Re-Enter Isabelle

28

Re-Enter Isabelle

    The Season was long over, and summer had come and gone, incidentally without any performance of Twelfth Night by the new Hartington’s Players; and with the advent of September the town was slowly filling again. A few fallen leaves were already blowing along the dusty but respectable street which housed Mr Buxleigh’s commodious theatrical lodging house.

    Mr Buxleigh was at the window, and his cheek was in the customary position. “It’s a lad,” he reported.

    “Fascinating,” said Mr Deane with a yawn. “We need a replacement for damned Fred Hinks, do we?”

    “No. Though I don’t deny as Cook needs someone to boss around besides that ruddy Bessy. Dunno what she told ’er orf for, but she sat under the stairs bawling for an ’our by me watch t’other week. –When you was at the seaside,” he noted acidly.

    Mr Deane sighed. “Sowcot is not the seaside. And it was a mere summer engagement, and I’m sure Margery and Pretty would have been delighted to put you up, if you’d come down.”

    Mr Buxleigh sniffed. “They never asked.”

    “They never asked, you noddy, because you’ve been going around for the past year saying to all and sundry that nothing would persuade you to remove from London!” he said loudly.

    “I meant permanent,” said the Beau in an injured tone, again flattening the cheek to the pane. “Funny,” he said, as the thunderous knocking on the front door was repeated.

    Mr Deane winced. “Not to my ears. If it’s only a lad it ain’t a dun, and if it is a dun, it won’t be the usual local bailiff’s men at all, it’ll be something spectacular, and they won’t come here, they’ll come to the theatre, and that’ll be all our livelihoods gone on the wings of Sid Bottomley’s fancies. –Answer the damned DOOR!”

    Mr Buxleigh’s cheek remained where it was. “No. Look, Daniel, it’s damned funny, acos he’s got a little dog like Troilus!”

    “Eh?” Mr Deane came over to the window. “Good God. Thought there was only one in the whole of England.”

    “Aye. And what’s a scruffy lad like ’im doing with one?”

    They stared.

    “Red hair,” said the Beau slowly.

    Wincing, Mr Deane did some rapid arithmetic with the aid of his fingers. “Er—no. Can’t possibly be the brother’s: I’d say this lad was thirteen or fourteen… No.”

    “Right. –Oh, lumme: another of Major Martin’s?” he croaked.

    Mr Deane gulped. “Surely Miss Martin would have mentioned—?”

    “Not if she don’t know, Daniel!”

    “You’re right. Lor’. Um, well, ’tisn’t as if the whole responsibility for this one need fall on your shoulders, old fellow,” he said kindly, patting one of the shoulders. “We’ll shove him off onto—um, well, Lord Sare, I suppose. Wouldn’t fancy fronting up to the damned brother.”

    “You’d fancy fronting up to damned Peebles in yaller pantaloons and Hessians from Hoby, would you?” retorted Mr Buxleigh nastily.

    “No, I wouldn’t. Write Miss Martin a little note and get her to do the dirty work,” said Mr Deane, grimacing. “Since she’s got herself engaged to the damned fellow. And let’s do it straight away, old man: before Sid gets home.”

    The Beau gave a gusty sigh. “Right, well, in that case, I’ll let ’im in.” And went to answer the front door.

    “Morning, guvnor!” piped the red-headed lad with the little sausage dog.

    “Guvnor yourself. ’Oo are yer and wotcher want?” he snarled.

    “Come with a message from a Major Martin, late!” he chirped.

    “Get in here!” Fiercely Mr Buxleigh grasped him by the collar of his grimy jacket, and hauled him in. The little dog, panting eagerly, dashed in so fast that his lead almost tripped the Beau’s person.

    “Look, get down!” he said testily as the dog frisked and capered in the dim front passage.

    “He—recognises—you!” gasped the lad, suddenly going into a cascade of high-pitched giggles. “I’m—sorry—dear—Mr Buxleigh!” he squeaked, removing the cap.

    The red curls tumbled down, and the Beau staggered. “Miss Martin!” he gasped.

    “No, no: I’m her sister!” said the red-headed one hastily.

    Mr Deane had emerged into the passage, and came hurriedly to put a supporting arm round the Beau. “Whoever you are, you can thank your lucky stars the poor old fellow isn’t lying there dead of the shock!” he said severely.

    “Dear Mr Deane, I think his constitution is stronger than that!” she said gaily. “Yes, it’s Mr Deane, Troilus!” she encouraged the frisking little dog.

    “It is Troilus,” said the Beau groggily.

