Chapter 12 #2
“I will be glad to advise you on designs, my dear Dante. I have been inside all the important theaters in London, and a few regional ones.” She came close, almost leaning on his arm, a familiarity he would grant only to a sister. Or a wife, if he ever took one.
He would never choose a wife like Bathsheba. He began rolling the map, an excuse to free himself from her touch. “I have Cerys to tell me what the actors want in their theater. She has already given me several ideas.”
He acknowledged his error as Bathsheba’s eyelids flared, then tensed. “Cerys,” she whispered.
He stiffened his back. Curse his tongue. “Miss Evans.”
Dorsey nodded, not at all offended by Dante’s use of his favorite’s given name. “Good eye on that one. Excellent taste. You can trust her to know what’s right for us.”
“I think you will find it often said of me that my taste is exquisite,” Bathsheba replied with a haughty tilt to her chin. “I’ve proven so on many occasions.”
She drifted her gaze over Dante, letting a coy, knowing look slide into her eyes that suggested her choice of him, once, had been an example of her taste. An example of his foolishness, of which he did not care to be reminded.
“Like your choice of husband?” Dante asked.
She recoiled slightly, taking the insult for what it was. Her eyes narrowed.
“I would not put so much faith in the whims of an untried girl,” she said, her voice a hiss.
“Aye, mayhap not an untried one.” Dorsey nodded, reaching beneath his coat to adjust his suspenders. “But she don’t know our Cerys, do she, Mr. Manelli?”
Dorsey couldn’t have made a more effective thrust if he’d been given a mark.
His affectionate tone, his use of the girl’s Christian name, and the assumption of familiarity between Cerys and Dante—all of it served as a goad.
Bathsheba’s cheeks tightened, a sign she was biting back a barb.
She wouldn’t allow herself to show spleen before Andover.
Bitter, unpleasant women did not get invited to round out the numbers at dinner parties thrown by the sons of earls.
“Just how great a stake is Baeccon willing to make if Mr. Dorsey’s Hamlet is a success?” asked Dutton, who had nothing better to do than thrust his nose into the affairs of others.
“It must be a very great success,” Bathsheba answered. “His lordship is canny about his investments. He will only be persuaded to part with his funds if the prospect seems likely to repay him several times over.”
“As has his investment in you?” Dante could not help asking.
Her eyes flickered as she registered the blow.
Dante probed his feelings for repentance.
There was none. Baeccon was a profligate and a spendthrift, but he modeled himself after the pleasure-seeking Prince Regent without having the same bottomless coffers.
Dante had inquired relentlessly about the man years ago, when Bathsheba had first thrown him over, and the image he’d gained of his lordship then was not flattering.
It had taken no more than a few desultory questions around Cheltenham, in the last day or two, to confirm that his lordship’s reputation had not improved.
He was still a lord, though, with a baron’s coronet and a place in the peerage as acknowledged by a line or two in Debrett’s. And that place could never be taken away, no matter how he clouded the name.
“I’ll make you an offer, Dorsey,” Thompson said. “If your Hamlet is a success and her ladyship is pleased by the reception, I’ll stead you twenty thousand pounds, and challenge Baeccon to put up the same.”
Bathsheba paled about the corners of her mouth. “Twenty thousand pounds,” she echoed. It was a staggering fortune.
“Does he not have the pockets for such a sum?” Dante asked. Few men would, and Baeccon was known to frequent the gaming tables.
“He does,” Bathsheba said coolly. “He’s had a run of luck since we’ve come to Cheltenham. And, much as I might tease him, he will not choose to spend it all on me.”
“But an investment in a theater, that’s something that can pay off in the long term,” Andover said. “Steady source of income, in the right hands. Dorsey, if your production is well-received, I’ll put up a stake myself. Ten thousand pounds.”
“As will I,” Dutton said immediately.
“There you have it, Dorsey,” Thompson said.
“Nearly half of your capital, in return for a stake in future profits. The rest of the money you need, you raise by subscription. Lifetime tickets to boxes, gallery, or pit. Have proper designs to show, and you’ll have more than enough on board before the cornerstone in laid. ”
“There will be proper designs,” Dante said.
