Chapter Twenty
Withdraw thy foot from thy neighbour’s house;
lest he be weary of thee, and so hate thee.
Peeping from behind the baize curtain, Jane Eveleigh drew back with a muffled squeak.
“The audience begins to arrive!” she hissed, shaking eager fists.
And then, when Frances did not respond with sufficient agitation, her pretty features drew together in a frown, and she swept away in Philostrate’s servitor robe to repeat the announcement to Miss Jarvis.
Truth be told, despite the spell of hot weather Iffley enjoyed prior to the play performance, a contrary chill had fallen upon the house party.
The rift between Frances and Jane continued to widen, aided by Mr. Midgecomb’s ongoing attentions to them both and by Jane’s ongoing attentions to both him and Mr. Hearne.
Miss Jarvis, naturally, must then take Miss Eveleigh’s part and show coolness to the Barstow party, while Maria Barstow, equally naturally, must take her sister’s part and show coolness to the Eveleigh party.
Such exact courtesy contributed to a parallel, unacknowledged rift opening between Mrs. Dere and Mrs. Eveleigh, so that Mrs. Dere was heard to ask Mrs. Terry if this was what the rector meant by “outstaying one’s day of grace,” and Mrs. Eveleigh muttered to her husband the provost that, when the apostle Peter counseled his flock to “use hospitality one to another without grudging,” he never imagined the ungraciousness some guests might display.
(The breach was not without its attendant benefits, however.
When Mrs. Eveleigh frostily informed them that Miss Jarvis would certainly not perform in “Pyramus and Thisbe” before “local peasantry,” Mrs. Dere roundly declared that it was all too bad, because her son Peter would be delighted to play Quince before “fellow members of their parish.”)
Even the gentlemen guests were affected by the divide.
Or, at least, Mr. Midgecomb and Mr. Tilson were.
The more attention Miss Eveleigh paid Mr. Hearne, the more attention Mr. Midgecomb then paid Frances Barstow, to nobody’s satisfaction.
As for Mr. Tilson, he had grown altogether restless in the passing weeks and was found consulting the racing calendar and the newspapers more often than his playbook.
Had they not had their shared object, the task requiring all their efforts, who knew how the summer holiday together might have ended? But they had gone too far to turn back, and at last here they were, on their opening (and closing) night.
Frances would have been overcome by enough nervousness to please Jane Eveleigh, if the sight of Jane herself and several pacing cast members had not contrarily calmed her.
As it was, she ceaselessly mouthed her speeches and stepped through the fairy dance, the same fairy dance Miss Jarvis’s stiff fingers drummed silently on the empty air, her good eye squeezed shut as she pictured the music.
“I think I might be sick, Frances,” whispered Maria, fist to her mouth.
“Come. Practice the dance with me,” her sister urged, to distract her.
“Where have you put your wings?” Because Maria made a quick change from Hermia to Moth, she wore her fairy costume under her Athenian robe, so that she had only to throw off the robe and slip on her wings before she entered again.
Maria pointed toward one of the makeshift stage wings, where Mr. Hearne happened to be seated, legs crossed and elbow resting on one arm of the window stool, an empty half smile lifting the corners of his beautiful lips.
“Oh,” she murmured, “how I wish I were as stupid as he! Then I wouldn’t have the sense to be frightened.”
“Shhh…” Frances hushed her. But she was glad of the excuse to look his way because she had not seen him in his rustic’s costume.
At the dressed rehearsals he had been the only one besides Mr. Tilson who had not practiced changing costumes, as neither one of them played more than one character.
Mr. Hearne had plopped the ass’s-head basket over his head when required, but otherwise dressed as he always did, though he promised he had a proper workman’s shirt for the show.
And so he did. It was a loose, unbleached garment of coarse weave, and Nick Bottom the Weaver wore it open at the neck, like a haymaker hot at his work.
He had a very nice neck, Frances thought.
An irrational thought, but nice necks could not always be counted on in gentlemen, not when they could swathe it in yards of neckcloth to hide flaws of length or skinniness, too sharp of an Adam’s apple or too bumpy of skin.
Mr. Hearne’s neck suffered none of these shortcomings.
It was perfect, as he was perfect, and her eye followed the line of it to where the panels forming the shirt front came together.
