Chapter 7
How he wanted to give in, there in the costume room of the theater. Alas, Perseus could not. Never. Not like this.
She was a young lady.
She was meant to have her Season. Her sisters were having their Season, and he was not a scoundrel. Besides, he wanted more with her than this. Their relationship was far more than a kiss and an embrace in a dark room.
And so he slipped back from their kiss, transfixed by what had just taken place between them, transformed by her internal beauty and the way she had become so fully alive when wearing a costume.
He groaned inwardly.
He knew the danger of that sort of transformation. This was what she was meant for. This place, this life, this world, the one that he’d been born to. But her family? The truth was, generally, families of the ton did not allow their children to go into the theater.
It was, by most accounts, an impossible life, unless one was born to it. Unless one had a family member in it like his grandmama, who had changed the entirety of the ton’s social order by marrying a duke when she had become a successful actress.
The theater was not easy. It was often cruel. Many who entered it were crushed by the demands, the fickleness of the crowd, and the way in which the muse came and went.
Many great actors and actresses had fallen away, living out hard times in small rooms, whispering of glory days in pubs along the south bank.
But then there were those who couldn’t leave it, even if the stage no longer clamored for them, and they became dressers, props masters, builders. So many who were called to the theater would take any job offered to remain in it.
He shouldn’t want such a life for her. But he would never let her fail. Not like that.
“Come,” he whispered to her, taking her hand in his, loving the way her fingers twined so perfectly with his.
Her eyes darted over his face. “Where are you taking me?” she asked.
“You will see,” he said, unable to hide his excitement.
She pursed her lips, which were now plumped by his kiss. “You ask me to trust you a great deal, don’t you?”
“I do,” he agreed. He peered down at her. “Is that such a very terrible thing?”
“No,” she whispered back, “because so far you have not led me astray, but to the most wonderful things.”
He gave her a low bow over her hand, as if he was a knight of old and she his lady. “I am glad you think so,” he murmured. “Will you permit me to be your hero then?”
She bit her lower lip, her gaze searching his before she at last managed, “Is that what you’re going to do? You’re going to pretend to be him? Orlando? In the play?”
“I will pretend to be whatever you wish,” he said, “because all I want…” His voice died off.
It was inexplicable to him what he wanted, but it seemed that in his family, men were devoted to the happiness of the women that they knew, and, honestly, he could not think of anything better.
Again and again, they strove to lift ladies from the mire they were trapped in, the gray humdrum of lives that did not allow dreams.
But the men in his family refused to let such a thing stand. And he was proud to know he was no different.
Women strove and struggled and had such hard lives. So few men cared about their genuine happiness or what they longed for. In fact, men seemed to ignore their longings on purpose, happy to delegate them to mere props in their lives, props that made a man’s life better.
It was appalling. Because to him, no one should be forced to drudge their lives away with no hopes, with no chances.
Truthfully, he wouldn’t mind spending the rest of his life devoted to her joy, devoted to the happiness of her life, for he would not see her sacrifice herself as so many women did.
Sometimes it seemed to him that most women sacrificed their very selves, just for the men in their lives. He’d never thought it was right or fair that ladies had to give up so much of themselves so that gentlemen could shine or know ease.
He wanted her to have all of herself, to proclaim it boldly. He stretched his hand back out to her. She again slipped her fingers into his, and he loved the feel of her small hand in his. He laced her fingers with his and guided her back out of the room.
“Are you taking me to meet your grandaunt?” she queried.
“No,” he said, “not yet. There’s somewhere else I think you need to go first.”
“Wherever could that be?” she asked, perplexed but indeed trusting in him.
He wound them through the back corridors until they passed many set pieces and ropes that would fly those pieces onto the stage from their waiting places in the wings.
And once they were standing there in the wings, he turned to her and whispered, “Close your eyes. I need to show you where you belong.”
She stared at him for a long moment, her face growing most serious. “You know none of this is appropriate?”
“The theater is never appropriate,” he pointed out.
“Not really.” He drew in a breath, desperate to explain.
