Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Next evening
Juliet leaned against the back wall of the receiving hall and gave the tambourine in her hand a gentle shake, just enough to give a sense of wind whispering through trees.
Ambience, that was her role for the night—since she’d confessed to Delilah that she hadn’t memorized her lines for Celia. Delilah had let out a tiny cry of frustration and thrown her hands into the air before marching off to find the youngest Dalhousie boy, Juliet’s double.
Juliet gave the audience a quick once-over.
Mostly villagers, who made for boisterous theatergoers.
This would be no quiet and respectful Shakespeare production.
Mr. and Mrs. Dalhousie sat in the front row, watching with differing levels of interest. It was only the first scene and Mr. Dalhousie had already nodded off twice, much to the chagrin of his wife, who jabbed a sharp, pointed elbow into his ribs every tenth line or so.
In truth, the play had gotten off to a decent start. At ten years of age, the youngest Dalhousie lad made a more than passable Celia. Although Juliet did feel a slight bit of guilt that her confession that she didn’t know the lines for Celia was less confession than outright lie.
Of course she knew all the lines. Her mind had been stewing in Shakespeare since Delilah could read. Juliet knew them all from love-crossed Romeo to perfidious Goneril to loyal Miranda.
And watching the stage now, Juliet knew the lie for the correct decision. Otherwise, she’d be presently treading the boards with Rory, and she wasn’t yet ready for close proximity to the man.
She hadn’t even looked at him directly yet.
Which wasn’t to say the edge of her vision wasn’t tracking his every movement.
Frustrating peripheral vision.
A figure brushed past Juliet, snapping her to.
James Dalhousie—or Orlando, as he’d insisted on being called for the last three days so he could stay in character—was making straight for a younger brother.
Stealthily, he approached the boy from behind and wrapped an arm around his neck.
The smaller boy put up a fight, but wasn’t much of a match for his older brother who immediately wrestled him to the ground.
Even so, the younger brother didn’t seem all that surprised at his fate. “Ah, James, leave off,” his complaint a rasped murmur.
“It’s Orlando,” said James through gritted teeth.
Alarmed, Juliet rushed over and pulled at James’ chartreuse velvet doublet that retained a whiff of ancient attic must. “What are you on about?” she hissed, so as not to alert the audience.
The lad shot her an annoyed glare over his shoulder. “Getting ready for my scene with Kilmuir.”
“Ah,” said Juliet. He was taking the challenge of wrestling Rory quite seriously. Did he not understand the concept of acting? She released his jacket and retreated a step. “Well, then, carry on.”
And good luck to the lad when the time came. While he did possess the fire, he yet lacked the size to take on Rory. She only hoped Rory went easy on him.
Of course, he would. He was Rory.
He wasn’t the sort with a burning need to prove his manhood.
An irritatingly attractive quality.
Juliet resumed her place at the back wall and picked up the wind chime, letting the hollow tubes knock lightly together. Ambience.
Her eye immediately caught on Rory as he strode across the stage, wearing a…kilt.
She swallowed, her mouth gone suddenly dry.
Oh, how well the garment suited him…and his thick, muscled thighs. Even his calves showed to particular advantage through woolen socks.
She couldn’t have been the only lady to notice—or feel that the room had grown warm.
He threw out his arm at an awkward angle as he spoke his lines a little louder than necessary. He was an atrocious actor. It was objective fact. He had to know it, but it didn’t seem to bother him as he always went along with whatever japes the Windermeres planned.
She supposed she found that quality irritatingly attractive, too.
“I’m madly in love with you, Juliet.”
Oh, those words… The look in his eyes when he’d spoken them. Sincere…determined…
Those words didn’t speak to the girl who’d harbored a secret infatuation.
They spoke to the woman she was now.
The woman who was damnably angry with that damn fool man.
An entire poem… He’d had her write an entire poem for another woman.
That fool man… those three words were the only ones her brain had been able to form this morning.
It was easier to hold on to her anger that way. Otherwise, different words would try to worm their way in—words that would want to come to that fool man’s defense.
And she wasn’t ready for those words.
Not yet.
A throat cleared at her side. Juliet tore her gaze away from Rory to find a familiar—and somewhat unwelcome—figure at her side.
“Miss Dalhousie,” she said. Perhaps she wouldn’t notice Juliet’s lack of enthusiasm. “Aren’t you meant to be sitting in the audience?”
“I only just arrived and didn’t want to interrupt the performance,” Miss Dalhousie whispered, though there was hardly a need. The audience was growing decidedly rowdier in its appreciation of the performance. “I’ll take my seat at the intermission.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” said Juliet.
Miss Dalhousie…never put a foot wrong.
Juliet’s eyes might’ve rolled just a little and she found herself asking, “Don’t you ever feel the need to break the rules, Miss Dalhousie?”
Juliet’s mouth snapped shut. She didn’t have any right to ask that question.
A little smile ticked up the side of Miss Dalhousie’s mouth as she shed her travel pelisse. “Sometimes.”
Another impertinent question was falling from Juliet’s mouth, “Then why don’t you?”
“I suppose I’m not like one of you Windermeres.”
Juliet relented. “Well, I am one of the tamer Windermeres.”
“I admire that about you.”
“What is that?”
“Your ability to balance your naturally reasonable nature with the Windermere wild streak that runs through you.”