    “Certainly,” agreed Isabelle sunnily. “The dog that Cressida has got is his brother, but we do not think that Lord Sare needs to know that. –Shall we take Mr Buxleigh into the sitting-room and offer him something bracing from the cupboard, Mr Deane?”

    “I don’t know who you are,” said Mr Deane angrily, helping the Beau into the sitting-room and assisting him into his chair, “but this isn’t damn’ well funny! What in God’s name are you doing with Miss Martin’s little dog? And who the Devil are you?”

    “It was the brother,” said the Beau groggily, “as had the red hair.”

    “So it was: damned Ricky Martin, alias Amyes,” said Mr Deane grimly. He went to the sacred cupboard, felt above it in the secret spot, produced the hidden key, and unlocked it, ignoring the fact that the Beau had now turned purple with indignation. “It can be a drop of Lord Bibbery’s port for you, old man, and if you don’t mind, I’ll take a drop of your brandy.”

    “Go ahead: drink me out of house and home,” he said with a groan, closing his eyes.

    “Dear Mr Buxleigh! He has not changed at all!” said Isabelle on a fervent note. Beaming, she came to seat herself on a small footstool by the Beau’s big chair.

    “A breeches rôle,” said the Beau with his eyes closed. “Won’t ’e kill yer, if ’e finds out, Miss Martin, me dear?”

    “Who? Oh, Lord Bibbery!” said Isabelle with a gurgle, taking his large hand between both of her little ones. “No, no, dear Mr Buxleigh! For although I am the Cressida Martin who stayed with you for that delightful time, I am not the young lady who has become affianced to Lord Bibbery! –Look closely,” she said with a smile as he opened his eyes and squinted at her.

    “Have this, first,” said Mr Deane hurriedly, pushing a glass into his fist.

    The Beau drained it, and sighed deeply. Though not neglecting to hold the glass out in a suggestive manner.

    “Richard’s himself again!” said the incorrigible Isabelle, jumping up and seizing the glass. She refilled it carefully, and handed it to the Beau, demanding of Mr Deane as she did so: “Did you say this was Lord Bibbery’s port?”

    “Mm. He was gracious enough to bestow it on Beau,” said Mr Deane, looking at her very hard. “Miss Martin had a little beauty spot at the corner of her right eye,” he noted.

    “Charming,” said the Beau at his weightiest, accepting the glass, and squinting at Isabelle again. “You ain’t ’er. Dunno ’oo you are, but you ain’t ’er.”

    “Yes, I am,” she said calmly.

    “No little mole.”

    “It wasn’t, actually,” said Mr Deane casually. “A tiny beauty spot, same like Lilian’s damned patch, only much, much more artistically done. I spotted it the day she was trying my shirt on me.”

    “In this very room,” agreed Isabelle, nodding. “The day Mr Peebles arrived. I did wonder if you might have noticed: there was lot of light in the room, that day, and I was very close, trying it on you.”

    “Why didn’t you mention it, Daniel?” groped the Beau hazily.

    “A gent don’t mention a lady’s beauty spot!” said Mr Deane with a sudden grin. “You had better tell us all about it. Was it you with us on the tour of the south coast?”

    “Certainly. Cressida did not take over,” said Isabelle, wrinkling her nose, “until after Lord Sare had revealed to me that he had been masquerading as Mr Peebles.”

    “A liberty,” said the Beau deeply. “In a respectable house.”

    “Yes. Just drink your port,” said Mr Deane hurriedly. His lips twitched. “Er—his port.”

    “I always said he had decent instincts,” Isabelle granted. She hesitated. “Um, well, it is rather a long story.”

    Closing his eyes, the Beau groaned: “Tea, tea. Order ’er up a tray of tea. Give the dog something, too.”

    “There may not be any tea left, now that the ladies have all left us,” said Mr Deane on a dubious note. “Um, look, I’ll go and ask.” He hurried out.

    There was a silence in the Beau’s warm sitting-room.

    Mr Buxleigh opened an eye and squinted at her. “The profile is exact.”

    “Well, I am she!” said Isabelle cheerfully.

    “Then it’s t’other one as has took Lord Sare?”

    “Exact,” said Isabelle tranquilly.

    Another silence.

    “Does Hetty know?” he ventured.

    “That we are sisters? Yes. Fred and Mr Bagshot do, too, and will come back to London, if I settle here.”

    Mr Buxleigh thought it over. “Sid was very cut-up over it.”

    “Was he? I thought he might be, but it is rather a relief to hear you say so, dear sir,” she said mildly.

    “Ah.”

    Another silence.

    “Do they all know where I ’ide my key?” he demanded aggrievedly.

    Isabelle gulped. “Um, well, Mr Vanburgh and Mr Lefayne do, as well as Mr Deane, yes. The ladies never knew, nor the boys.”

