Chapter 5 #3
“I will do it,” he said.
She could only stare. She’d thrust her hand into a fire. Heat leapt from his skin, and his hand, wrapped around hers, was treacherously solid and reassuring.
His eyes were anything but, somehow dark and bright at the same time, a spark in his pupils that entranced her as if she were watching the weaving coils of a snake.
“Er, what did you say?” Air roared in her ears. The pulse of blood. Something heavy had fallen from the ceiling and struck her on the head, knocking loose every last one of her wits.
She felt the most ridiculous, dangerous, alarming, melting sensation. She yanked her hand free.
“I will do it,” he repeated. “I will make you a theater.” That smile crooked up one side of his mouth, a wry twist in his otherwise oh, so symmetrical face. “And hope you will find the investors to help you build it. But I thought you were dead set on Dorsey not choosing me.”
She tore her gaze away from his face and forced herself to look about the room. Ah, yes. Suffolk House. Cheltenham. Her name was Cerys Van Der Welle Evans.
“That was before I saw this house, and your sketchbook.” She wanted to live inside the beautiful spaces he knew how to create. “If you will agree to the designs we want, I will ensure Dorsey gives you the commission.”
“You are very confident in your persuasive powers.”
“It will be a beautiful design, Mr. Manelli. Unless I have greatly overestimated your ability.”
“You have not,” he said, with all the arrogance a man could possess.
He was still staring at her. In fact he studied her as intently as she had surveyed his sketchbook and its architectural designs. He stared as if she were an intricate blueprint and he wanted to understand every line and weight that went into the making of her.
She was an actress. She was accustomed to eyes watching her; she craved it. That was her purpose. And yet Manelli’s focused attention made her feel she stood on a wherry crossing the Severn, rocked by the incoming tide.
In theater, when one wanted the audience to look elsewhere, one used misdirection. “Beatrice and Benedict,” she blurted.
Finally, the spell broke. He retreated slightly, though not enough. The raw look in his eyes disappeared as he recalled himself.
“Who?”
“Benedict from Much Ado About Nothing,” she said. “When you called me Lady Disdain, you were quoting him. It’s from the first act, when the Prince and his company arrive at Leonato’s. Benedict says to Beatrice—” Out of habit, she struck a pose— “My dear Lady Disdain, are you yet living?”
A smile flicked up the other side of his mouth, balancing him. “Is that where I heard it?”
“And Beatrice responds.” She fell into her posture; she had played Beatrice many a time. Her Beatrice was the reason their stay at Tewkesbury had been extended for three extra weeks. “Is it possible disdain should die, when she hath such meet food to feed upon as Signor Benedict?”
“Ah.” The smile disappeared. “Lady Disdain. No doubt you are excellent in the part.”
He was guarded again, no longer warm clay in her palm. The fragile connection, the small bit of rapport, had broken.
For the best. And yet she found herself wishing to draw him back as he returned his attention to his sketchbook, something bleak falling across his brow.
“It is set in Italy,” she said.
“Hmm?”
“The play. Much Ado. It takes place in Padua.”
“A place I doubt Shakespeare had ever seen.”
“You are from Italy, are you not?”
“My father was. My mother is not. I grew up in England.” He snapped the sketchbook shut.
“A pity, as you seem to hate us all.”
“Only some.” He tucked the leatherbound folio under his arm, an obvious preparation for departure.
Cerys planted her fists on her hips and scowled at him. “You need me.”
“I beg your pardon.”
At least it was his turn this time, though he appeared to be choking on the words.
“For this commission. I will help you craft a design that will win over Dorsey. It will fulfill his every wildest dream, and then more.”
“And what benefit do you derive from this arrangement?”
Her heart gave a nervous little stutter. She would almost call it excitement, but that could not be. She only felt this breathless rush right before the curtain lifted on a performance.
“I should think it obvious. I gain a theater.”
A home. A solid place to reside, at last. A structure firm and tall and strong that she’d had a hand in the making of. An accomplishment that could last.
He looked away, and the excitement collapsed into a small anxious knot.
“Good day, Miss Evans.”
That was all he said. No agreement. No approval. Just that curt acknowledgement, not even meeting her eye, and he strode out the door.
Cerys bit her lip and looked around the library, suddenly quiet and empty, and all of a sudden, with the imposing Mr. Manelli vanished, lacking anything that appealed to her to stay.
This had to work. He had to help her. She had to do something to prove her worth to the troupe. To the world.
She must have some way to prove her value. For what was left for her if she didn’t?