Page 63 of Miss Dramatic
“I have a few ideas, but I’d like to hear what DeWitt has up his sleeve. He knows Drysdale best, and he’s our greatest thespian talent. If the matter takes some playacting or dramatics, DeWitt is our best hope of prevailing.”
“I agree,” Rose said, “but I’d certainly like to take a supporting role.”
“As would I,” Lady Phillip said. “I played the part of the money-obsessed spinster for years, and nobody suspected I’d rather have been spending my time making mint jelly.”
“My favorite,” Phillip murmured, “and whither thou goest, and all that, though I doubt I’m much of an actor. Lady Tavistock?”
“If I can be of any use… I always did fancy our local theatricals. Gavin, for once, you may tell me what to do, but don’t get carried away. I am still your sister.”
Was this what Gavin had sought when he’d wandered from home? A loyal troupe? A band of brothers—and sisters?
“The plan,” he said, “wants refining, so all ideas are welcome, but I thought we’d bait our trap with some of Tavistock’s sparkly tat. I assume the Vincent family has some impressive jewels…” He spoke, he listened, he revised some details, and then revised a few more.
By the time Gavin was once again alone in the library with Rose, the game was well and truly afoot.
Trevor, Lord Tavistock, beamed at Miss Peasegood as she recounted her aunt’s goddaughter’s best friend’s court presentation. Miss P treated Tavistock to a word-for-word rendering of the exchange with the sovereign and his aging mama and a plume-by-pearl description of the young lady’s attire.
The longer Miss Peasegood held forth, the more the part of the slightly tipsy, ornamental, aristocratic host bearing up loyally under the tribulation of his wife’s social ambitions felt like Tavistock’s reality, rather than a part he played for the sake of the larger drama.
Ye gods, the woman could talk. “But what of your own presentation?” Tavistock asked. “Surely that day was more memorable than some distant acquaintance’s experience?”
Miss Peasegood blinked, she sipped her punch, she sneaked a glance at the formal parlor’s mantel clock. “The whole business was so long ago, my lord, and the details fade. Tell me, where did you and the marchioness meet?”
Miss Peasegood had apparently never been presented. Interesting. “Not far from here, as a matter of fact. I was on the last leg of my journey out from Town, and she was enjoying a pleasant afternoon hack.” Until Roland had bolted and dumped her into the nearest ditch. “Ah, Mrs. Drysdale, Mr. Drysdale. Greetings. We were having the most fascinating discussion of all things fashionable, and Miss Peasegood has turned the topic to the happy day I met my marchioness. How did the two of you meet, if I might indulge some natural curiosity?”
He smiled at them fatuously, suggesting he’d been at the punch too enthusiastically. In truth, Tavistock did not give a malodorous equine flatus how the Drysdales had met, but Gavin, in rapt discussion with Lady Duncannon over by the mantel, had yet to signal that the next stage of the proceedings could commence.
“We met in a production ofTwelfth Night,” Gemma Drysdale said. “I was wardrobe mistress in addition to playing a few of the smaller roles, and dear Hammond had a propensity for destroying his costume.”
“She stitched me back together.” Drysdale patted the hand Mrs. Drysdale had wrapped around his forearm. “My Gemma is still the best theater seamstress I know, and we never lose a prop or a prompt book, thanks to my dear wife.”
“I love Viola’s speech,” Miss Peasegood said, apparently still focused onTwelfth Night. “When she’s realized what a great lot of confusion she’s caused as Cesario and has no earthly idea how to sort it all out…”
I left no ring with her: what means this lady?
Fortune forbid my outside have not charm’d her!
She made good view of me; indeed, so much,
That sure methought her eyes had lost her tongue.
“A wonderful speech,” Mrs. Drysdale said, sparing Tavistock from devising a means of stopping the juggernaut of Miss Peasegood’s discourse. “Women can have a much lighter touch with humor than men, don’t you think?”
Over by the mantel, Gavin finally brandished his pocket watch.
“I will trust you ladies to sort through that profound topic,” Tavistock said. “Drysdale, you might appreciate the art we have hanging in the library. Let’s leave the ladies to philosophize for a moment or two, shall we?”
The Drysdales exchanged a look, which to Tavistock’s eye looked minatory from the lady and slightly annoyed from her husband, though both spouses were smiling.
“The library art is nothing special,” Tavistock said when he and his guest had gained the corridor, “but the decanters offer something more substantial than punch. You are my alibi, Drysdale, and I expect you to be duly impressed with the Constable over the mantel.”
“I’ve always fancied Constable. Such vision, such subtle symbolism.”
“Oh quite, if one prefers a countryside done in unrelenting shades of brown. Greenish brown, bluish brown, creamish brown, brownish brown. I vow I do not recognize the countryside he paints. Perhaps England was plagued by incessant drought in his youth. I do recognize a good brandy when one comes my way.”
Drysdale smiled. “A marquess after my own heart.”
Tavistock opened the library door and recalled Gavin’s advice.Don’tactif you can instead emphasize the parts of true life that fit best with the role.
