In Rehearsal

12

In Rehearsal

    Exley St. Paul consisted of little more than a large and elaborate church, a huddle of cottages, a pond in what might with some stretch of the imagination have been considered a village green, and one small inn. The Dancing Dog. Hartington’s Players were inured to these sorts of conditions—and, indeed, had expected nothing better from such a rural location—and for the most part did not even bother to comment. Though Mrs Pontifex did note with a sniff that she had heard of Dancing Pigs but never a Dancing Dog, before this; to which Mr Samuel Speede, who had already been there for a week, replied sourly that the creature on the sign certainly looked closer to a pig than a dog, but that in his opinion the locals would drop down dead of the shock if you offered them so much as a begging terrier, let alone a terpsichorean porker. And concluded, somewhat redundantly: “Yokels.”

    “Aye. What are the beds like?” asked Mrs Hetty without any evidence of optimism in her voice. The energetic Nancy Andrews, who had come down with Mr Speede, replying succinctly to this “Clean enough,” she shrugged but allowed: “That’s a nice change.”

    “And Sam’s already done his comic recitation in the tap. Twice,” added Nancy.

    Nancy Andrews had been with Hartington’s Players for some time, whilst Mrs Hetty had been with the rival company, Mr Brentwood’s, so the latter asked: “Which piece, Nancy?”

    “The one he always does for yokels. Hard to describe it, really: it’s got bits of this, that and the other in it!” replied the energetic one cheerfully.

    “Bit of Sir Toby Belch,” offered Mr Speede.

    “Harold’s taking that himself,” returned Mrs Hetty immediately.

    “I know that, and good luck to him!” retorted Mr Speede feelingly. “All I’m saying is, it’s got a bit of him in it. And a bit of Falstaff. –Don’t tell me Harold’s done him, I know that, thanks.”

    “Well, I do know that he did him in the Windsor play, yes, Sam; what about Hal Four?” asked Mrs Hetty.

    Mr Speede cleared his throat and admitted: “He would of, Hetty, only between you and me and that thing out there by the pond what looks like as nothing to a ducking stool, he said the mere thought of Sid doing the young Prince Hal in white silk stockings turned his stomach.”

    Mrs Pontifex gulped but conceded: “He’s got a point. Um, could he of offered it to someone else, though?”

    “Well, in theory, dare say he could—aye. But he don’t want to get on Sid’s bad side, because like it or not, he’s the best Hartington’s Players have got, and if he went over permanent to another management, we’d probably go under. Or be condemned,” said Mr Speede pointedly, “to spend our whole lives on these demned rural tours.”

    “Yes. Um—is it a ducking stool?” she asked somewhat lamely.

    Nancy was leaning in the window of the sole private parlour of the Dancing Dog. “It could be. Could be anything,” she admitted, eyeing it without favour. “Might be the village stocks, or what’s left of them.”

    “The whole place,” said Mr Speede redundantly, “is like that.”

    “Where do we rehearse?” asked Mrs Hetty feebly.

    Mr Speede eyed her drily. “The great house has graciously condescended to offer us an empty barn what belongs to their Home Farm. What did you expect?”

    “About that, actual,” she admitted feebly. “It’s no worse than what Brentwood’s company got at Sir Whatsit Foote’s place, anyroad.”

    Mr Speede’s small, shrewd eye brightened. “’Ere, did he make Percy Brentwood rehearse his famous summer masque in a barn?”

    “Yes, of course! Oh,” said Mrs Hetty lamely as Mrs Andrews emitted a delighted shriek and Mr Speede a bellow of laughter, “didn’t he admit it? No, well, he did. Mind you, we got into the ballroom for the last couple of dress rehearsals.”

    Mrs Andrews winked at Mr Speede. “And supper in the servants’ hall, after!”

    “Typical,” he acknowledged, though grinning. “No, well, the barn’s clean and dry. Plenty of room for the waggons, too. Them boys can sleep there, there ain’t hardly room to swing a cat in this place. Harold’ll have to share with me. As to where we’ll put His Highness when he condescends to show his nose around the place, I’m demned if I know.”

    “Sid? Ain’t he here yet?” asked Mrs Hetty limply.

    “No.”

    She swallowed. “Oh. Well, he left London before us, Sam, to get on over to his brother’s place for his niece’s wedding; but he swore he'd get down to Devon well before us. Reckoned his brother would send him in his own travelling-coach.”

    “I dare say. –No, well, Joe Bottomley-Pugh’s a decent fellow, and if he said Sid could have the coach, he’d of meant it. Doesn’t mean to say that His Highness hasn’t been waylaid on the journey by various diversions,” he noted grimly.

    “Um—no, well, I suppose it is a fair way.”

    “And coming all the way in a gent’s travelling-coach with a team poled up and putting up at the best inns, there will have been a fair number of diversions on offer,” he agreed sourly. “Well, Daniel’s not in Twelfth Night, he could take the part at a pinch; but he’s in the other piece: David’d have to take Sid’s part in that. –Harold’s calling it All In The Mind, and he’s transported the setting to London and renamed them all, but it’s Molière’s Imaginary Invalid more or less word for word. Well, up-dated, I suppose.” He shrugged.

    “Don’t think I know it,” admitted Mrs Pontifex cheerfully.

    Mr Speede sniffed. “It’s got a good part for Nancy, here. And he’s cast Mrs Mayhew as the second wife what’s after his money: she can make something of that, dare say. But Vic’s wasted in it! Playing one of the dotty doctors, and doubling as a lawyer. Don't tell me that sounds all right, because Harold’s called the doctors Purge and Devilish! –No, well, he spells it D,E,V,I,L,H,U,I,S,H,” he conceded as she choked, “but Devilish is what it is, all right and tight. –Vic’s got Purge, I’m Devilhuish. But there’s nothing in it, for a man of his talents.”

    “What about Sid’s part?” asked Mrs Hetty.

    “Young lover. Nothing in it, for him, either,” said Nancy Andrews with a shrug. “Why he ain’t in hurry to get here, I’d say.” She peered out of the window. “There’s a coach.”

    Mrs Hetty rushed to join her. “Only a pair. Can't be ’im.” Their eyes met: they collapsed in giggles.

    “Yes, well,” said Mr Speede with a sort of mournful satisfaction, “you’ll be laughing on the other sides of yer faces when I tell you who, or should I say what, Harold’s been and gorn and cast as the younger sister.”

    “We know. Dratted Georgy Trueblood. But Tilda’s sworn she’ll keep an eye on him,” said Mrs Hetty, watching the coach out of sight. “Lor’, lively spot, ain’t it?” she then noted as a duck was seen to waddle across the green, or possibly swamp, and launch itself into the water.

    “Wait until you see the barn,” retorted Nancy.

