Page 42 of Miss Dramatic
“I’ve seen you act, Gavin,” Rose said quietly. “There was nothing childish about it. You personified madness when you toyed with the notions of revenge and suicide as Hamlet. You embodied benevolent enchantment when you delivered Puck’s closing speech. Your performances compelbelieffrom your audiences. You make the truth of the stage more real than the world itself.”
“You don’t have to say these things, Rose.” He wished she wouldn’t, actually.
“You have a rare gift. I’m sorry your family can’t see that.”
He’d never act again, unless he was cast as one of the wise men alongside Vicar and Mr. Dabney in St. Nebo’s Christmas pageant. George Pevinger would have to retire from the role of Gaspar, which he’d likely do in a mere twenty years or so.
“I miss it. You’re right.” A gloomy thought, when the day was anything but gloomy. “I’ve missed you more.”
“Flatterer.” She shouldered her mallet and strode onto the court, then used her shot to roquet Lord Phillip’s ball halfway to Windsor.
Rose had a hidden streak of ruthlessness. Gavin liked knowing that about her—she could be downright ferocious as a lover—and he wondered what other gifts she’d been expected to keep hidden away in the wings.
“Make us proud, laddie!” Lady Duncannon called. “The honor of the team rests upon your broad and handsome shoulders.”
Hooting and whistles followed as Gavin saw the opening Rose had left him. Drysdale’s ball reposed in innocent vulnerability about two yards from the next wicket. Gavin could brush that ball out of alignment and clear the wicket, if he was careful and lucky.
He made the shot to more applause, and Drysdale twirled him an elaborate court bow, then shook his fist at the sky.
Overplaying the moment, as usual.
Lady Duncannon’s team eventually prevailed, but Gavin felt no sense of victory. The whole business had been like a first dress rehearsal. Trudged through. Stops, starts, missed cues, bungled entrances, garbled lines. Then finally over.
He shook hands with Tavistock and Phillip, but when he would have exchanged that courtesy with Drysdale, he caught his former employer studying Rose with a speculative eye.
Oh no you don’t.Drysdale, though married, considered himself something of an at-large consoler of widows. Rose had barely noticed him in Derbyshire, and that might well have inspired Drysdale to fix his interest on her now.
Gavin finished accepting congratulations from the losers, set aside his mallet, and waited until Drysdale had joined the buffet line under the tent at the foot of the garden.
“‘Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep,’” Gavin murmured, slipping into line behind his former employer.
Drysdale turned, signature roguish smile in place. “Twidham, or rather, DeWitt. Greetings.Henry VI, part 2, act 3, scene 1. The Duke of Suffolk. My turn. ‘False face must hide what the false heart doth know.’”
“Interesting choice,” Gavin replied, taking a wedge of cold cheese quiche. “Macbeth, act 1, scene 7. Spoken by Macbeth himself. I gather pall-mall does not number among your many accomplishments?”
Drysdale pretended to shudder. “Nor will it ever. To perfect skill at that game takes ample free time and an expanse of manicured lawn, when I can claim neither. You are looking… well.”
That slight hesitation was the easiest way to make a line of dialogue imply its opposite. “As are you.” Gavin added a serving of peach trifle to his dish. “When will the rest of the players arrive?”
“Possibly tonight, more likely tomorrow, depending on how effectively Gemma can chivvy them along. We’ve missed you.”
In all the time Gavin had been traveling with the East Anglia troupe, and in all the months he’d been home, he’d received not a single letter from Drysdale.
“I have fond memories of the north,” Gavin said, which was true. “I look forward to seeing what repertoire you’ll present for the guests. They are ladies of discernment and varied tastes.”
Drysdale took three beef pastries and two servings of trifle. “Know them well, do you, the ladies?”
“Lady Tavistock is my sister, as you no doubt are aware. Lady Phillip is married to my good friend.”
“Your sister did well for herself,” Drysdale said, adding two strawberry tarts to his already full plate. “On the tall side for a woman and a bit long in the tooth to be newly wed.”
To criticize one’s hostess in any regard was beyond rude. “The marchioness’s generosity of spirit is in proportion to the rest of her. We get our height from our late father.”
Drysdale took three French chocolates from the epergne at the end of the buffet. “You also inherited a fortune from him.”
What business was that of Drysdale’s? “You knew I had a good education. My clothing and luggage were well made. My books well cared for. Obviously, I came from some means.”
“Oh, obviously. Is your sister trying to get your attention?”
