Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Cerys had wondered how long her friends would let her go on before they demanded an explanation, and she had her answer the next morning, when the female contingent of Dorsey’s Players set out to visit the spas and take the waters, then turn themselves loose on the High Street.
But the Old Well was still drawing water, having been enlarged a few years prior, and it was in that direction the women set out from Suffolk House, walking along the avenue of lime trees that had been laid out for that purpose.
“So what would ye be about, then, me lovely?” Mame asked lightly, falling into step beside Cerys as the other girls lagged behind, gossiping.
“Me?” Cerys avoided a small puddle in the packed clay lane, left by an overnight shower.
The breeze played with the skirts of her corded muslin walking dress, and she wished for a moment that she’d brought her redingote rather than her shawl.
The sun around Suffolk House seemed warmer somehow, promising the temperate mildness of Mediterranean climes, while the shade of the lime trees delivered a cooler touch, British sobriety in contrast to Iberian indolence.
“What do you suppose I’m about?” Cerys asked, trying to tuck in the ribbon tying her capote bonnet so it stopped slapping against her neck.
“With the Viscount Andover?” Mame raised her brows in a question. “You tell me.”
“He offered us shelter on Dorsey’s behalf. He didn’t want to see our entire troupe unhoused.”
“I doubt me Dorsey was his consideration,” Mame replied. “And what of the Hon. Mr. Dutton?”
“What of him?”
“Awfully attentive, I notice. He was insisting on escorting you this morning, shaking off the excesses of his evening, until he saw he’d have to contend with the whole lot of us.”
“He is a contented family man, devoted to his wife and his increasing family.” Cerys yanked her bonnet ribbons loose so she might retie the recalcitrant things.
“Hmm. Domestic contentment, in my observation, never stopped a man from approaching a mistress. Here, pet.”
Cerys held still, chin up, while Mame retied her ribbons in a deft bow.
Mame was their chief hand at costumes, and while Cerys had learned to sew when she was five, she couldn’t turn the Queen’s medieval court robes from Richard II into Lady Wishfort’s gown in She Stoops to Conquer and the next night into Cleopatra’s tunic the way Mame could.
“Now,” Mame said, cinching the knot, “tell me what you are about with the other one.”
Cerys hoped Mame did not note her small, quick intake of breath, and most certainly could not detect the way Cerys’s pulse kicked up speed at the mere thought of Dante Manelli. This would not do, for any of them.
“Which one?” she asked, resuming their stroll toward the temple-like building that housed the venerable Old Well, founder of Cheltenham’s fortunes.
“You know very well which one,” Mame drawled. “The one whose neck you are hanging about.”
“Oh, dear. Have I been that obvious?”
“Worse.” Mame pursed her lips.
Cerys shrugged and lifted her skirts so they didn’t drag on the steps as she climbed into the temple.
Pigeons decorated the top of the roof, above the cornice, and it was thanks to Dante she knew that concept.
The birds paid homage to the means by which the well had been discovered a century before.
The older, earlier pump room stood across the way, now warehouse for sundry items and the bottling industry that shipped medicinal Cheltenham waters to all points of the compass.
The song of the musicians performing in the gallery above floated through the air, and for the briefest moment, Cerys was captivated by the graciousness of the illusion: of stepping into a world devoted to leisure, and health, and contentment, and not the endless drudgery of keeping a roof over one’s head and clothes on one’s back.
But that was an illusion only. She didn’t know a single woman in her life whose daylight hours weren’t consumed with some manner of work or care.
The refurbished pump room reminded her in part of the rooms at Bath, where Cerys had visited on one or two occasions.
The old well was safely covered with a set of wooden doors to keep out air and rain, and a matron of some years stood behind the counter, the bodice of her gown swathed in the fichu of a bygone era, and her mob cap fully covering her graying hair.
“There’s five of us, Mistress Forty,” Mame greeted her, “in need of a restorative. And how are the waters today?”
“A bit mucky, after the rains afore night, but let your glass sit a moment and it’ll clear.
” Mrs. Forty drew the water from the creaking apparatus and lined the pewter cups along the top of the counter.
Dot swiped hers up with confidence. Rhoda, watching Dot, followed more cautiously.
Tryphenie sniffed at the contents, then wrinkled her nose.
