Chapter 12 #5
“I think we can all conclude the production was a resounding success,” Andover said, clearly pleased that the most exciting event of the season so far had taken place under his roof. “I believe that means an accounting is in order, does it not, Lady Baeccon?”
“I would not be so quick to account the play a success.” Bathsheba stood straight and proud, arranging her expensive shawl about her shoulders. “I will have to consult with his lordship, of course. I believe the terms of our wager depend on whether he is satisfied.”
She looked around for her husband. His lordship was deep in conversation with Dorsey, speaking animatedly and with great sweeps of his arms while Dorsey nodded along.
The actor pushed aside the furred cloak of his costume and withdrew a flask from which he took a long pull.
Then he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and handed the silver flask to his lordship.
Without a qualm Baeccon took the flask and took a long pull, then lowered it with a shocked expression.
Dorsey must be finding a way around the privations and taxes of the war to procure a vintage of note, or perhaps something stronger.
Whatever they had exchanged, the men looked to have settled something between them, and Dorsey tucked the flask back into his coat with a pleased expression.
Bathsheba’s lips tightened. “I would say his lordship seems satisfied,” Dutton remarked.
“With the play overall, or with the performance of your Claudius, but I thought the question under discussion was whether Miss Evans had pleased, was it not?” Bathsheba said.
Cerys held utterly still. Her face hadn’t lost the glow of triumph, or the weariness, but a mask settled into place.
She would not appear so ill-bred or arrogant as to argue with Bathsheba, even though Dante sensed a leashed fury.
The great would have their way, and the common people would make the best of what was left to them. She knew that well.
So did he. And he was suddenly sick of currying favor with the great, or admiring those who did.
“I didn’t understand the terms of your wager to depend on how well you yourself like Miss Evans, Lady Baeccon,” Dante said.
“I had thought you proposed that, if the play was received well and it looked like Dorsey’s company could make a go of it here in Cheltenham, his lordship should be happy to invest, and be confident of a good return. ”
Bathsheba turned to face him. “I am a woman, and my likes are taken very little into account by anyone, Dante.”
“On the contrary, I think you are accustomed to arranging things exactly as you like them, Bathsheba,” Dante returned. “And as to the question of whether Miss Evans’s performance was well done.” He turned to face Cerys. “I think we all agree that she was magnificent.”
Cerys stared back at him, her eyes wide and luminous. Her lids had been heavily lined with kohl to make them stand out, and her lashes were thicker than ever. The red of her lips against the pallor of her cheeks made him want to cup her face in his palms. Kiss a blush onto her cheeks.
“You liked it?” she asked softly.
“I was transported. I never understood Hamlet until now.”
He didn’t realize he had extended his hand until she took it.
Her hand was ungloved, and her warm palm pressed against his skin.
His tug on her hand was equally unconscious, born of a compulsion deeper than rational thought.
She stepped toward him, and then she was beside him, and he breathed in a different way, because it felt right that she should be there, and that he should be touching her.
Holding her. Filling his senses with her, and wanting to never let go.
Dorsey strolled up to them, his smile beaming triumph.
Baeccon followed in his wake, looking likewise pleased with himself.
His lordship surveyed the crowd, his gaze falling on his wife, eyes narrowing.
Quickly she stepped to his side, tearing her gaze from the sight of Cerys and Dante standing with clasped hands.
“Twenty thousand pounds Thompson has promised us,” Dorsey said to Cerys. “That’s a nice cornerstone, wouldn’t you say?”
“And the others made their pledge,” Thompson said genially. “Appears you’ll get your theater, eh, Dorsey?”
“If Mr. Manelli produces the designs that will woo subscribers, and the builders are an honest company.” Dorsey grinned.
“My love.” Bathsheba put a hand on her husband’s arm. “No need to be hasty.”
“You’ll make a sensation with this actress in your leading roles,” Diana said grandly. “But how did you think to make her your Hamlet, Dorsey?”
“Had to put her in when Hackett was sick in Cirencester.” He grinned. “Stayed four weeks later than we expected. People came from miles around to see a girl playing Hamlet.”
“I still say it is vulgar.” Bathsheba’s gaze rested on Cerys, then, as if she could not help herself, slid downward to see her hand still clasped with Dante’s.
“You say many things, milady.” Baeccon twitched his wife’s hand from his arm. “But I daresay this, finally, will be an investment that will pay off.”
Lady Diana raised her brows but did not comment. “I’ll see about having the servants lay refreshments in here, since everyone seems to be so cozy,” she said to Andover. “Come along, Prudie.”
“Of course, my dear. Will there be comfits?”
The Baeccons moved off as well, Bathsheba following in her lord’s wake, and the investors converged to talk with Dorsey.
Dante stood apart, and Cerys stayed with him.
He saw others watching them and knew that their closeness would have them courting, if not affianced in the eyes of their audience.
But that was what she’d intended, wasn’t it? To protect him from Bathsheba.
But he didn’t know how to protect her.
“You’ve bested Bathsheba,” he said, looking down into her sweetly curved face. “She will look for a way to retaliate. She hates to lose.”
“I do not fear her, and I do not fear losing,” Cerys answered, her manner calm.
“What do you fear?” Dante asked curiously, for as far as he could tell, this girl feared nothing.
She searched his face with her gaze, and something there gave her pause. She hesitated, then disentangled her hand from his. His palm felt cold with absence.
“I fear forgetting which is the illusion, and which is the real,” she said quietly.
Then she turned to face the next wave of admirers who swept forward to effuse and exclaim over her, and Dante was left to ponder her words, and the strange ache that would persist in his chest, and deepened when she stepped away from him.
He feared he might wish to stay in the illusion.