“But I cannot recall how Lady Baeccon has decided we will determine if the production is a success.” He wouldn’t trust Bathsheba to be the judge.
She would do what she could to bring down Cerys, if for no other reason than the girl had captivated Dante’s attention.
No. Not captivated. He was only curious about her, that was all. The girl was a mystery. And no Ophelia would be devastating enough to move the hard heart of Bathsheba Baeccon.
“As we said,” Dutton said. “If it’s well-received, here at her ladyship’s matinee, and it looks likely your company can make a go of it, Dorsey, we’ll stand you the blunt, between us.”
“I will have the final say, of course,” Bathsheba said.
“Of course.” Andover inclined his head. “A lady’s prerogative.”
The small, sour curve of her lips as she turned away, responding to a summons from her husband, made Dante fear that Bathsheba would leave all of their plans and Dorsey’s hopes in ruins.
She wouldn’t lift a finger to advance Cerys Evans, if she could stop it; she had set out to humiliate the younger girl.
Dante would be rubble in her wake, once again, for if the prospect of a theater disappeared, he would be out of a commission. And Cerys wanted this theater above all else. She would be devastated if Bathsheba Baeccon brought an end to all their hopes, and it would all be Dante’s fault.
He would lose a commission, a chance to make a mark on Cheltenham by his own name, and he would lose all opportunity to ever be close to Cerys Evans.
He was glad there was no one about to question him as to which loss would hurt more—the building, or the girl—as he did not want to examine the obvious answer.
He rolled the map and took the opportunity to avoid the influx of guests by conveying the plans to his room, and confronting the truth as he did.
He wanted to know Cerys Evans. He wanted to walk with her through the streets and growing squares of Cheltenham and see the faces she made as she regarded the various architectural styles—amused, inspired, disgusted.
He wanted to show her the hidden beauties of the town she hadn’t yet had a chance to see.
He wanted to breathe in jasmine and fresh woman as she leaned over a table full of his sketches, discussing designs with him.
And he wanted more opportunities to pull her into dark corners and kiss her until her lips were swollen, her eyes dazed, and she couldn’t say her own name if asked.
He wanted to be close to her the way he had not wanted to be close to another person in a long time—in a way he had never been with Bathsheba. And of course he would only recognize that when the chance was about to vanish before his eyes.
Worse was that he could do nothing to protect her.
Her future hinged on this production and whether her company’s play could please a cunning woman who had never in her life considered the concerns of any being beyond herself.
Dante took a cane chair among the audience assembling itself, and he feared he might be about to witness more than the destruction of long-ago Denmark.
It was better this way, the wiser, wounded part of him decided as one of the company, the quiet boy they called Meek, came through the room and dimmed the lamps.
The fog crawled outside the windows like the breath of some great animal, enshrouding them in a cloud of melancholy and doom, as if manufactured for the stage.
Yes, it was better if plans fell apart now. Bathsheba’s vindictiveness would save him from being a fool again over a woman, from being drawn in by green-glinting eyes and a mischievous smile and clouds of hair he wanted to bury his hands in and hold her close to him.
She was young. She was innocent, and she was an unsuitable object for his infatuation in every way that was possible.
She came from a different world, one he couldn’t comprehend, and with her acting company she lived free of the rules of the genteel world, the world he was striving to enter, with all its courtesies and careful restrictions.
It was not up to him to shield or protect her, and it would not do to be enchanted by a pair of puckered lips and the sweet grace of a girl who had gotten her own way in everything, always.
He would see the show through to the end, and then he would accept that the enchantment was over. He had never been one to be caught up in dreams.
The boy sat tailor-style to one side of the area that had been marked out as the stage, and a tall curtain had been strung as a backdrop.
He pulled a wooden flute from his coat and played a soft, haunting tune, evoking the mist swirling outside the windows, the lonely sorrow of a cold night.
The two sentries stepped onto opposite ends of the stage, challenging one another, and Dante settled in to appreciate what he could of the play.