    “What about that ruddy Bessy?”

    “I really don’t think so, dear sir,” she said, squeezing his hand kindly.

    “Good,” he said with a sigh. “Good.”

    The sitting-room again was silent, but Isabelle could hear Cook booming in the background. She smiled, just a little.

    “Have you come back for Sid?” he demanded baldly.

    She went very pink but held her chin up and said bravely: “Yes. If he’ll have me.”

    The Beau’s fat hand squeezed hers. “No doubt about that. Never seen him so cut-up over a woman. Um, been misbehaving, you know.”

    “I thought he would,” she said mildly. “I cannot blame him.”

    “Good. You always were a fair-minded lass. –There you are, Daniel, what the Devil have you been about? You have been a positive age!” he said on a testy note, as Mr Deane bore in a tray of tea. “Sit down. Miss Martin is going to tell us all. But one moment, if you please, my dear.” He held up a weighty finger.

    “Yes, Mr Buxleigh?” said Isabelle nervously.

    “Is it henna?” demanded the Beau at his most portentous.

    “Yes,” she said faintly, touching her red curls.

    “Ah,” he said pleasedly. “The professional eye, my dear: it never errs. Now, pray continue with your narrative, if you would be so good. –And Daniel, dear fellow, just a drop of the brandy to brighten the tea would not come amiss, if you please.”

    Resignedly Mr Deane poured, and brightened the Beau’s cup. “He won’t take in a word, you know!” he hissed, as the Beau then sipped, and allowed his eyelids to sink in a judicious fashion.

    “Rubbish,” said Mr Buxleigh. “Pray continue your narrative, my dear.”

    Somewhat limply Isabelle explained.

    “You could have stayed with us all along, if you aren’t a lady,” Mr Deane concluded.

    “That’s right!” boomed a disapproving voice from the doorway.

    Isabelle bounced up. “Mrs Harmon! Oh, it’s wonderful to see you again!”

    Cook allowed her to drop a kiss on her large cheek but said with a disapproving sniff: “You’re looking skinny, Miss.”

    “Well, I have done rather a lot of travelling just lately: I have lost weight, you see. Um, how much did you hear?”

    “Most of it. I get that you ain’t a Martin. Not much loss, if you’ll pardon me,” she noted grimly.

    “No, quite!” said Isabelle with a laugh. “Please, come and sit down, Cook.”

    Cook did so, and demanded: “So, what is your name, Miss?”

    “Isabelle.”

    “Pretty,” she allowed.

    “French-fashion,” murmured Mr Buxleigh.

    Mr Deane and Isabelle both jumped: they thought he had drifted off.

    “And my surname, as much as I may be said to be entitled to one, is Duckett. Well, my late mother was more or less married to a man called Duckett, and he was good enough to her, until he was killed in a battle.”

    Cook sniffed. “Just like a man. –Common-law, we’d call that in England, Miss. Dessay it’ll do. Theatricals calls themselves what they please, in any case.”

    “Isabelle Martingale? Bit jingly,” said Mr Deane critically.

    “Isabelle Lefayne,” rumbled the Beau with his eyes shut.

    “That’s pretty,” he owned drily.

    “It’ll do,” agreed Cook, even more drily. “So, why did you go orf, Miss Isabelle?”

    Isabelle sighed. “It was all my sister Cressida’s plan, you see, and she is terribly strong-minded. Um, that was she, who came here for the three days before she went to Lord Sare.”

    “I got that. She did seem a mite more bossy,” owned Cook. “Thought it was just because she’d ’ad time to grow up, a bit.”

    “No, she has always been like that. Very capable. Um, I don’t say I am not quite capable,” she said cautiously, “but very much of the time I was being her, you see?”

    Cook nodded calmly. “Playing the rôle, right.”

    “Yes, exactly,” said Isabelle with a little sigh. “Well, as I say, it was her idea that I should ingratiate myself with either the Dearborns, or Lord Sare. She did not admit it, but I think she envisaged me making the Dearborn son fall in love with me. Alternatively, she intended Lord Sare to give me a Season, wherein I would catch a pleasant gentleman. We intended never to divulge who I truly was, you see.”

    “What about her?” said Cook, frowning over it.

    “She could not do it herself, Mrs Harmon: she broke her leg just after Papa died.”

    “I see!” said Mr Deane pleasedly.

    “I don't,” retorted Cook stolidly. “What did she imaginate up was a-goink to happen to ’er? Acos if you was Miss Martin, who was she goink to be? You?”

    “Not at all. Once I was safely established, she had it in mind simply to appear in Kent as Ricky’s sister. Her idea was that the inheritance would all have been settled by that time, and so there would be no sort of official or legal interest in the matter any more.”