    Mrs Pontifex sighed resignedly. And kindly explained, not that Mrs Andrews or Mr Speede showed any desire to know, that Tilda and young Georgy had gone to visit with an aunty of Mrs Trueblood’s in a place called Honiton, and would be arriving on the morrow by cart. And was Axminster far from here?

    Mrs Andrews and Mr Speede exchanged glances. “Um, you would’ve got orf the stage there, Hetty,” said the actress lamely.

    “Eh?”

    “Well, dare say it was dead o’ night,” allowed Mr Speede tolerantly. “It’s a provincial backwater, in any case.”

    “No, but that’s where Miss Cressida’s staying!” she cried in dismay. “You mean to say them noddies let me come on all the way in that blamed cart without warning me?”

    “Were you asleep when they got you into it?” replied Mr Speede.

    “Y— N— I dare say as I was half asleep, what with travelling most of the night and the early start, but why didn’t they stop me?” she wailed.

    “Margery and Lilian were probably asleep themselves,” noted Nancy. “Well, they wasn’t awake when you all got here, and they’re snoring as we speak—”

    “That Lilian had a flask,” returned Mrs Hetty, somewhat obscurely.

    “There you are, then,” said Nancy simply.

    “Vic and Daniel knew I meant to stop off and find her!” she said crossly.

    “They would’ve been passed out, too,” noted Mr Speede fairly. “Why didn’t Mrs Wittering alert you? Or have you all got her on the drink, as well?”

    “No! She went on with Tilda and Georgy to the aunty’s!” she shouted furiously. “It’s all that Harold’s fault, and I’ll KILL him!”

    “You’ll be waiting a fair while to do it, then: the demned barn’s in the middle of nowhere.” Mr Speede peered out of the window. “Does this look like a Bob Watkins to you, Nancy?”

    Mrs Andrews eyed the yokel who had just driven up on a cart. “Could be an anything, Sam. From a Bob Watkins down to your actual Cloten.”

    Sniggering, Mr Speede awarded Mrs Andrews a friendly pat on the posterior, and wandered out to see if it was indeed Mr Watkins. Rumoured to be the ablest man with a hammer in the whole of Exley St Paul. In the which case, he might have employment for him.

    Mrs Pontifex looked sourly out of the window. “Up to your actual Cloten, if you ask me!”

    “You’re not wrong. Um, listen, Hetty, Margery and Lilian can fit in with you and me quite reasonable, so long as they ain’t brought their entire wardrobes; and I dare say we could fit Mrs W. in, at a pinch. But nothing on God’s earth ain’t going to induce me to share a room with that Georgy Trueblood! Now!”

    “Oh! Well, no, I should think not, dear! No, well, he can go in with Tilda: she’s used to him. And if she don’t like it, well, it’ll teach her to stand up to her Ma next time she tries to thrust the damned brat down the throats of her management! –What I must say, dear, we’re lucky that Mrs T. ain’t here herself, a-throwing of poor Tilda at anything what wears pantaloons and claims to of been to Oxford and Cambridge University!”

    “Yes,” agreed Nancy a trifle limply. “Oxford or Cambridge, I think, ain’t it? No, well, I take your point. She means well enough, only it won’t sink in that Tilda don’t want a gentleman friend and won’t never be no Clarissa Campion, if she lives to be—” Their eyes met. “Her age!” finished Nancy with a robust chuckle.

    Mrs Hetty also laughed, though noting by the by that a certain enlarging of the experience wouldn’t do Tilda’s performance any harm. And enquired if there was anything drinkable at The Dancing Dog? Nancy explained that it was mostly cider in these parts, or ale if you fancied it, but the cider wasn’t actually too bad. And Mrs Potter did a decent steak and tater pie. Relatively early though it was, Mrs Hetty decided that they might as well. If nothing else, it might give her the strength to watch Harold rehearsing something he’d adapted himself from a Froggy thing in a barn at the back end of nowhere.

    “Wake UP!” shouted Mr Hartington.

    Mr Deane blinked, and more or less roused himself from a pile of hay. Though pointing out: “Nothing to wake up for, Harold. You’ve got less than half a cast, here.”

    “We can run through our scenes,” replied Mr Hartington grimly. “We don’t need the women. Where’s your script?”

    “Eh? Oh.” Yawning, Mr Deane produced a dog-eared bundle of papers. “I’m more or less up in it. Not much different from my last, really.”

    Mr Hartington glared, but decided to save his breath. “Vic! –Dammit, where’s he gone? VIC!”

    Mr Vanburgh strolled back into the barn, hands in his pockets. “Lovely day,” he offered mildly.

    “Lovely day? I’ll lovely day you! We’re here to WORK!” shouted Mr Hartington.

    “If you only wanted to run through for words, we could have done it in the inn parlour,” replied Mr Vanburgh calmly.

    “Rubbish. Stand over there. You’re— Damn. Where am I?”

    “According to this,” said Mr Deane with a yawn, consulting his part, “you’ve just gone out.”

    “What? No! –Hang on, Vic.”

    Looking resigned, Mr Vanburgh sat down on the convenient pile of hay earlier vacated by Mr Deane. Mr Hartington looked crossly through his script and decided that he and Mr Deane would do Act III, which opened with Mr Deane’s arrival.

    “Yes, and then you go out. Jane reminds you that you can’t walk without your stick, and you then remember that you can’t. We need Nancy,” drawled Mr Deane.

    “Rubbish. –Tony! TONY!” shouted Mr Hartington.

    Mr Ardent entered, looking cautious. “Me?”

    “Yes, you, you great noddy! Come here! Read this.”

    Mr Ardent looked blankly at the script. “But I’m supposed to be Tom Devilhuish!”

    “Never mind that. Read Jane. –Not NOW!” he roared as Mr Ardent opened his mouth. “Later! When me and Daniel get that far! Go ON, Daniel!” he shouted.

    Obediently Mr Deane began, in the character of Benjamin Addle: “Well! How are you, brother?”

    “NO! Over THERE! You’ve just come IN!” he bellowed.

    “Oh, is that the door? Very well.” Mr Deane wandered over towards the barn door, turned and said: “Will this do?”

    “Speak the lines, if you please,” said Mr Hartington icily.

    “Well! How are you, brother?”

    This was apparently satisfactory, for Mr Hartington returned in a querulous tone which was evidently not that of Harold Hartington, producer extraordinaire, but that of Mr Addle, malade imaginaire: “Very poorly indeed, brother: very poorly indeed.”

    “Dear me, that’s no good,” replied Mr Deane mildly.

    “I haven’t the strength even to speak,” he said faintly.

    Ignoring that, in his persona of Benjamin Addle, Mr Deane replied: “I’ve come to have a word with you about Angelica.”

