Chapter 18 #2
Viola laughed. “You need not bend over backwards if you’d rather not.
I suppose I could ask Cousin Georgiana to go with me.
” Viola tapped her pencil against the paper.
“But then again, maybe not. She is too respectable to be seen watching something like this in public. Even though she reads scandalous romances in secret, you know. She has the books hidden in a row behind her tomes of classical literature.”
He shook his head. “Why does that not surprise me? I’ll accompany you.”
“But what if they recognise you?”
“We will endeavour to remain unrecognised.”
“Are you certain?”
“By all means. If your heart is set on it. Besides, I ought to at least watch one play by that woman, even if I can’t bear to read her books.”
“Why do you say that?” Viola picked up her teacup and took a sip, while keeping her eyes on Sebastian’s face. “You sound as though you owe her having to suffer through one of her plays, as though it were a matter of honour, so to speak.”
“It is, in a way. It turns out that the anonymous donor to the Irish asylum cause is none other than Mrs Sable.”
Viola spewed her tea out over his documents. She spluttered and coughed. “Oh dear. I am terribly sorry, now I have doused your parliamentary legislation in tea.”
He wiped at the stains with his handkerchief.
“She donated half a fortune. One ought at least to be acquainted with what the lady writes, particularly when her work all but saved the Irish asylum reform, and not depend on others to explain it to me. It has become something of an embarrassment that I seem to be the only person in England not acquainted with her works.”
Viola nodded. “In other words, you would swallow every principle, commit the unthinkable and watch her play as a noble penance for her generous donation. I wonder, has she risen somewhat in your esteem as a consequence?”
He smiled thinly. “You may ask me that question again after we have seen the play.”
Viola was ridiculously nervous.
It was one thing to write the book, but quite another to see it performed live. And it was yet another thing to have her husband sit right next to her, knowing he was thoroughly scandalised, likely hating every minute.
He shifted in his seat, glancing at Viola frequently, presumably to see whether she was enjoying herself.
She was not.
The auditorium was filled to the brim; the air was stuffy and reeked of perfume, alcohol, and sweat, and it was far too hot.
The acting was rather bad. There was far too much bosom-heaving, screeching, and stalking across the stage.
There was the villainous monk, the shrieking, fainting maiden, and several side characters, including a buffoon, which elicited much laughter from the audience.
All her wonderful descriptive prose was lost, of course, and substituted for garish stage scenery dominated by a looming, decrepit convent.
And yet, the audience gasped in all the right places. There was complete and utter silence at the climax, and the feeling of horror and awe that she’d worked so hard to create seeped from the stage into each audience member, causing their skin to crawl.
This! This was what she’d wanted. Spinning her audience into tales of delicious terror, catching them like flies in a web so fine they did not know they were caught until it was too late and they fell into the fantastical, the sublime, and forgot reality.
If only for a minute. A second! That was sufficient.
Even Sebastian had stopped shifting, staring spellbound at the antics unfolding onstage. And then, in the dark, his hand found hers. He clasped it, his thumb tracing slow circles across her skin. Her heart jumped, raced, and she thought there could be no greater happiness.
A small smile curled around her lips, and she leaned back, satisfied.
“Good Lord,” Sebastian said when the curtain finally fell.
“And?” Viola clasped her hands together. “Did you like it?”
He let out a long breath. “Like is not precisely the word I would use.”
“But? How did you find it?”
He considered. “Intense. Lurid.” A frown. “And decidedly improper.”
Viola waved this away. “Yes, yes. Gothic horror is not for the faint of heart, the prudish, or the easily appalled.”
“Easily appalled? I wouldn’t count myself amongst that number, but the violence and,” he paused, searching for the correct word, “sensuality depicted was rather shocking.”
“You haven’t seen the worst of it,” Viola muttered, thinking of the stories she’d written in those first raw years, fuelled by grief and rage.
Compared to those, this play was as tame as a bowl of gruel.
Even her newest book, which Peregrine had pushed her to make more daring, didn’t approach that level of naughtiness.
But she’d never shown those to anyone, not even Peregrine, and they would never see print.
“She is a master of melodrama,” Sebastian continued as he handed her into the coach.
“As a rhetorician myself, I cannot help but admire how skilfully she manipulates an audience’s emotions.
” He shook his head, something like respect in his voice.
“The art of using pathos, of moving the masses, is no small thing. It is quite a skill.”
Viola beamed. He understood! To receive such a compliment from Parliament’s most skilful orator was something indeed.
“But,” he continued, tearing Viola out of the clouds, “it is ultimately a vulgar spectacle. Ghosts and demons and hysterical heroines, spiced with gratuitous sensuality, throwing out any semblance of logic and common sense.” He shrugged.
“I cannot imagine any truly serious mind devoting itself to such work.”
That stung. He’d said, in so many words, that Viola was stupid and her work was silly.
She sat up. “It is not a vulgar spectacle,” she said hotly. “And the supernaturalism in it, as well as the sensuality, has a purpose.”
“I wonder what the purpose is behind rapine and a ravaged heroine?” He leaned into the shadowy corner of the coach. “Other than having her shriek more. Not to mention the madwoman in the attic. Sensationalism pure.”
“It’s the horror behind it. Not to mention the symbolism.”
“Symbolism?” She could not see him lift an eyebrow, but he no doubt did.
“Precisely. The horror of a trapped woman who is driven to madness. Physically, mentally, emotionally, she lacks any kind of agency whatsoever. It is absolutely horrific! Is there a sadder creature? And believe me, such women exist.” She scowled at him.
“They are all too invisible in our society, and they deserve to be heard, to be seen. Their stories deserve to be told, too.”
“So, now you are saying Mrs Sable intended this to be social criticism?” His voice dripped with skepticism, which fuelled Viola’s passion even more.
“Yes! Precisely! And not only that, but the heroine is also given agency. She is no victim! She is driven to the point of madness, but she frees herself from it. She is not rescued by anyone but herself.”
“Hm. True. The hero is a vapid idiot who served more as decoration.”
“Ultimately, it is about emotion. About evoking the feeling of the sublime in the audience. And you said that is what she succeeds at doing.”
“And what on earth is the sublime?”
“It is the strongest emotion one can feel. A mixture of fear, terror, and awe. It is grand and beautiful and utterly profound.”
Sebastian was quiet for a moment. “I disagree.”
“Oh?”
“The strongest emotion is not the sublime.”
Viola crossed her arms, scowling. “What is it, then?”
“It is love.”
That robbed her of speech for the remaining duration of their ride home.
By the time she came up with a rejoinder, something as idiotic as “Love, too, is a passion as much as fear, and that is why this is also a romance, because love always wins,” they had arrived at the townhouse, and he nodded at her coolly.
“I must excuse myself for the rest of the evening. There is correspondence I must still attend to.”
Then she was alone in the bedroom, with a candle, listening to his retreating footsteps, wondering if she should have, for once, just grabbed him and asked what she’d wanted to ask since the moment she fell from the ruin and he caught her in his arms.
Whether he loved her.
Even if just a tiny bit.