    “Sounds dotty to me,” said Cook stolidly.

    “Yes, it does, in cold blood,” agreed Isabelle with sigh. “But Cressida is so strong-minded, you see: she was sure it would work.”

    “Why come here?” asked Mr Deane.

    “For a base. From Papa’s report, we were very sure that Mr Buxleigh would receive me warmly, and we had no idea what sort of reception I might get from Cousin Dearborn or Lord Sare.”

    Mr Deane frowned over it. “I’ve probably got this wrong. But you knew all along who he was?”

    “The present Lord Sare? Oh, yes, Papa knew all about him.”

    “The late Major,” said the Beau sepulchrally, “was a very cunning man. Very cunning indeed.”

    They waited, but that seemed to be it.

    Cook heaved herself to her feet. “Well, I got work to do. Will you be staying, Miss?”

    “Um, yes, please, Mrs Harmon,” said Isabelle in a small voice.

    Nodding, Cook went out.

    “Hang on!” said Mr Deane loudly. “Does Lord Sare know?”

    “No,” said Isabelle calmly.

    “But— Good God, does she mean to marry the man without telling him?”

    “It was published,” rumbled the Beau sepulchrally.

    “It was, indeed. Sid drank himself into a stupor that night,” agreed the actor grimly.

    “Cressida thinks he does not need to know,” said Isabelle quickly.

    Mr Deane stared at her, his brow wrinkled. “Has he even got the right one?” he ventured.

    “Well, he seems to think so, and she is sure of it,” said Isabelle cheerfully.

    “Y— Uh—that’s good. No, didn’t mean that: I meant, the one that’s the real lady,” he said feebly.

    Isabelle got up. “Well, yes. But believe you me, if Cressida intended it to be the other way, Lord Bibbery would never know! –Is Mr Lefayne at the theatre?”

    “Yes,” he said numbly. “Oh; it’s—”

    “I know: the Palace Theatre, Drury Lane. I shall change my dress and go round there: I had best get it over with.”

    “Um, hang on! He’s auditioning!”

    “Is he?” said Isabelle calmly. “Good.”

    The sitting-room door closed after her. After a few moments Mr Deane groped for the brandy bottle.

    “Pour me a drop, too, Daniel if you would be so good,” said the Beau faintly. “Me nerves needs it.”

    “I don’t think the rest of you does, though. Oh—go on, then.” He poured for them both, and croaked: “Don’t dare to suggest a toast, Beau, talking of nerves.”

    “No,” he said faintly. “Quite.” They sipped, and sighed deeply.

    A contemplative silence fell…

    “Must be a noddy,” rumbled the Beau at long last.

    Mr Deane jumped violently. “God! Must you? Um, who?” he ended feebly.

    “That ruddy Peebles! –Lord Sare, damn his eyes.” Mr Buxleigh sat up very straight. “See that there little dog?”

    Mr Deane nodded numbly. Troilus was stretched out in his usual position, to wit, half on his back, paws limply in the air, before the embers of the fire.

    “He’s got a pink and black toe on one front foot,” pointed out the Beau. “There cannot be another dog in the Kingdom what’s got that exact toe. Now! Wotcher think?”

    Mr Deane eyed the unconscious Troilus’s foot askance. “Er—I think,” he said under his breath, “that either the unlamented Peebles is a noddy, or else he must the craftiest fellow in the damned Kingdom.”

    “Eh?” said the Beau, with a cracking yawn.

    “You’re right, old fellow,” he said soothingly.

    “Aye, aye. I always knew,” he said smugly, “that she was a real lady.”

    Mr Deane opened his mouth, and thought better of it. “Yes,” he said mildly. “A real lady.”

    The stage door-keeper of the Palace Theatre had looked at Miss Duckett sourly and informed her she was late, but let her in. Noting that Mr Lefayne had told him to let anything in what looked as if it could walk and speak. Isabelle went in, grinning. She could hear shouting from the stage: she did not go on, but slipped quietly through to the front of house. The curtain was up, revealing what looked like the setting for a modern comedy: an unconvincing backdrop of a gracious drawing-room, with a tattered brocade sofa and some shabby gilt-legged chairs before it. A depressed-looking row of ladies was seated on the chairs. One even more depressed-looking lady, in a creased and not very clean pink silk gown and amazingly decorated bonnet, was standing centre-stage. From somewhere down near the orchestra pit a man’s voice could be heard shouting at her.

    Isabelle smiled to herself: the mellifluous voice was that of Mr Lefayne, but otherwise, he sounded exactly like Mr Hartington!