“Somehow, the theater has convinced lords and ladies that it is the height of fashion, but the theater has always been a place for magic makers and people who didn’t quite fit in.
That’s why the actors wear costumes,” he said, “and speak other people’s words. ”
She swallowed. “Is that why I like it so much?” she asked softly.
“Do you not feel as if you belong or fit in?” he murmured softly.
She nodded her head. “I never have. I’ve always felt as if I could never quite find my place, except for when I am watching a play or reading about it.
I’ve always chafed in society. I’ve been exhausted by company, wishing that I could say the right thing, but not knowing how.
My sisters are so good with other people.
Whenever they walk into a room, people light up.
They’re happy to see them. But me? I fade into the background because I don’t wish to speak of the usual things.
I wish to speak of grand thoughts and ideas, and so people don’t know what to do with me. How I wish I could…”
“No,” he said softly, “do not wish to be other than what you are, because when I see you, you light me up.”
She blinked at him, astonished. “Don’t say such romantic things and not mean them.”
“I do mean them,” he declared. “From the moment I caught you watching me through that door, to the moment that I came upon you in the library, I knew that you lit me up in this dark, gray world, and now it is my turn to do the same for you.”
“Close your eyes,” he urged again.
She stared at him skeptically for another long moment, deciding. “How can I deny you after you’ve said such a thing?” she said at last.
His heart leapt.
She let out an exaggerated sigh. “Go on then. Lead me.”
Despite that sigh, he could tell that she liked this very much but was afraid to feel too excited, too committed.
“I’m waiting,” he said gently.
She tilted her head to the side.
“Your eyes.”
She smiled and then she softened. Her eyes closed, and though she tensed for a moment, he felt her give way to him. Her hands relaxed, her face tilted upwards, and she leaned towards him.
Carefully, slowly, he led her out along the wooden boards that were slightly uneven. If he did not mind their steps, she might trip. He did not wish that. For he wished for her to trust him utterly.
It was his duty to protect her. Even from floorboards.
“Come,” he whispered.
The sound of his voice changed as he headed out onto the stage with the soaring ceiling above and all of the accoutrements of the stage around them.
It was quite high above their heads, which allowed all sorts of exciting changes of scene.
He gazed out to the now empty theater, to the boxes, to the empty space that waited to be filled with the people who wanted to be transported and taken away from their humdrum everyday lives by the people on stage.
By performers who dared to act like dancing shadows in costumes made of paste jewels and paper crowns and wooden swords and thrones made of anything but gold.
He gazed down at her face, memorizing each curve for a moment. The pale peach quality of it, the way her lips were plump and mischievous, the way her lashes shadowed her cheeks, and the way the scarlet doublet hugged her form.
Oh, how he wished he could take it off her, but, no, this place was for her, and he wanted her to be in a costume upon it.
It would allow her to be free, and that was one of the ways that he knew she was meant for this place, because the costume made her feel as if she was alive.
Finally, he said gently, “Open your eyes.”
Slowly, her eyelids fluttered open, and she gasped. “I’ve never been on a real stage before.”
“It’s rare,” he said, “for anyone but actors and workers to get to be here. Everyone else is always in the audience, gazing upon the action. But now you’re a part of it.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head, “I am not. I never shall be,” she lamented without self-pity. “This shall be just a whisper and a promise of what could be because this is not a real play now. But I am grateful to be here, Perseus. Thank you.”
“Do you know any of the words?” he asked, longing to awaken her heart to all that was possible. “From As You Like It?”
She laughed, a full throaty sound. Much to his amazement, the sound bounced off the chandelier and the panels at the far side of the theater. “I know the whole play,” she said, “from the first word to the last word.”
“Then let me hear you,” he declared.
She narrowed her gaze. “You wish me to recite?”
“Of course I do,” he said. “I love the play, and I’d love to hear you speak the words.”
“But you just watched it last night,” she protested.
“Come now, you love the theater,” he enthused, eager to make her shake off her doubts.
“You know that I could see a play a hundred times and feel it was fresh, or actually like it more, for having seen it so many times. That’s what my grandmama says, and that’s what she trained us to believe.
