistant to Midge, for he has a sweeter temper and greater patience than I, as you and Miss Jarvis and Mrs. Dere saw last night, to my chagrin.” He made a rueful face at Mrs. Dere, which she responded with a vague “hmm.”
“But why do we need a prompter when everyone has his own book?” Frances wondered. “Oughtn’t that to be when we are trying to recite from memory—”
“Begin!” interrupted Mr. Tilson with a clap. “Come, Midge. ‘Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour’ etc. etc.”
So the next thing Frances knew, there was Mr. Hearne on one side of her for no reason and Mr. Midgecomb on the other, and Mrs. Dere beaming upon her as if it had all been Frances’ own arranging. And not only Mrs. Dere beaming, but Mr. Tilson beaming, and what on earth were they all about?
Mr. Midgecomb delivered his speech to Hippolyta with his usual skill, but when he turned to Miss Eveleigh as Philostrate, his stammering curse fell upon him again, and suddenly it was, “‘Go, Philostate—I mean Strilophate—that is, Philostrape—’”
“Phi-lo-strate,” Mr. Hearne interjected, slowly and clearly, adding to Frances, “You see, Miss Barstow, I am not completely unnecessary.”
“But of course you are,” she returned. “Mr. Midgecomb can read the name perfectly, having his book open before him; it is the delivery of it which puts a spoke in his wheel. Mr. Midgecomb, perhaps if you tried looking at the book and not at Philostrate…?”
“Pardon me, Miss Barstow,” said Hearne humbly, “though we appreciate your recommendation, I believe Tilson and I are the assistant acting managers.” He leaned past her to address his friend. “Midge, perhaps if you tried looking at the book and not at Philostrate…?”
For the second time in as many days, Frances found herself smothering a giggle.
The warm feeling lasted some minutes, until she gave place to Maria and Peter to read their scene, and took a seat near Jane and Mrs. Dere.
Her benefactress then banished both the warm feeling and any urge to laugh by leaning forward to lay a hand upon her arm.
“You see, my dear?” she whispered (though Frances’ self-conscious ears thought surely Jane must overhear).
“You begin already to understand each other and to find common interests.”
“No,” Frances wanted to say. “That is not how it is at all.” But of course she couldn’t say it.
The reading continued, Mr. Midgecomb recovering his assurance as he guided Egeus and the Athenian lovers, but Frances’ mind was grappling with this latest evidence of Mrs. Dere’s purposes. Had the moment come, then, when she must enact her counterplot?
But it was ridiculous! Mrs. Dere might like Mr. Hearne as a husband for Frances, but even her powers were limited. She could not make Mr. Hearne propose, after all. And Frances was not so vain as to think all the world must fall in love with her, much less a cheerful blockhead like Mr. Hearne.
Still. It might be better not to run any risks.
It would have to be done.
Mrs. Dere was no fool, however, and Frances’ imposture would have to be both subtle and characteristic, to be believable.