    He paused for breath and the lady standing centre-stage said sourly: “We can’t all be Mrs Siddonses, and anyroad, me granny remembers ’er!”

    “Get OFF!” he bellowed. “You have as much acting ability as your damned granny’s BOOT! And as much sensitivity as DITTO!”

    Visibly losing her temper, the lady in the pink screamed: “You got no right to say no such thing, Sid Bottomley! And Mr Brentwood said I displayed melting charm in ’is last! And I wouldn’t act for you if you was the last management in London!” Forthwith flinging her script to the floor and stamping off the stage.

    “NEXT!” he shouted furiously.

    A very young lady in a neat print with a straw bonnet featuring a rather too elaborate arrangement of bows and rosettes rose to her feet and came forward, very evidently in a quake of nerves.

    “Pick it up,” said Mr Lefayne in bored voice. “HARRY!” he bellowed.

    A young man in his shirt-sleeves shot on, panting. “Yes, Mr Lefayne?”

    “Do not go away when I am auditioning,” said Mr Lefayne, acid-sweet. “Stand there. Give her the damned cue.”

    “Yes, um, she don’t have a cue.”

    “AFTER her first line, you noddy!” he roared.

    Raising her eyebrows slightly, Isabelle sat down quietly and prepared to watch.

    The young lady had picked up the script and was holding it in a shaking hand.

    “Have you read it?” said Mr Lefayne, sounding very bored indeed.

    “Yes, sir,” she said in a tiny voice.

    “You astound me. Very well, start when ready.”

    The young lady looked helplessly at the shirt-sleeved Harry, and licked her lips.

    “Have you never been on a stage before?” said Mr Lefayne, acid-sweet. –To his rear, Isabelle winced, and mouthed silently: “Don’t.”

    “Yes, sir,” she whispered.

    “Then pray read.”

    Gulping, the young lady said in a trembling voice, directed to no-one in particular: “What country, friends, is this?”

    “Illyria, lady,” agreed Mr Harry in a friendly tone.

    The young lady took a deep breath and articulated the next line very clearly.

    “That’ll do,” said Mr Lefayne in a bored tone. “Leave your name, we’ll contact you if wanted.”

    “I say, sir, aren’t you going to let her do the scene?” squeaked Mr Harry.

    “If you insist, Harry,” he said sweetly.

    Mr Harry subsided, very red.

    “NEXT!” shouted Mr Lefayne.

    A plump lady of mature charms jogged forward, snatched the script off the poor young lady in the over-decorated straw, and beamed down at the producer.

    “Miramant Mountjoy, what makes you imagine you can do Viola?” said Mr Lefayne in a fading voice that would nevertheless have been clearly audible at the back of the gods.

    “There’s always a first time, Sid!” she replied with cheerful energy.

    “Not on my stage, I do assure you.”

    “Then can I read for Maria?” she said, apparently uncrushed.

    “I have cast Maria. Get off.”

    Shrugging, Miss Mountjoy tossed the script at Harry, who failed to catch it, and retired.

    “Next,” said Mr Lefayne with a groan.

    Another very young lady, this time in an unsuitable green-spotted silk gown and an even more decorated bonnet. She seemed to be barely literate, but she was considerably less shy than the first. Considerably. And fluttered her lashes tremendously.

    “Sickening. Get off,” said the producer brutally in the middle of her third line.

    The young lady stood there with her mouth open.

    “Get OFF my stage!” he shouted terribly.

    Pouting and shrugging, she flounced off, dropping the script as she went.

    “Pick it up, pick it up, pick it UP!” Mr Lefayne ordered Harry.

    Glumly he did so, volunteering redundantly: “There’s one left.”

    “So there is,” said the producer in terrifically cordial tones. “Pray step forward, young lady, if you would be so good. Tell me, can you act?”

    “Yes,” said the young lady faintly. “I’ve been—”

    “Then pray do so.”

    He let her get right though the little scene. She was not bad at all, but had an appalling provincial accent.

    “This,” he said with a sigh, “is not the provinces. Get rid of that damned accent— Don’t tell me about your experience!” he said loudly as she opened her mouth. “Then come back and audition for me next year. We can offer you a walk-on as a court lady, if you can move without falling over your feet.”

    “Yes, I can,” she said firmly.

    “Very well, give your details to Harry. There’s a maid coming up in the next piece, you can have that, too.”

    Harry here lodged an objection in re the part’s having been half-promised to another actress, but was shouted down by his manager.

    “My GOD!” said Mr Lefayne loudly as the young lady, having had her details inscribed by Harry on a list, then retreated. “Stay there, I’ll come up,” he added with a groan.

    Isabelle had been about to come up herself: she sat down again.

