16. Chapter 16- Lily
Due to some sleight of hand in the traffic pattern, Lily’s carriage arrived first at the Theatre Royal.
Lit torches lined the walkway, casting flickering light on the impressive facade.
She ascended the steps with Rachel and Sylvia and took a post just inside the door next to a large window so she might look for her sisters’ arrival with Bradford.
Lily still wasn’t quite sure how her sisters had managed to shunt her to the side so that she didn’t ride with Bradford.
It had been so deftly done that Lily suspected all the young ladies had been in on it.
Certainly there was no other explanation; Lily liked Rachel and Sylvia, but they were more her sisters’ friends than they were hers.
There was a fashionable crush in the lobby of the theater. Laughter and conversation was interspersed with music from the lone violinist in the corner. Champagne bottles popped like muted fireworks behind the bar.
It wasn’t quite as stifling as the ball had been, but Lily was grateful for the periodic cool wash of air that entered on the heels of every patron through the front door.
Sylvia and Rachel made polite small talk about people they knew or the play.
Lily did her best to participate but quickly lost herself to staring out the window.
“There they are.” Rachel gave a matter-of-fact nod toward the glass. “It doesn’t look like they’ve damaged him too much. He’s made it safe and sound, and you may stop your pacing.”
Lily frowned. She hadn’t been pacing—more like shifting from side to side, hoping to see Bradford’s carriage in the line.
Bradford helped each of her sisters down and escorted them up the steps.
She didn’t care to closely examine the relief she felt; she decided to ascribe it to an elder sister’s concern.
“Ah, there you are,” Bradford said as the two groups merged.
He smiled at Lily and she squashed down the excitement she felt every time he did so. It was the novelty of the expression, nothing more, that made her stomach swoop in such an odd way. Or so she told herself.
“There was much concern on this end whether you’d arrive in one piece,” Rachel said, raising her eyebrow.
Lily felt the sudden urge to kick the lady’s ankle.
“It was touch and go, but fortunately—or unfortunately, depending upon the audience—we didn’t encounter any highwaymen,” he said.
Lily didn’t understand her sisters’ reactions to his odd statement. Beatrice groaned and looked heavenward. Margaret laughed.
From the corner of her eye, Lily caught a dark head swinging in their direction at the sound.
The Duke of Ettrick strode over to them, the crowd parting with alacrity before his large frame.
All around him, ladies fluttered their fans and shot coy glances that were far short of subtle.
Yet he didn’t seem to notice any of them; his eyes were locked on Margaret.
Her smile stuttered and slid from her face when she followed Lily’s gaze. But by then it was too late; the duke stood next to Bradford. Margaret made introductions in a rather begrudging way, then went taciturn, foisting the burden of the conversation onto the others.
“Your Grace, have you seen this play before?” Lily asked.
“I haven’t.” His voice was rich, playing over that unique melody that people of Scottish descent made of their words. “I’m very much looking forward to it.”
“Lily and I haven’t seen it yet, either,” Bradford said easily. “Though we have something riding on the performance.”
“A bet?” Beatrice’s eyebrow winged upward. “I thought Lily had a distaste for gambling. She won’t even put up one of her ribbons against our game of whist.”
“No, not a bet.” Lily felt her cheeks heating, but hardly felt that she needed to explain why she found gambling abhorrent. “A matter of discussion, nothing more.”
“Yes, forgive me,” Bradford said. “There’s been a disagreement of opinion. We’re going to see if we both like this play.”
“Isn’t that the entire point of going to the theater?” Margaret said wanly.
Lily and the duke were the only ones who appeared to hear her; Ettrick grinned down at her as if she’d said something very amusing.
“What was the disagreement?” Beatrice jutted her chin forward, looking back and forth between Lily and Bradford.
“It hardly matters,” Lily said quickly, trying to stave off further discussion of the topic.
“Your sister and I had a disagreement about her favorite play,” Bradford said.
As if on cue, Beatrice and Margaret clasped their hands to their chests and exclaimed, “Matilda, my dearest, dead Matilda!”
Margaret erupted into a riot of giggling; Beatrice gave a low hah-hah-hah. Lily frowned and opened her mouth to inquire whether she was feeling well.