    “Don’t talk to me about that minx!” cried Mr Hartington, shaking his fist at him. “She’s an impertinent, ungrateful, worthless hussy, and I’ll see her in a convent before she’s a day older!”

    “Would he?” responded Mr Deane dubiously, lapsing from the rôle of Benjamin Addle. “Thought you’d transposed it all to London?”

    “Eh? Oh. Damn. Well, I dunno. What threats do English fathers use?”

    “Marry her off to someone else?” suggested Mr Ardent eagerly.

    “It’s not in the PLOT!” shouted Mr Hartington.

    Mr Ardent subsided.

    “Send her to her grandmother in the country?” suggested Mr Vanburgh from his pile of hay.

    Looking cross, Mr Hartington made a note on his script. “It’ll have to do. –She’s an impertinent, worthless hussy, and I’ll see her down in the country with her grandmother on bread and water before she’s a day older!”

    “Brilliant,” conceded Mr Deane sardonically.

    “Read the part,” responded Mr Hartington grumpily.

    “Ah! That’s better! I’m glad to see your strength’s returned, and my visit’s doing you good,” said Mr Deane cordially.

    Mr Ardent, taken unawares, collapsed in delighted sniggers.

    “You’re not on yet, Tony,” drawled Mr Vanburgh.

    “Be silent, if you please,” said Mr Hartington icily. “Or you won’t get Malvolio after all. –Dammit, where are we?” he muttered.

    “I don’t know where you are,” said Mr Vanburgh pointedly, “but I seem to recall that M. Molière at this point was about to break for the entry of a ballet. Moorish, I rather think.”

    Mr Ardent emitted further sniggers.

    “I told you you should have let Vic take Addle,” said Mr Deane.

    “Shut it, Daniel! Read the PART!” he shouted.

    Mr Deane shrugged but said: “…and my visit’s doing you good. –Pause for giggles from the groundlings,” he added pointedly, eyeing Mr Ardent. “—May we talk?”

    “Just a moment, brother, just a moment; I’ll be back,” replied Mr Hartington in failing accents. He tottered towards the door but paused to shout: “That’s YOU!”

    Mr Ardent came to with a jump. “Oh, I say, is it? Oh, yes: Jane. Wait, sir,” he squeaked, falsetto, “aren’t you forgetting that you can’t walk without your cane? –But he is walking,” he said to Mr Deane in confusion.

    “Quite right, quite right, quite RIGHT!” said Mr Hartington loudly and pointedly, snatching an imaginary cane from him and tottering out.

    “Oh,” said Mr Ardent lamely. “I see. It’s a joke.”

    Mr Deane eyed him tolerantly. “He’s an imaginary invalid. A malingerer. Get it?”

    Nodding hard, Mr Ardent squeaked, falsetto: “Sir, sir, please don’t give up pleading your niece’s cause!”

    “That’ll do,” noted Mr Hartington, coming back in and snatching the script back off him.

    “I could run through Daniel’s scene with him,” he offered.

    “If you could act, and if you could produce anything that sounded even in the slightest like a female voice—yes. Get off, I’ll call you when you’re needed.”

    Gratefully Mr Ardent vanished.

    “We’ll skip this,” Mr Hartington informed Mr Deane.

    “You could have let him read it: it’s only a few lines.”

    “My constitution won’t take it, Daniel. –So much for any idea of letting him play Rosalind.”

    Mr Deane blenched. “As You Like It? You wouldn’t!”

    “Not after hearing him squealing, falsetto: no, you’re right. But he’s pretty enough. –Why not? They did it in the Bard’s day,” he said, glaring.

    “In the Bard’s day they caught them young and taught to act. A,C,T: act,” drawled Mr Vanburgh from his pile of hay.

    “I can give you two reasons why not: in the first place you’d be mobbed, they’d consider it indecency; and in the second place, didn’t you see the Ariel in Percy Brentwood’s production of The Tempest?” said Mr Deane, staring at the actor-manager.

    “That was different! He was an hermaphrodite!” replied Mr Hartington huffily.

    “He was a boy in tits: the groundlings won’t differentiate, Harold. Don’t even think of it.”

    Huffily Mr Hartington looked through his script. “Get on with it. Jane goes out, I come in.”

    “Mm? Oh, yes. Before I start, brother dear, I know that you would wish me to urge you not to allow yourself to become heated during our conversation.”

    “Certainly, certainly, certainly,” allowed Mr Hartington, blending the querulous with the grudgingly grateful nicely in his tone.

    “That’s not bad, Harold,” conceded Mr Vanburgh.

    Ignoring this, Mr Hartington glared at Mr Deane, who was grinning.

    “Eh? Oh. –And to reply with complete calm to anything I may say.”

    “Quite, quite, quite,” said Mr Hartington, nodding.

    “He wasn’t in his dotage, Harold,” objected Mr Vanburgh. “That’s the whole subtlety of the piece: he’s quite an ordinary man of middle years, reasonably sensible about most things, apart from being under the thumb of his youngish second wife, but totally taken in by these charlatans of medical men.”

    Mr Deane turned and winked at him. “In Molière’s version, Vic: aye.”

    Mr Vanburgh sniggered slightly.

    “Vic, do you want Malvolio or NOT?” shouted Mr Hartington.

    “Yes, please, Harold!” he said cheerfully.

    “Then pray be silent. –Get on with it, Daniel!” he snarled.

    Mr Deane got on with it.

    They had finished the long scene between the brothers, and had run through the next scene, which had involved Mr Hartington’s shouting for Mr Paul Pouteney and Mr Vanburgh’s being ordered to give him a bit of coaching in the rôle of Mr Flush, the apothecary; and had just finished the next sequence, with Mr Vanburgh as Dr Purge and Mr Ardent resignedly reading the maid’s part again, when a light, husky voice with an odd break in it said: “Is this the company that seeks a Rosalind?”

    The actors swung round and stared. Outlined in the doorway of the barn was a slight figure draped in a long black cloak, the collar pulled up around the chin. A feathered hat was set aslant atop tumbled curls which gleamed coppery-gold in the bright sun…

    After a moment Mr Hartington allowed: “Not bad for an amateur, young sir.”

    And the figure laughed, swung the cloak off gracefully, removed the hat, and bowed. “Why, I thank you! Though I am saddened to realise you should have perceived at once that I am an amateur.”

    “You ain’t got the tricks of the profession. And I’ll have our hat back,” replied the actor-manager stolidly.

    Laughing, the young man tossed him the hat. Admitting: “The cloak’s yours, too. I borrowed them from some—er—professional figures fighting over the contents of a large hamper.”

    “He’s got you there, Harold,” noted Mr Deane fairly. “Any average amateur would do better than those noddies rolled into one.”

