Page 19 of Fortune Favors the Frivolous
“My father… my father would fully endorse my conduct,” he faltered. “Yes, it is late, but as you see, Miss Playford and I are by no means in a compromised position.” He indicated their full dress and then realized that the disarray of Venetia’s hair hardly bolstered this statement.
Lady Gascoyne scowled, the lines on her face deepening in the shadows. “You’re Mrs. Pike’s niece, are you not?”
Venetia nodded while Lady Gascoyne contemplated the matter, her fingers worrying at the fringe of her shawl. “Penniless, are you not? Yes, I’ve heard Mrs. Pike lament the fact. She’s been your guardian for many a year. She’d be outraged by this insult to her nurture.”
As Venetia looked on the verge of tears, Henry interrupted, “With all due respect, Lady Gascoyne, Mrs. Pike is delighted by the state of affairs which is that I…” He cleared his throat, nearly paralyzed by fright at the ramification of what he was about to say. His collar suddenly felt too tight… Like a noose. But how else could he atone to Venetia?
One hurdle at a time, his father had always told him.
And that meant ensuring Venetia’s good name held before he plunged headlong into clearing the next hurdle: rescuing Caroline.
“Have offered for the girl?” Sir Gascoyne broke in with clear relief, his bushy eyebrows lifting toward his nightcap. “That’s what you’re trying to say, young man, is it not? And Mrs. Pike is asleep and waiting for her niece to finish her farewell to her intended. Is that not so? So we’ll lower our voices so as not to disturb her.”
Henry blinked, his heart sinking even as he saw the path of least resistance open before him. The rain outside intensified. “Er… yes!”
And before he knew it, Sir Gideon was pumping his arm and Lady Gascoyne was twittering her own endorsement of the happy occasion, saying she’d be delighted to congratulate Mrs. Pike on the news when the two ladies could take tea in the parlor in the morning. The couple’s voices seemed to come from far away, as if Henry were underwater, drowning in the consequences of his words.
“And now I must leave you all, for I do have an important mission to accomplish,” he said, his desperation rising, taking a few steps backwards, and casting an imploring look of apology towards Venetia. “I shall be back as soon as I can to… to bear you and your aunt company home to London tomorrow.”
Finally, he escaped down the corridor, the weight of what he’d just committed to weighing on his shoulders like a physical burden. He’d essentially agreed to marry Venetia to save her reputation. Yet Caroline—his Caroline—was in even more dire straits.
Yes, Caroline’s rescue came first, he thought as he took the stairs two at a time. Then he would face the consequences of this tangle of honor and obligation that had suddenly ensnared him.
In the stables, he found the drowsy stable lad who, with the promise of another coin, quickly saddled a fresh horse. The boy’s movements were slow with sleep, each second of delay an agony to Henry.
In one fluid moment, Henry mounted, his thoughts in disarray. He’d set out to rescue one lady in distress, only to find himself honor-bound to marry her while racing to save another—the one who, if he was honest with himself, had always held his heart in her hands, even when they were children crossing swords with sticks.
The memory of Caroline’s laugh, bright and fearless, echoed in his mind, spurring him onward.
Chapter Eleven
Lightheaded with hungerand the relief of having effected a miraculous escape, it was the smell of cooking food that made Caroline change direction, tacking away from the London road she saw in the distance. The tantalizing aroma drifted on the breeze, rich and savory, making her empty stomach clench painfully.
She didn’t think she’d ever been hungrier. Some kind of delicious meat was being roasted over a crackling fire, and as she crested a hill and saw the colorful wagons and the cluster of people gathered in the dell below, she could not divert her path. The morning mist still clung to the hollows of the landscape, and the dew soaked through her worn boots as she made her way down the slope.
The scene that greeted her was like something from a dream. Brightly painted wagons formed a loose circle around a central fire, their sides decorated with theatrical masks, moons, and stars. A man with an impressive gray beard was juggling what appeared to be flaming torches while a woman in flowing emerald skirts practiced a dance, her movements graceful and precise. Children ran between the wagons, some walking on their hands, others practicing tumbling routines on the grass.
Near one wagon, a young man was rehearsing lines from what sounded like Shakespeare, his voice carrying clearly acrossthe camp, “But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!”
A woman’s voice called back from inside the wagon, “More passion, Edgar! You sound like you’re ordering breakfast, not declaring undying love!”
The sound of laughter rippled through the camp, and Caroline realized these were traveling players—a theatrical company making their way between towns and villages, bringing entertainment to rural England.
Of course, they were suspicious when she appeared. A ragged boy approaching their camp could mean trouble—perhaps a spy sent by local magistrates who didn’t appreciate traveling folk, or a thief looking for easy pickings. As she approached, the juggler caught his torches and set them aside, while several others paused in their activities to watch her warily.
“Well now,” said the bearded juggler, who seemed to be their leader, “what have we here? A young patron of the arts, perhaps?” His voice carried the trained projection of an actor, rich and melodious even in casual conversation.
Caroline looked around at the group gathering near her. There was the woman in emerald skirts, now revealed to have intelligent gray eyes and prematurely silver hair pinned back with combs. The young man practicing Romeo had approached, along with a motherly woman holding a baby and several others whose clothing marked them as performers—bright colors, well-mended but dramatic in style.
“I… I was hoping you might spare some food,” Caroline said, remembering to keep her voice gruff. “I can pay.”
“Can you indeed?” The silver-haired woman studied her with the sharp gaze of someone accustomed to reading people. “And what brings a young lad to our humble troupe with gold in his pocket?”
Pure joy, Caroline thought as the savory meat—seasoned with herbs and cooked to perfection—filled her empty stomach. The troupe had welcomed her to their fire once payment was established, and she found herself surrounded by the most fascinating collection of people she’d ever encountered.
There was Master Aldrich, the gray-bearded leader who was their manager and lead tragic actor. His wife, Constance, was the silver-haired woman who specialized in grande dame roles and seemed to run the practical side of their operation. Edgar, the young Romeo, was their romantic lead, while the motherly Rosalind played character parts and served as their seamstress and costume mistress.
“We’re bound for the market town of Millford,” Constance explained as she watched Caroline eat. “Three days of performances at their Harvest Fair, if the weather holds.” She glanced at the sky, where clouds were beginning to gather.