And she certainly told a fair few people that. You know it too. Don’t you?”
She nodded, and then she began to speak.
She was timid and quiet at first. He did not prompt her or push her.
No. He let her find her strength. He took a step back from her, but she continued to speak to him.
Her hands began to gesture confidently. Her lips turned in a smile, and she began to speak clearly and brightly the wonderful monologue that Rosalind speaks to Orlando when telling him all that she has planned for him.
Of course, in the play, Orlando had no clue at the time what Rosalind was up to. Orlando did not realize who he was really speaking to, and in some ways, Perseus felt the same.
He felt as if in this moment, he was finally, truly seeing the real Miss Muriel Mitchell, and he adored it beyond all things.
And when she had finished the soliloquy, his heart was bursting with excitement and pride.
She was a natural, as he had suspected she would be.
Muriel stood powerfully now in the center of the stage as if it belonged to her. And the applause came.
Muriel gasped with shock and whipped towards the sound, as did he because the applause was not his. It was coming from the wings.
“Well done, my dear. Well done,” a rich voice called from the shadows.
Muriel’s face creased with worry. “Who’s there?” she called, her voice shaking now, a far cry from the booming grandeur of a moment before.
“Ah, it was but a fleeting moment, that boldness then,” his grandaunt, Estella, said as she strode out onto the stage, a magnificent creature who had known the power of theater all her life. “Do not worry about it. Many a mouse in life is a lion upon the stage.”
Muriel’s eyes flashed with awe.
Perseus’s grandmama followed her sister out onto the stage a trifle more slowly, but just as powerfully. “Will the lion shrink back now, my dear, hiding away inside you, or will you let your lion roar for all to hear?”
“How can I do such a thing?” Muriel countered, her pale hands folding into fists. “I am a lady. I am not meant for the stage.”
Grandaunt Estella tsked. “Trifles, my dear. Trifles. We must never be got down or stopped by trifles. My, what a jewel you have found, Perseus. If only I could put her in my crown.”
Perseus smiled. “I don’t disagree with you, Aunt,” he said. “I knew she was meant for this the moment I spotted her in your library, Grandmama.”
“You knew better than I did, Perseus,” his grandmama praised.
“I did not realize, dear girl, that this was what you truly wished.” His grandmother gave Muriel a kind look.
“Why didn’t you tell me you wished to act?
I would’ve happily helped you. You needn’t have told me that all you wished was the library. ”
“I love the library,” blurted Muriel. “Those documents make me feel close to the past and the people who filled the theaters then.”
His grandmother and his grandaunt exchanged a glance.
“Oh, dear, you are truly done for,” Estella mused happily, as if recognizing a sister of the stage. “Do you feel it deep in your soul, the ache of all those stories, the passion of them, and the wish to carry them on now?”
Muriel swallowed, then nodded hesitantly. “Yes, but it can never be possible.”
His grandmother gave a sad nod. “I suppose it’s true, if you say that’s how it is. How terrible though. You would be a revelation for the London stage. They’d adore you. You are fresh, and the text loves you as you so clearly love it.”
“It would ruin my sisters,” countered Muriel, her eyes shining with sorrow now rather than joy. “So, no, I could never do it.”
Estella pursed her lips, looked Muriel up and down, then exclaimed, “I say. I know. What if we put you in disguise?”
“No,” Muriel returned swiftly. “I like my life, though it is little. It will be enough. I cannot risk the loss of it.”
Enough, Perseus thought to himself. There would never be enough for her. She deserved so much. She’d been born for so much.
He had to find a way for her to have what she had been made to do. Surely, there was a way, and then he realized that of course there was.
She wasn’t a prisoner. Her mother was clearly wonderful, but the ton had its limitation for ladies, and he never wanted to see Muriel bow to those.
He crossed to her, and he took her hand. “We shall see.”
“Ah,” his grandmother said, “it looks to me as if our Perseus has a plan.”
“A plan,” Muriel echoed. “For what?”
“For you,” he said.
She arched a brow, but she did not pull back. “That makes me nervous,” she said. “Very nervous indeed.”