Page 77 of Miss Dramatic
“Walk on, horse,” Gavin said, tugging on the reins. “If you ever tire of racing, you can hire yourself out as a sentry.”
Drysdale came along as well and without any nonsense. Perhaps he truly hadn’t wanted to decamp for London.
“Word of advice from an old thespian, DeWitt. You don’t fall out of love with the stage. If it’s in your blood, you will starve, steal, beggar yourself, and worse for an opportunity to give Falstaff another go. You’ll wait hours in the cold for a chance to audition for a part as one of the witches, and you will fall asleep more nights than not with a script pressed against your cheek.”
“All of which tells me that Drysdale’s Players need to find their next venue. Since returning to Crosspatch, I’ve corresponded with a brother and sister who’ve recently opened a theater in Bristol. A general expression of goodwill from one who appreciates… that sort of thing.” The sister had even written back. “I can’t say I know them, but through Tavistock’s step-mother, there’s a distant connection.”
And writing to the managers of a provincial house had been more appealing than enduring the steward’s lectures.
“The Merchants? I’ve seen the place. Splendid appointments, modern design, and not too high in the instep.”
“They aren’t trying to compete with London. They’re offering lighter fare and doing a good job of it. Miss Merchant strikes a hard bargain, from what I’ve heard, but she allows her brother a free artistic hand with the place. I think you and he would understand each other.”
“Ah, but will Gemma allow me to make the attempt?”
Gavin was betting that yes, she would. “She took on the threat of the noose rather than let you bear the risk you’d brought on yourself. That should give you considerable pause. At the turnoff for Miller’s Lament, you will give me the satchel, and I will pass it along to the most discreet footman I can find. When the guests are at lunch, he will unpack it for you. You will tell Gemma that you’ve been for a dawn constitutional along the river, and you have a profoundly sincere apology to offer her.”
“For pity’s sake, DeWitt. I tried that last night. She refused to hear a word of it.”
“No, you did not. You tried to wheedle and explain and excuse what you’ve done. Don’t quote a lot of poetical blather. Tell her if she casts you aside, you will be lost, and you are bloody sorry for your dunderheadedness.”
“You rehearsed that speech with Mrs. Roberts?”
“Not yet, but I’m considering it.”
They plodded along in an odd kind of commiseration. “Why do we pay money,” Drysdale mused, “to watch drama on the stage? All this haring about, lurking behind curtains, the marquess playing me for a fool, the lady thief-takers, or whatever they are, nearly getting caught in their own snares, while the course of true love runs no straighter than the course of yonder river. Jolly good entertainment, as long as it’s not your life.”
Phillip was probably entertained, but then, he was a philosopher at heart. “Who is the fool in this play?”
“That would be me, I suppose. Trying to be clever, convinced you were my nemesis when, in fact, my dear Gemma’s loyalty and clear thinking were thwarting my schemes.”
“You will be a fool if you can’t patch it up with Gemma.”
“And you,” Drysdale said as they reached the path to Miller’s Lament, “if you don’t make Mrs. Roberts your bride, young man.”
Gavin took the satchel. “You needn’t state the obvious. I’ll see you at lunch.”
Drysdale winked and saluted. “‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.’”
Roland lifted his tail and fragranced the morning breeze withle parfum d’un cheval en bonne santé.
ChapterSeventeen
“Drysdale seems more jubilant than repentant,” Rose observed as Gavin accompanied her up the main staircase on the final day of the house party. “I am not feeling jubilant.”
Gavin patted the hand she’d wrapped around his forearm. “I’ll come see you within the month. I’m hoping absence makes you desperate to become my wife.”
Gavin’s demeanor was not that of a lovesick swain, but rather, of a man confident of his objective. Rose took heart from that.
“You will see a woman desperate to finish harvest before exhaustion and inebriation fell every tenant and his family. The weather has been perfect, and that never remains the case for long.”
“These two weeks have been perfect.” Gavin drew her into an alcove at the top of the steps, and Rose went with him willingly. He excelled at small gestures of affection—a touch on her shoulder, a hand on her arm when he whispered some endearment during one of Diana’s sonatas. With the more serious displays, Gavin had become nothing short of genius.
Rose endured lavish and tender kisses and the most perfect of embraces with no witnesses save a bust of some old Roman statesman.
“You torment me,” she said, stepping back.
“I’m getting even for last night. If you don’t want to leave, Rose, then don’t. Come bide with us at Twidboro Hall for the next week. Your stewards and tenants are doubtless competent to get matters under way without you.”