Mame gestured with her cup. “Mistress Forty, this is Miss Evans, from our group. Miss Dorsey, Miss Ryves,” she pointed to Rhoda, “and Miss Tryphenie Barnes. Girls, this respectable matron is Mistress Hannah Forty. She’s been chief pumper here at the well for nigh two score years, and will no doubt continue pumping until the water runs out. ”
“Or I do.” Mrs. Forty snorted, then eyed Cerys. “Where are your people from, gel?”
“Newport, Wales,” Cerys said pleasantly. “But before that, the Netherlands, Barbados, and Africa.”
Mrs. Forty sniffed. “I’ve heard of your group. Meant to come see you before the theater burned down. My gossips tell me the pantomime with the kidnapped Sultan’s daughter was fine.”
“That was our Miss Evans,” Mame said without batting an eye. “Give yourself a treat and come see our Hamlet. We’ll be performing at the Montpelier Spa two afternoons from now. Bespoke performance for Lord and Lady Baeccon, hosted by Mr. Henry Thompson. The Viscount Andover has promised to attend.”
Mrs. Forty nodded. “I’ll bring my gossips. Not much for all the soliloquies, are we, but we do like the bit at the end with the bodies strewn all about the stage.”
“It will be splendid,” Mame promised, leaving their coin on the counter. A small boy in breeches and coat, pretending to livery, took their glasses and put them in a bin for washing. “May the day be warm, may your patrons be thirsty, and may your waters never run dry, Mistress Forty.”
“And a good day to you as well,” Mrs. Forty called before turning to her next group of visitors.
Cool air warred with a hopeful hint of warmth as they proceeded up the wide avenue of elms that constituted the Old Well Walk.
“Now there’s a woman of fortitude,” Mame commented.
“I’d do myself in if I had to stand in the same place day after day, serving fretful customers.
At least with this life, we get to change up our performances, and if a crowd turns sour, we can pick up and leave. ”
“Less chance of that if we build a theater of our own and stay here,” Cerys observed. She stopped suddenly and turned to the older woman. “We want a theater, don’t we? A solid place to stay?”
Mame nodded. “And become a group of repute, rather than traveling indigents.”
“I hope so,” Cerys said. “Otherwise I have been dangling after Mr. Manelli for nothing.”
“Not nothing, I’m sure,” Mame said, shooting her an arch, sidewise look.
Cerys could not stop the heat touching her cheeks at the memory of that kiss in the moonlight. The feel of his firm arm beneath hers as they walked along the Montpelier Parade.
The way his eyes had flared when she stepped close to him, testing. She knew how to use a space; it was a skill theater had taught her. She sensed her nearness had an effect on him.
More concerning was the effect his nearness had on her.
“I can’t imagine what you could mean.” Cerys lifted her chin as they continued walking, nodding to passersby on the broad promenade. “I am only trying to secure his cooperation in designing us a new theater.”
Mame made a scoffing sound. “And ’tis necessary you coo and flirt and cozen him to do so?”
“With him? Yes,” Cerys said. “And also, to irritate Lady Baeccon.”
“You’re resolved to put yourself between those two? I wouldn’t.”
“Well, he can’t be working on our designs if he’s trying to battle her off. Or falling into her bed,” Cerys reflected. “Either way, we can’t have her interfering and interrupting his work. So I’ve stepped in.”
“I see. And why it is on your shoulders, and yours alone, to get us a theater, I wonder?” Mame asked.
Cerys faltered, though the Old Well Walk was wide and smooth, no less than twenty feet wide from elm tree to elm tree. “I am only trying to help.”
“Manage, it would seem to me. Though the devil knows Dorsey needs managing.”
“You think I am overstepping my bounds?”
“I think you feel you owe us something, and you don’t, child.”
“You and Dorsey took a great chance on me. You took me in and gave me roles when I had no experience, no professional experience to speak of. You’ve taught me, guided me, protected me, and done a great deal more I’m no doubt unaware of. It would only be fitting for me to help you where I can.”
“I see.” Mame nodded. The broad ribbons of her hat fluttered in the breeze behind her, like the unspoken prophecies of a sage. “And what comes after?”
“What do you mean?”
The Well Walk gave out into the curve of houses forming the Crescent, and Cerys slowed to regard the orderly sweep of the facade.
She had taunted Dante for merely making a copy of the Bath Crescent, and a more severe copy at that, but there was something imperial and impressive in the breadth and scope of the buildings.
They commanded the eye and yet soothed the senses at the same time, imposing an orderly elegance on the unformed world.
The regularity and precision seemed to her a reflection of Dante’s orderly mind, one dedicated to balance and symmetry, where discipline provided a channel for passion, not an obstacle to it.