    Mr Lefayne appeared on stage and consulted Harry’s list.

    “I thought that last one was the best,” said the young man glumly.

    “So did I, old man,” he said with a sigh, patting his shoulder.

    “Um, Mrs Cornish offered to read.”

    Mr Lefayne blenched. “No. Not that I dislike good old Lily, but— No.”

    “Then that only leaves Mrs Campion,” said the young man sadly.

    “Of course it does, darling!” trilled the gay soprano which Isabelle thought she had forgotten; and Mrs Campion sailed on, all blue frills, blue bows, and fox furs. It was a striking sight, but as the day was very warm, not perhaps an entirely appropriate one.

    “Darling Roland!” she said with a gurgle, taking his arm and leaning the bosom upon it. “That leaves tiny me!”

    “Tiny you with George Drew’s diamonds round your Elizabethan ankle: very suitable, Clarissa,” he said drily, nonetheless putting a supporting arm round her waist and kissing her thoroughly. Mrs Campion co-operated fully in this embrace, emerging from it with the bosom heaving artistically and the lashes going nineteen to the dozen. “Of course one has known him forever, but he still has his effect!” she said breathlessly to the red-cheeked Harry.

    “Behave,” said Mr Lefayne in bored tone, releasing her, but patting her bottom in a way which the glaring Isabelle could see was not as absent-minded as it affected to be. “Run and sit down, darling. Harry and I need to confer.”

    “Oh: men-talk!” said Mrs Campion with a giggle and pout. “Very well, Roland, darling, if you insist. But don’t forget: I know the lines!”

    “Something like that, mm,” he murmured, as she departed. “What about the female what had done Portia?” he said to Harry.

    Mr Harry looked through his list. “Um—oh. This one. You said she had lower limbs like those of a pianoforte, sir,” he reminded him. “Added to which, although you enjoyed the interpretation of Portia yourself, you mentioned that she did not have what it—er—takes,” he said, coughing.

    “Oh, yes: she was the mannish one,” he said glumly. “I remember. No, we don't want a mannish Viola, Harry.”

    “I agree, sir, but ain’t she the best of a bad lot?” said the young man in desperate tones.

    Sighing, Mr Lefayne said: “We’ll see,” and drifted off the stage.

    “Well, um, that seems to be all,” said Harry glumly. “George hasn’t sent in no more.”

    “Yes, he has,” said Isabelle clearly from the wings behind him. “He’s sent me.”

    Mr Harry jumped and gasped, but conceded: “Oh, well, you’d better have a go, then, Miss. –Sir!” he said loudly over the scattering of limelights, supplemented by two flickering lanterns, which were half-illuminating the front of the stage.

    “What? –Stop that, Clarissa!” said Mr Lefayne with a laugh in his voice. “What is it, Harry?”

    “There is another one, sir!” he said loudly.

    “Why the Devil didn’t you say so? Trot her on,” he ordered in a bored voice. “No, you may not read; I know what you’re capable of,” he added, not to Harry.

    Isabelle came on quietly to a burst of giggles from Mrs Campion. “I know the part,” she said calmly to Harry. “Please, come over in the wings a little with me –Here, that’s right. Now, we shall come on together, yes? There is a fierce wind, the storm that shipwrecked us has scarce abated, and we are battling against it, do you see? I shall stand down-stage and take your arm.”

    “You do know the play,” he said numbly.

    “Alone of all the would-be Violas in England, apparently,” said Isabelle drily. “Yes. Now: stagger.”

    They staggered on against the wind and Isabelle spoke the line:

    “What country, friends, is this?”

    “What the DEVIL are you doing?” bellowed Mr Lefayne at the top of his lungs, bounding to his feet.

    “Illyria— Um, doing the scene, sir,” said Mr Harry numbly.

    “Not you, y’fool. Miss Martin, I must beg you to get off my stage. This is not amusing,” he said icily.

    “I’m not Miss Martin,” said Isabelle coolly. “I am her sister. My name is—”

    “That’s a lie from start to finish! I’d know your Viola anywhere!” he said furiously.

    “Thank you. I am the person whom you and Hartington’s Players knew as Cressida Martin, or Martingale, but I am not in fact Cressida Martin. I am her sister,” said Isabelle firmly. “And I’m sorry to spring it on you like this: I intended speaking to you privately, but I couldn’t let you think those noddies were all you might expect in the way of a Viola. Though the one with the strange accent showed a great deal of promise.”

    “Birmingham,” he said with a groan. “Be quiet, Clarissa!” he added as Mrs Campion tried to protest that she would be happy to take the rôle. “I’d sooner cut my throat. –Are you engaged to Lord Sare?” he demanded grimly.