He must have felt her gaze because his head turned on that perfect neck, and—something happened.
Something…transformed.
Though he did not move another muscle, the foolish vacancy vanished as if it never was. The dark eyes sharpened.
The prowling wolf returned.
Still as a roe deer, Frances felt her heart begin to drum, and if Jane Eveleigh had been beside her then, she might have congratulated herself for being less terrified than her friend.
“Take your places, everyone,” announced Mr. Midgecomb sweeping past. The growing buzz of the audience in Greenwood Hall’s long gallery permitted him to clap his hands and raise his voice.
“We begin shortly. I will have them light the Argand lamps and darken the rest of the room, and when everyone is in place, I will address the audience.”
Maria gave Frances’ hand one final death clutch before she stole away, whimpering quietly, to wait beside Peter, George, and Mr. Tilson, the other Athenians.
The Argand burners had been a gift of Lord Dere, of course.
Who but the baron would think it essential to order the very same bright oil lamps used to light the stage in Drury Lane?
He had even been the one to suggest they cut out silhouettes to cast great shadowy trees on the stage when everyone “entered the wood.” But the brightness of the stage cast the rest of the gallery in gloom, even before Mr. Midgecomb ordered most of the candles snuffed and the windows shuttered.
Therefore, when Peter and Gordon drew back the curtain and Frances stepped out on Mr. Midgecomb’s arm, she could discern no more than the familiar faces of the Eveleighs, Deres, and her mother in the first row.
There never was such a magical evening, although it would take those who were present quite some time before they could remember more than how it all ended.
Yes, everyone but Mr. Hearne missed a cue or two and had to be hissed at or prodded into action.
Yes, several lines were altogether skipped, leading to blank looks and stretching silences.
Yes, George Denver trod on the edge of his fairy robe as he exited, and there was a great ripping sound as he nearly fell to the stage, a disaster only prevented by his taking a half dozen staggering steps which reduced every member of the fairy court to helpless giggles, so that they entered and maneuvered through their dance with mouths twisted and eyes streaming.
And yes, it was Frances who lost her place in her speech and had to begin again as she circled Mr. Hearne, caressing the squirrel-fur head and declaring her love.
And Frances again who, when she entreated him to sleep in her bower, in her arms, for “so doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle gently entwist,” found both her voice and arms shaking so that her “O, how I love thee! How I dote on thee!” emerged scarcely more intelligible than a squeak.
All these moments, including the applause and cheers as they took their sheepish bows, were eclipsed the next minute when the footmen smoothly re-lit the candles throughout the room.
For, two feet from her on the stage, Frances was aware of Mr. Hearne straightening abruptly, even as the rest of the cast bent in a final bow.
Glancing at him, she followed his hardened gaze over the heads of the first and second row of spectators to the third, where only two people sat, a woman and a man.
The woman was older—perhaps Mrs. Barstow’s age—with pinched features and faded hair which she patted consciously as she rose, lifting a hand in greeting.
Her companion kept his seat, however, and Frances saw he was as stone-faced as the stony man beside her.
Not only that, but he was the stony man beside her, or so like him that her mouth fell open in perplexity.
“Is it—are they from the university?” she asked in a whisper.
“No.”
“Adam!” the woman waved shyly. “Adam, I’ve come! We’ve come!” She pointed at the man beside her and would have strode forward, had the man not touched her forearm and halted her.
By this point other people had noticed Mr. Hearne’s fixed stare or had heard the woman call out behind them, and their conversations died away as more and more of them leaned and strained to discover what was amiss.
Jane Eveleigh trotted to stand at Mr. Hearne’s other side. “Are they your family, Mr. Hearne? They must be, for that gentleman could be your twin!”
“He is not.” But he did not answer her question.
Here Mr. Stanton Eveleigh received an elbow to his ribs from his spouse. “You must speak to them, Mr. Eveleigh,” she urged sotto voce. “You are the host.”
“Mm. Er, yes.” Motioning and murmuring for the group to make way, the provost eased himself between the rows to confront the interlopers, Mrs. Eveleigh on his heels.
Coming to stand before them, he cleared his throat with a sharp bark. “Ahem. Good evening. I am afraid I haven’t the honor of your acquaintance, but I assume you are guests of Mr. Hearne?”