    “Aye; and personally I would say the lack of tricks is an advantage,” added Mr Vanburgh, eyeing the newcomer with considerable interest. “You need to learn to pitch your voice, young fellow, and there is no call for that sort of rôle, as we are no longer living in Tudor times; but you show some promise.”

    “We ain’t hiring,” said Mr Hartington hastily.

    “Oh, but I don’t want money!” retorted the young man, giving him a languishing look from under his long, curled lashes.

    “What do you want, then?” returned the actor-manager stolidly.

    “Well, just the chance to tread the boards. Any little part would do.”

    Mr Pouteney, who was not perfectly sure that he himself had not been classed with the noddies, here noted crossly: “We’ve cast all the parts!”

    “Well, in two of the pieces, yes. You can walk on, if you like. We need more courtiers and attendants in Twelfth Night,” admitted Mr Hartington.

    “Splendid! I could—er—unpack hampers, and so forth, too,” he offered.

    “You’re right, there: you’ll have to make yourself useful if you want any chance with us,” said Mr Hartington firmly. “What do you call yourself?”

    Dulcetly the newcomer replied: “I call myself Dickon Amyes. A,M,Y,E,S. Do you like it?”

    “It’s not as bad as Antony Ardent,” returned Mr Hartington cruelly. “It’ll do, I suppose. No-one won’t ask your real name, but if you wouldn’t mind telling us whether the law is actually after you as we speak, we’d be obliged.”

    “No, I assure you!” he said with a laugh. “Er, well, there is an enraged husband, but he’s not of an age to do anyone any harm.”

    “What about the wife?” asked Mr Deane drily.

    “Granted she is probably enraged at my flight; but I do assure you she had nothing to complain of—er—during!” he said with a laugh.

    “I’m sure; but is she of an age to do anyone harm?”

    “Well, yes!” he said, still laughing but shuddering, too. “But at the moment I think she is probably far too occupied, and will be for some time, in persuading the poor old boy that the whole thing was due entirely to my wicked wiles.”

    “Which of course it was,” agreed Mr Deane stolidly.

    “My dear sir,” he said laying a hand to his heart, “a gentleman never speaks ill of a lady!”

    “In that case,” said Mr Pouteney with a giggle, “you can tell us the lot!”

    Mr Amyes eyed him blandly. “Oh, my lips are sealed. But I will say just this: he was very, very rich, and very, very old, and she was very, very luscious and not a day over thirty, and very, very—er—really, the only word is keen,” he sighed.

    Mr Pouteney collapsed in delighted sniggers, nodding hard.

    “Well, get off outside and tell them all about it,” said Mr Hartington in a tolerant tone. “But mind, you’ll be asked to work, if you want your keep!”

    “Oh, I shall work like a Trojan! –Is it Trojan in English?” he said in a bewildered tone to Mr Pouteney, taking his arm. “My latter years have been spent on the Continent. –The old boy was on what he fondly imagined was the Grand Tour,” he said, winking. “I offered myself as a courier.”

    Urging him to continue, Mr Pouteney led him outside, Mr Ardent panting in their wake.

    “Puts me in mind a little of myself at the same age,” noted Mr Deane complacently. “Though I was never that pretty, I admit. Now, he would make a Rosalind!”

    “Yes, but don’t do it, Harold,” said Mr Vanburgh hurriedly. “It really would go against the grain of modern feeling.”

    “Eh? Oh. Yes. Well, we’ll just run through the moves…”

    There was no doubt whatsoever that the empty barn would bear no resemblance at all, in size, shape or layout, to the ballroom in which they would end up doing the piece. However, there was no arguing with Harold. Resignedly they ran through the moves.

    Mrs Pontifex had determinedly, with the co-operation of the sympathetic Nancy Andrews, organised herself onto a cart to Sidmouth, even although this was not entirely the right direction; and thence onto another cart to Axminster; and after a short pause for refreshment at The King’s Head had managed to find Mr Briggs’s house. Whereupon she and Miss Cressida had a joyous reunion, the which was not without copious tears on Mrs Hetty’s part. Major Martin’s daughter was very, very glad to see her, and found her own eyes had filled; nevertheless she was aware that a proportion of Mrs Hetty’s lachrymose state might have been attributable to the pause at The King’s Head. And even though she should have known better, waited in some trepidation to see what Mrs Briggs’s reception of this teary, dusty, crumpled traveller would be.

    Five minutes later she was telling herself she was a great fool: for Mrs Briggs had got Mrs Pontifex seated in an easy chair, with her bonnet off, her feet on a footstool, and a glass of cooling lemonade in her hand. And was placidly giving her the receet for the said lemon cordial. Which might be drunk hot or cold. And the secret of growing a good lemon tree, the which was to keep it well swathed with straw and sacks in winter. Even though Mrs Hetty did not own a garden and could not boil an egg let alone produce a delicious cordial from a small, sour fruit, she listened to it all with great interest. And reported, in the privacy of the bedchamber into which Mrs Briggs later showed her: “That is a true lady, Miss Cressida, me dear.”

    “Yes,” she agreed with a smile, thinking of Maryanne Ames’s employer in Bournemouth, what seemed like an hundred years ago: “indeed. One of Nature’s ladies.”

    And very early next morning, for of course the hospitable Briggses would not hear of Mrs Pontifex’s doing any more travelling that day, they were off to Exley St Paul.

    “Where the Devil is she?” shouted Mr Hartington, discovering Mrs Pontifex to be missing from the ranks of the players he had ordered to present themselves at breakfast time in the parlour of The Dancing Dog.

    Nobody precisely replied, but Nancy Andrews noted without hurry: “She’s not in either of the pieces we’re doing here.”

    This was apparently immaterial: Mr Hartington needed her to check the costumes. He then discovered that Mrs Wittering, Miss Trueblood and Master Trueblood were still not arrived, and stamped up and down the parlour breathing fire and brimstone. They would get on out to the barn—the players sighed—and young Amyes could read Tilda Trueblood’s parts, and serve her damn’ well right! Certain persons shrugged, but they gathered their hats and wraps, and piled amiably enough onto what transport The Dancing Dog could offer: to wit, one battered trap, one even more battered dog-cart, and one sufficiently roomy waggon, kindly loaned by a Mr Jenks for the occasion. Who had duly been promised free seats for as many of the public performances as he cared to attend. Though they did have permission to perform in the actual barn itself, no-one had as yet pointed out that Harold’s choice of play for his lordly patrons was hardly such as was guaranteed to rouse the groundlings to enthusiasm. Several persons, however, were biding their time until an appropriate moment should present itself.

    The barn presented a scene of amazing inactivity. The troupe’s waggon had been unloaded, true: Mr Hartington had seen to that the previous day. But it was still parked outside the barn, although there had been strict instructions to get it inside, once it had been relieved of its load and the interior of the structure had been cleared sufficiently of piles of hay, old farm implements, old carts, and the like, to make space for it. Breathing fire and brimstone, Mr Hartington stamped inside. “Where the Devil ARE they?” he bellowed.