    “No. The lady who is engaged to Lord Sare is my half-sister.”

    “Miss Martin, this had better not be a joke,” said Sid grimly.

    “It isn’t a joke. Can we go somewhere and talk?”

    “Yes. Hang on. –Clarissa, will you shut it?” he said loudly. “Whether or not we had an appointment, I’m too busy.” There came the sounds of loud expostulation from the pit but apparently Mr Lefayne merely walked away from them: he certainly appeared on stage, and took Isabelle’s elbow, looking grim. “Come on: my office, Miss Martin.”

    “Er—yes,” said Isabelle, looking over her shoulder dubiously, as he towed her off. “Are you just going to walk out on her?”

    “Yes. Didn’t ask her to come round today in the first place. She’s angling for Viola, but sooner than put it on with her in the rôle, I’d close the theatre. –This way.”

    He led her up some stairs and into a small office. Isabelle looked about her with interest. It contained one desk, very cluttered with papers, a set of pigeonholes, ditto, a battered sofa, several chairs, and a large window, uncurtained.

    “Well?” said Sid with a sigh, passing his hand through his hair.

    “You had better sit down,” said Isabelle firmly.

    He subsided onto the sofa, and Isabelle drew up a wooden chair near it, and seated herself composedly.

    “You haven’t got the little mole,” he said limply.

    “No. My sister Cressida has. I’m very sorry, Mr Lefayne, but we have been practising a deception on you since the moment Troilus and I walked into Mr Buxleigh’s house.”

    “You’re not—” He leaned forward, staring hard, but after a moment sighed, sat back, and said: “No. I thought for a mad moment you had been the brother all along.”

    “No. We are alike, but as you once remarked, my features are more delicate. My hair is not really red: I dyed it for the trip from Belgium. Um, I’m sorry, I’m racing ahead of myself. Well, I had best start at the beginning. My father was Major Martin, but he had three children living with him, not two, as I told everyone at Mr Buxleigh’s. Ricky and Cressida are his legitimate children, but I,” said Miss Duckett very firmly, holding up that pointed chin, “am his bastard. My mother was a serving-woman, who used the name Duckett. I am Isabelle Duckett.”

    “Isabelle,” he said approvingly. “French-fashion.”

    She smiled at this echo of the Beau’s phrase. “Yes. We largely spoke French in the household, because of Petite Maman.”

    “Uh—yes. But she wasn’t your mother?” he said groggily.

    “No.” Leaning forward a little, Isabelle began to explain…

    When she eventually stopped, Sid passed his hand through his hair again. “Lord Sare doesn’t know any of this?”

    “We don’t think so. We have certainly done our best to conceal it from him.”

    He licked his lips. “But it was you he fell for? Well, that the Peebles character fell for,” he conceded. “Not your sister?”

    “Not my sister, no: he first met Cressida this last April, sir.”

    Sid took a deep breath. “And do you not care that she is about to marry him?”

    Isabelle smiled a little. “I think I would have cared, sir, had she been about to marry Mr Peebles, and he been both Mr Peebles and, shall we say, a little more than Mr Peebles.”

    “Er—I suppose I see. But he is considerably more than Peebles,” he said dubiously.

    “He was never Mr Peebles at all. He is really most unlike him. That meekness which you parodied so well in Lord Stradley’s Stratagem is just a mask. Underneath, I would say he is fully as ruthless as Cressida herself. I think they will deal extremely together,” she said composedly.

    Sid gave a shaken laugh. “I’d say you were pretty damn’ ruthless yourself, Miss Duckett!”

    “Yes, well, that is from the Martin side,” she said composedly. “But I am not entirely like Cressida. All the time I was with the troupe, I was playing a rôle: I was being her. Um, I don’t know if you can understand: she is ruthless, as I say, and also very strong-minded and very capable. So if I appeared to be any of things, some of it was me, but a lot of it was her.” She looked at him anxiously. “Cook understood.”

    “Did she, by God?” said Sid with a shaken laugh. “I suppose I see…” he admitted slowly, frowning over it.

    “Yes. I am more frivolous than Cressida, and much more sentimental. Indeed, she and Ricky claimed I risked ruining everything because I would not leave Troilus behind in Holland!” she said with a little laugh.

    He eyed her doubtfully. “Ain’t he with her now, Miss Duckett?”

    Isabelle cleared her throat. “No, well, Lord Sare certainly thinks so. But when she stayed at Mr Buxleigh’s for those three days last April, the reason that Troilus did not recognise any of them was that it was not he, but his half-brother, Petit Louis de Brissac.”

    “Petit—” Sid Bottomley tried to control his mouth, failed, and went into a fit of laughter.