Juliet blinked. It was usually her making these uncomfortable observations about others. She wasn’t sure she enjoyed being on the receiving end.
“I know someone else who admires that in you,” continued Miss Dalhousie.
“Oh?” asked Juliet, striking the wind chime with more force than necessary.
Miss Dalhousie jutted her chin toward the stage. It was obvious who she meant. “Kilmuir.”
Juliet scoffed and shook her head dismissively, decidedly uncomfortable discussing Rory with Miss Dalhousie.
But Miss Dalhousie, it seemed, had something to say. “Do you know why I refused his proposal of marriage two years ago?”
Juliet met the other woman’s gaze. She did have the loveliest brown eyes that one could fall into. “No.”
She’d never understood it.
“Because he didn’t look at me in that specific way.”
“What way is that?”
“The way he was looking at you at supper a week ago.”
Juliet’s heart might’ve stopped in her chest. She couldn’t be certain, because she’d gone numb all over. “And what way is that?” she somehow asked.
“Like he is a planet in orbit to your sun.”
Now it was Juliet’s lungs refusing to move. “In addition to all your other numerous talents, are you also a poet, Miss Dalhousie?”
The other woman shook her head, her smile broadening. “Hardly,” she said. “I’m simply speaking the truth as I see it.”
Juliet set her wind chime down and faced Miss Dalhousie fully.
It occurred to her that she might owe the woman an apology for disliking her for no better reason than she’d been the recipient of Rory’s attention years ago.
In truth, she’d never gotten to know Miss Dalhousie—the woman she truly was behind all her perfection and accomplishments.
That was a wrong that needed to be righted.
But it was Miss Dalhousie who spoke first. “I admire something else about you, Miss Windermere.”
“Juliet,” said Juliet, taking Miss Dalhousie’s hand. “You must call me Juliet.”
“Juliet, you must call me Davina.”
“A lovely name,” said Juliet. “It suits you.”
“I admire that you’ve always known what you wanted.”
“And what do I want?” She was genuinely interested in what this woman saw.
“To be free to write,” said Davina. “You Windermeres seize your freedoms. You don’t ask for them politely.”
“Oh, you can’t do that, Davina.” On this, the ground was firm beneath Juliet’s feet. “You can’t ask. Take now, apologize later.”
Davina smiled ruefully. “For all my accomplishments, ’tis not a skill I’ve developed, I’m afraid.”
Juliet squeezed her hand. “You can do anything, Davina. I’m convinced of it.”
“Mine are simply accomplishments that anyone can be taught. They don’t originate from true desire. That has never come to me.”
True desire.
At that moment, on stage, Rory stumbled into view, laboring beneath an object attached to his back. Except it was no object, but rather James Dalhousie attempting to wrestle Rory to the ground.
Miss Dalhousie lifted a hand to her mouth and stifled a giggle. “I’d heard that James was taking his acting duties rather too far.”
All the stage and audience went uncomfortably silent—save James’ grunts of exertion—as everyone watched, mesmerized, the spectacle of a lad of seventeen years and eight stone attempting to bring down a man of thirty-two years and fifteen stone.
It defied all logic and good sense, and yet, as she watched, Juliet felt certainty swell alongside the befuddlement inside her.
True desire.
That man allowing himself to be awkwardly wrestled to the stage boards by a lad half his age and size—risking showing everyone precisely what a Scotsman wore beneath his kilt—was her true desire personified.
“I’m madly in love with you, Juliet.”
When he, at last, allowed James to pin him to the boards and lay in faux defeat as the lad released an unseemly roar of triumph, a realization walloped Juliet over the head.
Love was war.
And Rory, the nicest, most decent man she’d ever known, had been fighting all this time.
For her.
“You’re not exactly the most approachable lass.”
He wasn’t wrong.
In truth, he’d done everything to win her—even if he did have her labor over a poem for another woman.
The time had arrived…
For her surrender.
And what a sweet defeat it would be, for it would win her heart’s desire. Yet…
She must fight, too.
To be worthy of him.
What was that nonsense that she never intended to marry?
Of course she did.
She fully intended to marry Rory.
Urgency filled her. It was only when she started to take a step toward the stage that she noticed her hand still holding the wind chimes.
“Davina,” she began, handing over the instrument, “you must visit Delilah in London soon. She’ll be happy to teach you how to break a few rules, and she’ll be glad for your company after—” Her mouth snapped shut.
“After?” Davina prodded, a knowing smile in her fathomless eyes.
After I run off with that man presently being pinned to the ground by a youth half his age and size.
But she couldn’t very well say that.
Besides, the twinkle in Davina’s eye suggested she’d intuited as much.
Juliet cleared her throat. “After, erm, Easter.” It was as good a time as any, and honestly her interest in the matter had altogether deserted her.
“Easter was only last month,” Davina pointed out.
“Yes,” said Juliet, “that would be lovely.” She had one more thing to say. The most important thing. “True desire will come to you someday, Davina, and leave you no choice but to follow it. You’ll know when you find it.”
And with a sure step Juliet began making her way up the center aisle, toward the stage.
Toward the man she was madly, irrevocably in love with.
Toward the man who would be hers.
After all, it was Shakespeare who said all the world was a stage—in the very play that was presently being enacted on those boards.
And within the black-and-white lines of a play wasn’t there universal truth that infused words with meaning?
What better place to speak her heart and ask for a future with the man who would be hers, if he would have her?