    There was no sign of Messrs Ardent, Pouteney, Darlinghurst, Grantleigh or Amyes.

    Mr Hartington took a very deep breath. “We’ll rehearse All In The Mind. Lilian, you’re not in it: get off and look for the little devils!”

    The sultry Mrs Deane blinked. “But I thought we were to rehearse Twelfth Night?”

    “There is no-one to read Viola,” replied Mr Hartington, icily polite. “And it may have escaped your notice, but we ain’t got no Orsino nor Aguecheek, neither!”

    “Um—but it’s all countryside,” said poor Mrs Deane lamely.

    “FIND THEM!” he shouted terribly.

    Hugging her shawl to her bosom, Mrs Deane hurried out into the storm—or a perfect summer’s day in rural Devon, in actual fact. But her posture and expression certainly suggested the storm.

    “That was a bit hard, Harold,” drawled Mr Deane.

    “If you’re so concerned, why didn’t you stay married to ’er?” he snarled.

    Mr Deane merely shrugged.

    Grimly Mr Hartington began to rehearse his reduced cast in All In The Mind. In the process he discovered that Mrs Mayhew had learned about half her lines but was under the impression that Belinda Addle, second wife to Mr Addle, was a sweet womanly creature rather than a mercenary cat after his money; that Mr Speede had not yet acquired all of Dr Devilhuish’s lines although the previous day he had sworn he would have by now; and that Mr Vanburgh apparently knew not only all of his own lines as both Dr Purge and Mr Goodenough, but all of Mr Pouteney’s as Mr Flush and all of Mr Ardent’s as Tom Devilhuish into the bargain. And even ventured to prompt his manager, unasked, as the last-named broke down as Addle. Strangely enough this helpfulness did not appear to sweeten Mr Hartington’s temper. Nancy Andrews knew all of her lines as the maidservant, Jane, but apparently Mr Hartington would have expected no less.

    The bold Margery had just suggested that as the sun was now directly overhead it must be time for a bite of dinner and had been shouted at terribly by Mr Hartington for so doing, when there was a commotion outside, and a very flushed and laughing Mrs Deane, the black lashes going nineteen to the dozen, appeared in the doorway, somewhat dishevelled, with Mr Ardent and Mr Amyes, each in a state bordering on undress, hanging on her arms. “I found them: they were dipping down at the stream, the naughty boys!” she announced with a throaty laugh.

    Mr Hartington then shouted at Mr Ardent and Mr Amyes, both of whom—the former very visibly taking courage from the latter’s insouciant attitude—remained unimpressed. Mr Amyes helpfully informed the actor-manager that Paul and David were just coming, they were helping Reggie find a garment of under-dress which had mysteriously gone missing—Mrs Deane here collapsing in husky laughter—so perhaps he himself could read Paul’s part? Looking impossibly prim and soulful as he said it.

    “No, you can read Angelica Addle. –Give him the BOOK!” shouted Mr Hartington generally. Mr Vanburgh passed Mr Amyes a script, and they got on with it.

    “He is better, ask me,” murmured Mrs Margery in her sister’s ear, as the two sat together on a pile of hay watching an early scene where Angelica and the maid, Jane, were discussing Angelica’s lover, “than what Tilda would be in the rôle.”

    “Prettier, too!” agreed Mrs Lilian, nodding her black mop and laughing a little.

    “Aye…” The sisters watched avidly as Mr Amyes, long lashes fluttering coyly, uttered, with many little hesitations, lickings of the lip, and so forth: “But tell me, Jane, don’t you agree with me that there is something of the ordained, something meant, even Heaven-sent, in the extraordinary coincidence of our happening to have met?” Mrs Andrews responding drily: “Oh, aye,” the fair Angelica twittered on: “Do you not agree that his gallant leaping to my defence without even having made my acquaintance was the act of a true gentleman?”—“Oh, aye.”—“And that you cannot imagine a nobler act?”—“That's right.”—“And that he did it with all the grace in the world?” –With a deep sigh.

    The watching sisters echoed the sigh. And Mrs Lilian conceded: “That’s about right.”

    “Would I were fifteen years younger, dear,” agreed Mrs Margery.

    Mr Deane, meanwhile, had led Mr Vanburgh outside. “That’s trouble,” he warned, jerking his head in the direction of the barn.

    The mild-looking comic scratched his head. “Well, she is legally your wife, Daniel: go and rescue her, if you feel like it.”

    “Not Lilian! Lord knows, she can look after herself! Er… no,” he said, clearing his throat. “In general. Well, remember Sid at that age?”

    Mr Vanburgh winced and closed his eyes for a moment.

    “Exactly,” said Mr Deane with lugubrious satisfaction. “Amyes has all of his looks, though I don’t say all of his talent; and his intelligence, make no mistake; and twice his cheek.”

    “Well, if you wish to warn Harold to be on the look-out for enraged fathers, incensed fiancés, and threatening mothers with marriage licences in their hands, pray be my guest.”

    “Not me, thanks,” replied Mr Deane frankly. “Um—do you think Sam might?”

    “He might, but will it do any good? Well, I’d say Harold can see it for himself but he's wilfully ignoring it, Daniel,” said the shrewd Mr Vanburgh, his eyes narrowing a little, “because it’s many a long year since anything that pretty and that attractive to the ladies and with that much nous landed on his doorstep asking to be part of Hartington’s Players. Added to which, will Sam’s mentioning it to him actually stop the enraged fathers, incensed fiancés, etcetera?”

    “No,” he admitted glumly.

    “Quite. A prudent man would just lie low,” said Mr Vanburgh kindly.

    Mr Deane nodded glumly.

    Mr Vanburgh looked at him with some amusement but generously did not ask whether the caring and conscientious attitude just evinced were the influence of the eminently sane and sensible Benjamin Addle, or the true Daniel showing himself. He merely said: “Sam got the landlady to put us up a hamper: I’ll suggest he unpacks it, shall I? We can’t go on all day without a dinner break.”

    Mr Deane agreeing gratefully, the two went back to the barn.

    The sun had gone to rest, the sweet Devon twilight was softening the contours of the land, and the weary troupe of players returned to the inn at long last.

    “We got ’ere!” announced Master Trueblood happily, beaming at them round a huge jam tart.

    Mr Hartington eyed his infant prodigy without favour and responded, the H very aspirate: “‘Here’, boy: ‘here’. We don’t want nothing from the slums of London dropping its aitches in our company, thank you. And what, may I ask, is that?”

    There was a short silence and then Tilda Trueblood faltered: “It’s a jam tart, Mr Hartington.”

