Page 14 of Miss Dramatic
Rose finished her sandwich and dusted her hands over her plate. “Do you want one?”
No, he did not. A place to live, yes. A dwelling to house his family, of course. But not acres and acres, ditches and drains, flocks and herds…
No.
In Derbyshire, he and Rose had talked of books, philosophy, politics, and history by the hour. Long walks had been taken up with plays and poetry, morning hacks had been filled with debate on the Corn Laws and parliamentary reform. Late nights had been for the quiet language of the heart.
Or so he’d thought. In any case, he’d avoided any mention of the boring reality of his nonacting life.
“Grandmama has already told me that Twidboro is coming to me.”
Rose took up her spoon and dipped it into a bowl of fruit compote. “That doesn’t answer my question. You left Twidboro Hall to pursue the stage, and I gather your family disapproved. Now you are back where you started and where your family expects you to be. How are you finding the role?”
Tedious. Stifling—‘cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in’—and Gavin was ashamed of himself for his ingratitude. One should cite the Scottish play only in cases of true tragedy.
“I love my home. I love my family. Why would I be anything but pleased to bide here?”
Rose sampled her cream, peaches, and blueberries. “You left this bucolic paradise for reasons, Mr. DeWitt, and you are very skilled on stage. I loved my husband, and I love Colforth Hall, but that doesn’t mean I want to keep it as a shrine to his memory.”
She would not have said that eighteen months ago. Then, every mention of her late spouse—and they had been frequent at first—had been glowing and wreathed in fond sentiment.
“Two years of my life spent pouring everything I had into the acting profession is supposed to have been a lark,” Gavin said as, across the garden, Tavistock inspired four women to go off into whoops. “A frolic, a queer start. My version of the grand tour. A bit eccentric, butyou know how young men are.”
He’d raised the pitch of his voice to imitate some Mayfair beldame and infused the words with amusement.
“I honestly don’t know how young men are,” Rose replied. “I married right out of the schoolroom, and Dane saw no need for me to incur the expense of frequent jaunts to Town. When I began exploring London at the conclusion of my mourning, the bachelors were after younger game. Eat your dessert. The fruit is luscious.”
The forbidden fruit always was.
“You are young,” Gavin said. “Also formidable, and that’s why the fribbles have left you in peace.” He didn’t intend the words as flattery, much less as a compliment. He simply stated the truth. He knew how young men were—he still was one, and acting troupes were full of them—and women who could quote from the American Constitution and Blackstone’s commentaries would freeze the guts of the average Town tulip.
And Rose thoughther agehad been to blame?
“I have sown my wild oats,” Gavin said, trying for some lightness. “I shall now become the contented, conscientious squire.”
Rose took another bite of compote, closing her eyes as she slipped the spoon from her mouth. Gavin sipped his punch, found the glass empty, and told himself to stop gawking.
“You will be a squire on a very fast horse,” Rose said, setting aside her empty bowl. “You school your colt in the mornings?”
The change of subject was welcome. Too welcome. “Every morning. If the going is wet, I check Roland’s speed, but he needs to sort out for himself how to negotiate a muddy track. Berkshire has afforded us many opportunities to practice keeping our footing. I’ll begin competing him in the autumn, with a view toward some serious racing next spring.”
“Where did you find him?”
Gavin let himself be led onto this safer ground, though Rose’s earlier questions and answers stayed with him. His life would be the envy of most, and yet, he was restless and discontent. The feeling grew the longer he bided in Crosspatch Corners, no matter how many miles Roland galloped, no matter how many stiles they leaped.
That wasn’t news.
That Rose had never had a London Season had escaped his notice, though. In Derbyshire, she’d been so self-possessed, so well adapted to the part of young widow bravely venturing back into Society that he’d never considered how little experience she might have been bringing to the excursion.
How unworldly she might have been. The idea fit poorly with what else he knew of her. But then, the notion of spending the rest of his days dithering over whether to plant barley or oats in the bottom field fit poorly with what he knew of himself.
“I like this way of having a supper,” Rose said, glancing around the garden. “A buffet al fresco. A picnic without the ants and acorns. Shall we stroll a bit to settle the meal?”
They’d hiked, not strolled, over half of Derbyshire. “Of course.”
Tavistock’s harem went off into peals again. Over by the hydrangeas, Lord Phillip sat with another bevy of beauties, and Gavin was reminded of the house party where he’d met Rose. The troupe had been hired in part because too many last-minute guest cancellations had left the gathering lopsided. Handsome young gentlemen had been in demand, and virtually any handsome young gentleman with acceptable manners would do.
Actors, often from good families, well-read, sociable, and competent to play genteel roles, had been an easy and entertaining solution.