“Do you remember the man with the…with the…" Margaret gasped, gesturing above her head to Beatrice.
“The feather on his cap! And halfway through the death scene it broke, and instead of acknowledging it and fixing it, he tried to pretend it wasn’t there.
So the whole time he was delivering what was supposed to be his most dramatic lines, there was a feather hanging over his face, like this.
” Beatrice held a gloved hand over her face.
“And every time he’d speak”—here, Margaret paused to hiccup a laugh—“the feather would puff out from his face.”
Beatrice moved the hand over her face with every word. “Matilda, my dearest dead Matilda!”
Bradford grinned at Lily. “You didn’t tell me any of this. And it still was your favorite play?”
Lily knew she was full-on blushing now, but couldn’t stop it. “It was a very good story,” she said pertly, gathering her wrap more tightly around her shoulders. “It isn’t my fault if the lot of you have no taste.”
“The feather would have been bad enough,” Margaret said, ignoring her. “But remember, the male lead that evening was the understudy, and he’d had to wedge himself into those ill-fitting tights?”
“That play was more educational than a trip to the Royal Academy of Arts,” Beatrice muttered.
“Beatrice!” Lily gasped, her blush deepening.
Thankfully, both the gentlemen present laughed, and at that moment, the tone sounded for them to take their seats.
Bradford turned to Ettrick. “Your Grace, would you like to join us in our box? I believe we have the extra room.”
Lily saw Margaret’s head whip up, her eyes wide. But she knew her sister well enough to know that the expression she wore wasn’t fear—at least, not precisely.
“I’d be delighted,” he said, something like triumph in his tone.
Lily didn’t have time to study their dynamic further. Bradford put a steady, warm hand to the small of her back, ushering her into the fray of patrons trying to find their seats. There was a giddy air of anticipation in the crowd, though Lily thought she felt it most keenly.
We’re friends, she told herself firmly. Friends or something much like it.
She only hoped that the feeling in her stomach would heed her words.
Somehow, she and Bradford ended up in relative privacy despite all their unexpected guests. The box he’d reserved was oddly shaped, with three rows of three chairs. Beatrice, Sylvia, and Rachel took the front row. Lily and Bradford sat in the back row behind Margaret and the Duke of Ettrick.
The play achieved its ambition as a comedy, and half an hour into the first act, Lily frowned and twisted in her seat to try to get a better look at Beatrice.
“What’s the matter?” Bradford murmured to her.
“I think my sister might be coming down with an ailment of some kind.” Lily craned her neck, trying to see whether Beatrice had her handkerchief out. “She sounds…odd.”
Just then, the crowd erupted into laughter that wasn’t quite loud enough to drown out Beatrice’s unnaturally deep hah-hah-hah.
Bradford grinned. “Your sister is quite well. She’s simply proving a point to Margaret.”
Lily blinked. “What, that she can laugh like a dockworker who’s deep in his cups?”
His eyebrows raised. “Actually, that’s a very close guess.”
“I should have known.”
Lily refocused her gaze to the stage, where a man was delivering a passionate soliloquy. At the end of his speech, the crowd laughed, and Lily smiled reflexively.
Bradford leaned toward her. “You cannot convince me you heard the crux of his joke; you were speaking with me.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then why did you smile?”
“Because the crowd laughed,” she murmured, smiling.
“I didn’t think you were the type to be so easily influenced,” he teased.
“I’m not.”
“I suppose I should expect nothing less from a young lady who was coaxed into the basket of a strange man’s balloon.”
Lily huffed a laugh and shook her head. Why did all of their exchanges feel different this evening? Was it some trick of the low light that was causing all of their conversation to feel like flirtation? Or was it an inherent effect of whispering with one another so that others wouldn't hear?
“It was a very strange journey,” she said, for some reason not wanting their conversation to end. “But you should be grateful to Sir Vernon.”
“Why is that?”
His dark eyes were fixed upon her, but the light was so low she couldn’t tell what expression he wore.
“Without him, we never would have ended up here, at the theater this evening.”
Together, she wanted to add. But that word felt too presumptuous to say aloud.
“You’re right,” he finally murmured. “I owe that gentleman a great deal of thanks, indeed.”