    “And who, may I ask, is paying for it?” he said sweetly.

    “Mrs Potter give it me!” said Georgy aggressively.

    You would have sworn Mr Hartington had not even heard him. “Well?” he said sternly to Tilda.

    Very red, the little ingénue faltered: “Well, I dunno, Mr Hartington. The landlady give it him. I don't think she meant for it to go on no-one’s slate.”

    “It had better not,” he warned terribly. “His contract states three square meals a day and extras at the discretion of the management. That,” he noted sweetly: “means me. Anything else that goes into his horrible gob comes out of your salary. Got it?”

    “Yes, Mr Hartington,” she whispered.

    “Don’t mind him, Tilda,” said Nancy Andrews kindly. “He’s all of a doo-dah because we haven’t seen hide nor hair of Sid. Not here, is he?”

    “No,” responded the Truebloods in chorus.

    “Is Mrs Pontifex here?” demanded Mr Hartington grimly.

    “Yes: her and Mrs W., they’re upstairs, with Miss Martin. I say, sir, supposink as the little Louisa was to have a little dog, wouldn’t it lend credibility to the part?” ventured Master Trueblood.

    “No,” replied Mr Hartington brutally. “—I’ll go up. Any drinks what you lot order go on your own slates,” he reminded them brutally, going out.

    “Phew!” concluded Mr Vanburgh with a laugh, sinking onto a battered sofa and wiping his brow with a flourish.

    “Where is Mr Sid?” asked Georgy, uncrushed by his manager’s refusal to let him have Troilus Martin on stage with him.

    “No idea,” said the comic with a yawn. “Well, apparently jaunting across southern England in his rich brother’s coach, Georgy. That enlighten you?”

    Master Trueblood nodded sapiently. “Dallyink wiv ladies,” he concluded.

    “Something very like it. You boys fancy a drink?” said Mr Vanburgh to the younger men.

    “On your slate, Vic?” asked the prudent Mr Pouteney.

    “The first round, yes.”

    The gentlemen brightened, and Mr Pouteney shouted for the waiter.

    “I could fancy a glass of porter,” noted Master Trueblood wistfully.

    “Fancy on,” returned the comic brutally, rather in Mr Hartington’s own manner.

    “Aw! Mr Vic, the landlady ’ere, she don’t offer nothink but milk!” he complained.

    Mr Vanburgh eyed him drily. “‘Here’, boy: ‘here’,” he quoted.

    Master Trueblood, together with most of the rest of the company, collapsed in giggles immediately.

    “Just be grateful for it. Good Devon milk? It’ll turn you into a man,” concluded Mr Deane, strolling across to the window. “The duck’s gone to bed,” he reported drily.

    “Lumme! It ain’t ’alf the back of beyond!” squeaked Master Trueblood.

    Hartington’s Players looked at him tolerantly, dropped aitch and all, and nodded. It was that, all right.

    Upon finding that Mrs Wittering and Mrs Pontifex had spent a goodly part of the afternoon ironing costumes, or garments that were being considered as costumes, Mr Hartington softened somewhat, though not enough to neglect to inspect the work thoroughly; and graciously invited them and “Miss Martingale” down to the parlour for a glass of something on him. Owning himself pleased to meet her at last, and not remarking upon the fact that since he had last heard of her her name had apparently changed. Having looked narrowly, but with a purely professional eye, at her face, hair and figure, he announced that she could walk on as a lady of Orsino’s court. And, just by the by, that Mrs Hetty and Mrs Wittering could do likewise: they needed more bodies to make his intended effect. And please to remind him the following day to make a time to hear Miss Martingale read. Forthwith bowing and striding out.

    “But I was never h’upon the boards in me life!” squeaked Mrs Wittering in horror.

    “Always a first time,” said Mrs Hetty stolidly. “Well, you could wear a veil, dear; we is doing it very Elizabethan, with ruffs, you know, but I dare say as there might be a widow lady with a veil, why not? Now, come on, let’s get that drink before he changes his mind!”

    And, pausing only to gather up Troilus Martin, the ladies forthwith descended to the parlour. Where Mr Hartington was sampling Devon cider and appeared to be in a better frame of mind already.

    “You know all these, do you, Miss Martingale?” he said cheerfully, not rising.

    “Not all, sir.”

    “Oh.”

    “Nor do I, Mr Hartington,” ventured Miss Trueblood in a tiny voice.

    “Eh? Oh.” Mr Hartington looked round vaguely. “Let’s see: run through them, eh? Well, you’ll know the ones from Beau Buxleigh’s, Miss Martingale.” She was shaking hands with Mr Deane and Mr Vanburgh, smiling very much; Mr Darlinghurst smiled and bowed eagerly to her, and Mr Grantleigh looked down his nose and gave a very slight bow.—“Let’s see: Tilda, you know Vic and Daniel. Met Margery and Lilian?” he said as these ladies were seen to kiss Miss Martingale’s cheek affectionately. “Good, right. Oh, and Mrs Wittering? Right. Um—oh, you know Paul Pouteney. Miss Martingale, have you met him?”

    Mr Pouteney, professing himself delighted, bowed very low over Miss Martingale’s hand. And Mrs Andrews, reminding her that they had met, smiled at her cheerfully.

    “Think that’s the lot,” said Mr Hartington. “Oh, no: you won’t have met Sam, Miss Martingale. Allow me to present my old friend and partner in Hartington’s Players, Mr Samuel Speede. –Miss Martingale, Sam, and remind me tomorrow she's to read. There are no extra speaking parts for ladies, Miss Martingale,” he added in a firm voice, “but if you were wanting to learn the business, we might see, later. But you may walk on. Any costumes that Mrs Wittering and Mrs Pontifex devise for you remain the property of Hartington’s Players: got it? Good girl. That’s the lot, then. –Oh, no, ’tisn’t,” he said as Mr Ardent and Mr Amyes came in with trays of brimming glasses. “Forgot these two. You’ll know Tony Ardent, Miss Martingale,” he said as Mr Ardent flushed to the roots of his fair curls and beamed at Miss Martingale over his tray, “but neither of you won’t have met Mr Amyes, we’ve only just took him on. Walking on only,” he said firmly. “Miss Trueblood, allow me to present Mr Dickon Amyes.”

    Gracefully Mr Amyes set his tray aside; gracefully he bowed over the blushing Tilda’s hand.

    “Miss Matilda Trueblood, one of London’s leading ingénues,” said Mr Hartington, eyeing the blush warily. “And you keep off her: we all know her Ma, and we got a responsibility to her. That there’s her little brother and anything you does, young fellow, you may be very sure he’ll report. Whether or not you bribe him with sweetmeats or comfits, so keep your money in your pocket.”