    She watched at him a trifle anxiously, but did not speak.

    His laughter died; he looked at her uncertainly. “Well, I suppose I understand all of it, as much as any man may understand such a mad start. I certainly understand why you and your brother and sister should have determined to get your own back on the English gentry,” he admitted with a slight shrug.

    “Mm, I thought you would,” agreed Isabelle.

    “But I don’t entirely understand why you’ve come back. Doesn’t this in fact risk upsetting the apple-cart? I can imagine that Lord Sare would be unspeakably furious to discover that the lady he thinks he is marrying is at the one time the lady which he believes she is, and not the lady whom he believes she is.”

    Isabelle gave a little delighted laugh. “Yes! You must start writing again, sir! Um, I’m sorry. I’ve come back to see if you can forgive me,” she said, holding up her chin and looking him in the eye.

    “I see,” said Sid, gnawing on his lip.

    “And also because I would like to continue in the acting profession.”

    “You have certainly demonstrated you can out-act any of us,” he said on a grim note, the nostrils flickering.

    “Yes,” said Isabelle simply. “Although Major Blunsden’s performance as Mr Dinwoody was superb.”

    “It certainly was. The man even had the cheek to ask me, in front of Vic, too, who the Dimwits character turned out to be in the end. And, if I remember rightly, to express his relief that I had not made him into a belted earl! Well, Hetty writes us that Miss Dearborn is blissfully happy with him, and Margery reports that the house they are living in is a rational mansion, and that both Mrs and Major Blunsden display the most amazingly gracious condescension towards all of Sowcot, so presumably that’s turned out all right.” He watched sardonically as Miss Duckett agreed, and then was seen to wrinkle her brow.

    “None of us at Beau’s have been able to work out what on earth she meant by ‘rational mansion’,” he said smoothly. “I can assure you, your brain will be tortured by the conundrum for weeks to come.”

    “You monster!” said Miss Duckett with a gurgle of laughter. “You told me on purpose! Um… virtual?”

    He shrugged languidly. “Possibly.”

    She swallowed. “Um, I shall not ask you now if you forgive me: it would be too unfair. But perhaps I could audition for you properly, and—and if we go on living in Mr Buxleigh’s house and seeing something of one another, um, we could—um…”

    “What?” said Sid meanly.

    “Decide if you like me when I’m not being Cressida,” she said in a small voice, not looking at him.

    His mobile mouth twitched. “Mm, that is very fair. Well, I am certainly in need of a Viola, and you have certainly come just in time,” he said on a dry note, “to save London from the frightful Clarissa.”

    Isabelle bit her lip, and swallowed hard.

    “Well, yes: to save me, too!” said Sid Bottomley with a light laugh. “Will you try?”

    At this she looked up and said with that little lift of the chin that he knew so well: “Yes, I shall. But will you try, sir?”

    “I’ll do my damnedest,” he said lightly.

    Isabelle saw, however, that the long, black-fringed grey eyes were sparkling with unshed tears. “Good,” she said composedly, getting up. “That is agreed, then. Would you like me to read some more, now? I cannot stay too long, I am afraid: I promised Cook I would do some commissions for her. She wants to make a special pudding for supper and does not have all the ingredients in the house.”

    Sid got up on legs that shook a little. “The part is yours, Miss Duckett.—Er, we must do something about that name,” he noted feebly.—“You do not have to read further.”

    “I have never actually played it, sir,” she reminded him.

    “I have seen you rehearse it with the understudies often enough: the part is yours, Miss Martin!” he said loudly. “Dammit, Duckett! –Go and get Cook’s blessed ingredients; I will see you later. Oh: and for God’s sake think up a reasonable surname for yourself: I refuse to employ an actress who calls herself Duckett!”

    “Isabelle Amyes?” she murmured.

    He winced, but conceded: “It’ll do. Off you go. –No, wait: do you have enough money?”

    “I do for what Cook wants, yes,” she conceded.

    Sighing, he produced a purse. “Get something for a treat for them all, I don’t care what. Oh: half those boys went down to Dorchester, I suppose you know. But Beau’s filled the attics with another lot of noddies. And young Harry, the stage manager here, has—uh—the second-floor back,” he admitted, swallowing.

    “Thank you,” said Isabelle calmly, accepting the money. “I shall get something suitable and sufficient; trust me!” And, with a friendly smile and nod, she went out.

    Roland Lefayne collapsed onto the battered office sofa, for the famous legs had completely given way under him. “I think our play is done!” he admitted with a mad laugh.

Next chapter:

https://theoldchiphat.blogspot.com/2023/02/epilogue-in-england.html