Chapter Twelve #2
Why had this loud, lively scene he encountered here pleased him so well? He had been grinning before he became aware of it and could only hope now that it was the stupid grin expected of him.
He sat in his designated chair, watching the ladies take up their work and the boys run fingers through their hair to repair the disorder, and he wished—he wished—
When comprehension came, it struck him like a weight across his shoulders.
I like it because I never experienced anything of the sort in my own family.
He had never experienced everyone simply liking each other.
Choosing each other’s company and enjoying it.
Even the bickering between the siblings bore not the slightest resemblance to the strife which tore the Hearnes apart.
Here there had been no malice in the sparring, no suspicion, no accumulated bitterness, no heartbreaking indifference.
Perhaps he would not have remarked it so clearly if he had not just come from mailing the letter to his mother. Or from hearing of the supposed sighting of his long-lost older brother. Had it been the combination of one or both or all, which resurrected some ancient feeling?
Whatever the cause, Adam grew suddenly aware of an inexplicable constriction of his throat. Even more horrifying, an urge to—weep?—swept over him, which for one long moment he feared he would be unable to conquer.
He sat. He opened his playbook willy-nilly and stared downward at the page. He said nothing and prayed no one would say anything to him.
They did not. But the curious little torture continued for him.
“Come, Gordy,” said Miss Barstow. “Let us try the wings on you.”
“Not my wings!” cried George.
“Clearly this set was never meant to be yours, George, because you are so tall they would look ridiculous on you.”
“As if we might look any other way, wearing wings,” muttered Gordon.
“Pooh,” his sister sniffed. “You will end in loving them because when you come onstage, shining and flickering, the audience will gasp in wonder.”
“Wonder at how we could look so ridiculous,” he returned, but his mouth was twitching.
She arched a warning brow at him. “All right, then, you ungrateful beast, we will try them next on Peter.”
“Peter is shorter than I am!” Gordon objected, now jealous.
“By half an inch!” said Peter.
Frances and Maria guided Peter’s arms through the ribbon straps and tied the drawing cords about his neck and midsection.
“Oh, they’re perfect!” they declared. Peter began to run about, setting the wings flapping, and Bash chased him, begging, “Make me some, Mama! I want wings! I want to fly!”
“Do you? Come here, then, Bashy,” urged Maria, snatching him up under the arms and giving him a swing. He was such a growing boy, however, that they nearly toppled over into Mrs. Terry and Mrs. Barstow, and Frances had to choke down her laughter and scold them.
“Decorum!” she insisted. “You harum-scarums! That’s enough. Bash, when the play is done, we will let you wear the wings, but we will have no more trying on of costumes today, or at this rate our other guests will come and find the place knocked all to pieces.”
Which is how, when the other Greenwooders arrived, they found the Iffley Cottagers quiet and sedate enough, studying their speeches or working on costumes. Even little Bash sat with a slate, writing his letters and numbers for Mrs. Terry.
Though Adam had succeeded in mastering his unexpected emotion, it was only when the maid admitted the others that he noticed his book had been open all this time to a scene in which he did not figure.
Lysander’s speech to Hermia: “One turf shall serve as pillow for us both;/One heart, one bed, two bosoms and one troth.”
He snapped the book shut.
“John insisted on coming, though he hasn’t a role with either the mechanicals or the fairies,” announced Mr. Midgecomb when greetings had been exchanged and everyone had found seats.
“I’m the assistant acting manager, after all,” said Mr. Tilson. “And it’s not my fault I’m the only person in the entire cast who plays only one role. Even Denver here gets to be the unnamed Fairy.”
“Unnamed but not unfamed,” joked George. “Wait until you see my wings. You will eat your heart with envy.”
“Haven’t I just said I already am eating it?
But since I am adjudged useless, let me prove my worth.
Let us begin with the mechanicals’ first scene.
Come, take these stools afront, Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout, and Starveling.
And—er—Miss Barstow, as you showed great aptitude for being an assistant acting manager yesterday, you had better be the assistant to the assistant.
Why don’t you take this chair beside Bottom, and you will be the prompter. ”
“Wait! Are we to know our speeches already?” gasped Miss Jarvis, but she was not alone in her dismay.
“Oh, pardon me,” replied Mr. Tilson. “Those of you who think you can get off some or all of your speeches by heart, have a go, but otherwise you may use your books. I assign Miss Barstow particular responsibility for Hearne alone because he has been conning his part for months.”
“For months?” repeated Frances, surprised.
“Certainly,” spoke up Adam. “We thought we would get up our House production, don’t you recall?”
Frances rose to take her designated seat, but she had spent time studying the rehearsal schedule herself and now said, “Mr. Tilson, would it not be the best use of time if, while you oversee the mechanicals’ scene, Mr. Midgecomb, Miss Eveleigh, George, and I practice the next, up to where Demetrius enters?
There is no overlap in parts.” Not only that, but then she could do a fair amount of looking with assumed adoration at Mr. Midgecomb, that everyone else might take note.
Mrs. Terry, at least, would remark on the fact later with Mrs. Dere.
“What an excellent proposal, Miss Barstow,” he declared with obvious pleasure. “But will it not be rather noisy?”
“We might rehearse out of doors, if the others have no objection.”
They did not, of course, and though those within could not hear them practice, Frances took care to stand where she might be seen by the others.
And so kindly were her looks that, when they reached the scene where Oberon and Titania entered to quarrel, Mr. Midgecomb even said, “Now, now, Miss Barstow, you must glower at me as you did when we read the scene at Greenwood Hall. You are angry with me, you remember, about the changeling child.”
Frances affected a sheepish giggle and apologetic flutter of her hand, followed by an exaggerated glower. “Is that better, sir?”
“Much,” he replied, though George Denver made a face at her uncharacteristic display of silliness.
He was not the only one.
“‘What say you, Bottom?’” asked Snout. When there was no answer, Gordon glanced up. “Er—it is your line, Mr. Hearne.”
Hastily Adam withdrew his gaze from the window and gave a long blink. “Excuse me. I thought I saw something on the glass.”
“A smear? A spiderweb?” Mrs. Barstow sprang up, coloring. Setting down the basket she had been working on, she hurried to the window, already drawing out her handkerchief. There being nothing on the spotless pane, however, she gave it a rub all the same.
“It might have been an insect on the outside,” explained Mr. Hearne, his own color rising. “Never mind.” Clearing his throat, he turned back to his playbook and read, “‘The moon may shine in at the casement.’”
“We’re past that,” Peter complained, but Gordon delivered a subtle kick to his ankle, his brow lifting expressively, and with resignation Peter delivered Quince’s long speech for the second time.