    Mr Amyes merely laughed and gracefully promised Georgy that any time he had a sixpence to spare, it was his.

    “And this is Miss Martingale, and as she is a lady, we would be vastly obliged if you were to save us the trouble of beating you off her with a stick, too,” noted Mr Hartington, very dry. “Miss Martingale, this is Mr Amyes, the newest member of our little troupe.”

    “And that’s Troilus Martin!” squeaked Master Trueblood helpfully.

    “Yes,” said Mr Amyes a trifle hoarsely. “How do you do, Miss Martingale?”

    There was a little silence. Brother and sister stared at each other.

    “How do you do, Mr Amyes?” she said faintly, with a bob.

    Mrs Pontifex had been watching the young ladies’ reaction to the glorious Mr Amyes with some horror. She now stepped forward quickly and said: “Yes, well, as Harold says, she’s a lady, and none of your business, young sir. And I’m Mrs Hetty Pontifex, and pleased to meet you, I’m sure. Walking on, is it?”

    The false Mr Dickon Amyes pulled himself together, bowed over Mrs Hetty’s plump hand, and professed himself entirely delighted; and he was walking on, yes; and hoped to learn something of the profession. And if she had any advice to give him about his costume he would be very, very grateful. Ending with a smile that would, as Mrs Hetty was to phrase it later with considerable feeling to Mrs Wittering, have charmed the birds down off of the trees. Gawd knew one of them was what they did not need! And don’t nobody tell her the fellow put them mind of Sid Bottomley in his younger days, acos being told that was just what they did not want to hear! And so much for Evangelica Trueblood’s hopes for Tilda: she had never seen a critter more bowled over.

    The meek Mrs Wittering nodded, and did not dare to say that dear Miss Cressida had seemed even more shaken at the introduction to the glorious Mr Amyes.

    “What are you doing here, Ricky?” demanded his sister tightly.

    The false Miss Martingale had got up early to walk Troilus. She had not been altogether surprised, though he had never been known in the family as an early riser, to be joined by her brother as she and the little dog walked along in the sweet morning air.

    The false Mr Amyes laughed, and bent to pat Troilus. “Morgen, Dachshund! –I might ask you what you are doing here, chère soeur,” he noted. “Thought you were supposed to try out the Dearborns?”

    “Ssh!” she hissed, looking over her shoulder, although so far no signs of activity had been noticed in Exley St Paul. Apart from the duck pottering aimlessly. “Um, well, yes, I did do.”

    “And did the son make you an offer?” he drawled.

    “No, um, he was not yet home from Oxford when I left.”

    Ricky stared at her. “Then dare I ask, why the Devil did you leave?”

    Her lips trembled. “They were going to kill Troilus.”

    “What?” he said, staring.

    “Yes,” she said, the great amber eyes suddenly filling. “The youngest sister was horrid, and when I would not give him up to her, claimed he had bitten her, and so Cousin Evangeline ordered him to be duh-destroyed!”

    Resignedly Ricky passed her his handkerchief. Noting to the mild Devon air as he did so: “I knew it was a mistake to let you bring the toto! He is like to ruin all!”

    She blew her nose angrily. “I suppose you would just have stood there and let them!”

    “Well, no, but did you have to leave, on account of it?”

    “Not precisely on account of it,” replied his sister uneasily. “One of the grooms hid him for me.”

    “Au nom de Dieu! Then why leave?”

    “I had to get Troilus right away: if the Dearborns found out who was responsible for hiding him, he would have lost his job and his family would have been thrown out of their cottage.”

    “Noblesse oblige!” said Ricky on a mad note, rolling his eyes.

    “Mm,” she agreed wanly, sniffing. “Something like that.”

    “Well, what did you discover about them, apart from the fact that they’re ready to slaughter little totos?”

    She swallowed. “That Cousin Dearborn is mean and grasping, and that Cousin Evangeline is worse, if anything.”

    Ricky eyed her drily. Anyone who had threatened the toto, of course, was damned forever in his sister’s eyes. “Mm. Apart from the Troilus episode, how did they treat you?”

    “Very meanly. Nothing that one could point to as direct cruelty, however.” She described the lack of dresses and parties and the meagreness of the fare allotted her at Cousin Evangeline’s board. Ending: “They are not poor people, by any means, and there was no excuse for their not treating me like one of their daughters.”

    “No, quite,” he agreed on a grim note. “Ah… What are the daughters like?”

    “Very pretty, and not very clever, and possessed of sufficient cupidity, I suppose; but that does not mean that they deserve you!”

    “Oh, do you not see me as the perfect English squire?” he said plaintively.

    “No,” she said frankly.

    His bowed mouth twitched, but he said seriously enough: “Have you seen Pudsey House?”

    “No. It would have meant persuading someone from Mr Buxleigh’s to take me down to Kent, when there was no pressing reason for it.”

    “It’s quite pretty, and quite convenient to London. One could lead a pleasant life there. Don’t you think I could make a pretty, stupid, greedy Dearborn daughter happy?”

    “I think that you could very probably make any lady happy, Ricky, for as long as it amused you to do so. But I have to say that I pity from my heart any lady who was silly enough to let you, even a Dearborn. For the moment you lost interest, you would never bother your head about her again.”

    “Er—I was very much younger at the time of the episode of Mlle Eugénie Belon.”

    His sister snorted.

    “And at the time of the episode of Mlle Francine van der Meer.”

    She snorted again.

    “And the later episode of Mevrouw van der Meer, you know, was at her own instigation,” he murmured, the shoulders shaking very slightly.

    “Yes, you think you are very clever, don’t you? But here you are, laughing and fancy-free, while those ladies are ruined!” she cried angrily.

    Troilus Martin gave an angry little hop and an angry little bark in sympathy with her.

    “Sss, sois sage, petit toto,” murmured Ricky. “Well, it is the way of the world, little sister.”

    “That is no excuse, and a man of gentlemanly instincts would not offer it as one!” she flashed.

    “Where on God’s earth did you meet a man of gentlemanly instincts?”

    “I have met at least two. And don’t LAUGH!” she shouted as he broke down in splutters.

    “Er—no,” he said limply, mopping his eyes. “Well, you had best tell me it all.”

    She frowned, but told him.

    “Ah,” said Ricky slowly, the thick, curled eyelashes narrowing in a way that many ladies, Mesdemoiselles Belon and van der Meer, and Mesdames van der Meer and Douglas not excepted, had told him was enchanting—and that suddenly reminded his sister vividly of their Cousins Belle and Josephine Dearborn. “And just who is Mr Bert Dinwoody’s patron?”

    “I don’t know,” she admitted. “There have been no clues, Ricky.”

    “No?”

    “Wuh-well, Mr Briggs thinks it may be Mr Lefayne.”

    “What, the actor fellow?” said Ricky Martin with an incredulous laugh.

    “Why not?” she said crossly. “In any case, there is no-one else.”

    “No-o,” he agreed slowly, frowning over it. “He does not sound to me like a philanthropist; why the Devil he should be doing it… Has he indicated a preference, at all?”

    “No. He has been almost avuncular.”

    Ricky made a dubious face. “This Dinwoody is a genuine working fellow, is he? Just a minion?”

    She hesitated. “As far as I can tell, yes. There is the point that he did not volunteer anything at all about the employment he was supposed to have found near Sandy Bay.”

    “Did you ask him?”

    “No, I did not wish to arouse suspicions.” Her brother’s lips twitched: she said crossly: “Well, was not that always Papa’s motto?”

    “That and ‘Suspect everybody; trust nobody’: yes,” he drawled. “No, well, in your place I’d have been damned careful, too.” He rubbed his chin slowly. “Look, the more I think about it, the odder it seems. An avuncular philanthropic play-actor with a reputation like Lefayne’s?”

    She bit her lip. “Mm. But there is no-one else.”

    “This General Sir Arthur Murray?”

    “I really cannot see it.”

    “Wait: Dinwoody has been set onto you by Dearborn, getting his information initially from Murray, in order to be on the spot should I try to contact you?”

    She gasped, and clutched at his arm. “Ricky! That could well be it! Then you must not go near the Dearborns!”

    “Er—well, his intention may be merely to leap on me and offer me board and lodging, as per our grandfather’s will, plus a plump Dearborn daughter,” he murmured.

    “Yes, and it may not!”

    “No. Well, I am here on a—er—scouting expedition,” he admitted. “Thought I would just find out something more about them; see what your impressions might be, y’know, before I committed myself. Hé bien… I shall not try to make contact with them as myself until I find out a very great deal more about them,” he said slowly. “Let us not forget that Grandfather Martin’s fortune would all come to Dearborn if there were no more Martin heirs.”

    “Yes, quite. So you had best watch out, for as he is as scrupulous as yourself, I dare say he would not hesitate to push you off a cliff!”

    His eyebrows rose very high. “You flatter me. I am sure he would not be that careless. But something like that is always possible.”

    “Yes. Mr Dinwoody and I discussed it,” she said slowly.

    “You imbecile!”

    “No: if he was genuine, or at least genuinely on my side, his opinion might be worth soliciting, but nothing was forcing me to agree with it; and if he was not, it would be interesting to hear what he would say,” she said calmly.

    “And?”

    “I let him take the lead.”

    He eyed her mockingly. “You’re good at that, I admit. Go on.”

    “It was he who expressed grave suspicions of Cousin Dearborn, not I.”

    “Covering himself?” he drawled, raising an eyebrow.

    “Possibly,” said his sister calmly. “I let him believe that I truly did not think Cousin Dearborn capable of cold-blooded murder. Well, on the whole I do not. But that does not mean that I would volunteer to put myself at his mercy again. Nor that I advise you to do so. There is no need, after all. Even if his aim is merely to marry you off to Belle or Josephine, any advantage can only be his, not yours.”

    He rolled his eyes. “This relentlessly logical mind of yours!”

    “I thought we had agreed,” said his sister calmly, “that that is why I would be perfect for this venture?”

    “Something like that, aye. But personally, if they be not positive antidotes, I cannot see any objections to joining our fortunes with those of the Dearborn offspring. Dearborn ain’t a poor man.”

    “You are as mercenary as they are,” she said grimly.

    “Must be in the blood, then!” replied Ricky Martin with a light laugh. He attempted to take her arm, but she threw him off angrily. Unmoved, he continued: “Well, what about this acting stuff? Was taking the letter to old Buxleigh a good move?”

    “It gave me a base in London, certainly. Well, yes, I think it was a good move, on the whole. If I can please Mr Hartington, it will give me a profession to fall back upon,” she said seriously.

    “Mm—in the event you don’t persuade Lord S. to adopt you as his ward,” he drawled.

    She looked uneasily over her shoulder, but the only signs of activity in Exley St Paul, apart from the duck on its pond, were a maid shaking a rug on the green, and a yokel apparently asleep on a slowly moving cart.

    “How is progress in that direction?” he added.

    “If Mr Dinwoody’s report is to be relied upon, Cousin Dearborn and Cousin Evangeline seem to have decided not to fight Lord Sare over the guardianship. I have not yet contacted him: partly because I wanted to sound out the Dearborns first, and partly because I do not think we should move precipitately.”

    He sighed, but did not point out that she had got out of Cousin Dearborn’s clutches pretty precipitately, discarding apparently without a second thought the notion of establishing herself creditably in England by marrying the Dearborns’ son. “Mustn’t seem too over-eager, no: don’t let’s forget Lord S. ain’t just any damned milord. Now: concentrate. Did you get the impression that General Sir Arthur Murray knows him?”

    She thought it over very carefully. Ricky watched her seriously, not attempting to hurry her.

    “Yes,” she said at last. “He was far too over-protective of him: never so much as hinted at the title, let alone at its having passed on from old Neddy Sare to the next man. Yes, I am sure he must know him, Ricky.”

    “In that case, he will have told him all, and he will be waiting for you to move,” he said calmly.

    She nodded, her amber eyes twinkling.

    “So… shall we write him?” he suggested.

    “No!” she choked. “Because, it is the most glorious coincidence, Ricky: the players are headed to his home town! It will be the most splendid opportunity to gather all the gossip about him! And I am not absolutely sure, but I think Sare Park may even be one of the country houses at which we are scheduled to perform.”

    Ricky nodded slowly. For himself, he did not believe in coincidence: it had been another of his Papa’s beliefs, that there was no such thing in Nature.

    “So, if you wish to continue on with the company, behave yourself!” she said severely.

    “Yes, ma’am!” he said, saluting smartly. “And keep off little Miss Blushful—yes, ma’am!”

    She smiled reluctantly. “They are all very fond of Tilda.”

    “Aye, well, she is not my type. I prefer them… riper?” said Ricky, gazing up at the blue Devon sky in a dreamy manner. “Yes: riper. And richer, of course. –Come on: breakfast, and then rehearsal! I must say, it is all tremendous fun!”

    “Just remember, it is serious to them, Ricky,” said his sister uncertainly.

    He assured her he was taking it all perfectly seriously. She supposed she had best be content with that. But as there was very little that Ricky Martin had ever been known to take seriously outside himself and his fortunes, there was little hope his word could be taken in this instance.

    In a way it was a pity, reflected his sister as they strolled back to the old inn, that he could not genuinely have thrown in his lot with the players: he was a born actor and had, one way or another, been playing a part almost since his cradle.

Next chapter:

https://theoldchiphat.blogspot.com/2023/02/the-actors-life.html