Page 67 of Miss Dramatic
“You’ve improved,” Gemma Drysdale said, taking Phillip’s place. “I did not think that possible—your talent approaches genius—but you were born to bring those sonnets to life for the very audience that can appreciate them best. Drysdale will pout for a fortnight.”
She departed on that puzzling speech, and Gavin was confronted with his mother.
“I know you don’t approve,” he said quietly, “but the whole business was in aid of a larger scheme. I’ll explain it to you on the way home, and we must bring Diana and Caroline into our confidence as well.”
Mama took the drink from his hand, set it aside, and gave him the sort of look he’d usually earned as a youth when he’d failed to wipe his boots for the twentieth time in two days.
She hugged him, and while Amaryllis’s embrace had been firm and dear, Gavin was reminded that his mother hadn’t hugged him since he’d come home. Not once, not even half a hug.
“I was wrong,” she said. “A gift like yours cannot be buried in Crosspatch Corners. I was wrong, and selfish, and your father would scold me for thwarting your dreams. He loved No. 29 the best, too, you know. Trotted it out whenever I was c-cross or testy. Sometimes he’d just look at me, and I’d hear him reciting in my head. I still hear him, when I’m melancholy and missing him. I still do.”
Mama was weeping, something else that hadn’t happened since Gavin had come home. He held her, realizing just how great the burden of her sorrow had been—and still was—and how an only son disappearing God knew where had increased that burden.
“I’d forgotten about Papa’s ear for poetry,” he said, passing Mama his handkerchief when she stepped back. “He was very good with limericks, too, wasn’t he?”
“Oh, he was. And he could be so naughty. Brilliant, with verses too scandalous for pen and paper. Not too scandalous for his wife, though. I do miss him.”
When Mama had dabbed at her eyes, Gavin passed her his drink. Rose watched the whole business from a corner, and Gavin wished more than anything that she could join the conversation.
“I understand why you left,” Mama said. “Grandmama and I have discussed it endlessly. This is what it was like for you, wasn’t it?”
A few of the guests were drifting toward the terrace. Tavistock murmured something to a footman, then slipped out the door, the footman with him.
“I beg your pardon?” Gavin said, leading Mama to a love seat. “Whatitwas like?”
“Mostly ladies as far as your eye could see, or so you must have felt. Caroline and Diana bickering constantly, my incessant haranguing about marital prospects, Grandmama haranguing me to stop fussing, and Amaryllis pretending she wouldn’t mind another London Season, though we knew she dreaded the prospect. A lot of female drama for one young man.“
Well, yes, but her synopsis left out a few particulars. “Not female drama. Family drama, and maybe I was simply adding to it by leaving. Or hoping my absence would be felt more keenly than my presence had?”
Mama studied her brandy. “Possibly. The fact remains that you have a gift. Diana and Caroline will manage. Amaryllis has already begun campaigning on their behalves.” Mama drew herself up and looked him square in the eye. “Go back to the stage if you choose to.”
Lovely words. Words he’d never thought to hear, except… He didn’t choose to. Not now. Not exactly.
Gavin was fumbling for how to discreetly explain his change of heart to Mama when Tavistock came into the music room, Lady Iris and Hammond Drysdale marching before him like prisoners headed for the dock.
The crowd had thinned considerably, and still, Rose remained in her shadowed corner, agog with… awe, love, hope, determination. Gavin’s recitations had, in addition to impressing her, fortified her.
Dane hadn’t loved her; she hadn’t loved Dane. She’d tried to, though, while he hadn’t been worthy of her efforts. He’d been worthy of her care, of the food, clothing, shelter, and company she’d provided him, but not of her heart.
His criticisms, snide jokes, infidelities… Nasty comments before the staff, homecomings that were always put off, resources squandered that should have been put by to keep the Hall sound in the bad years…
Why had she wasted her time resenting Wordsworth when she could have been nourishing herself with Shakespeare?
Tavistock returned in the company of Mr. Drysdale and Lady Iris—when hadsheleft the audience?—and the entire trio looked too grim for such a pleasant evening.
If that meant the marquess had caught the blighters red-handed, so much the better.
Gavin whispered something to his mother, then assisted her to her feet.
“Miss Peasegood, Lady Duncannon,” Mrs. DeWitt said, “let’s catch a peek at the marquess in leading strings, shall we? The gallery has several portraits of him in his misspent youth and one of Lord Phillip when he was still in dresses. Tavistock’s curls were adorable.”
Lady Iris was busy glowering at the darkness beyond a window. Miss Peasegood and the countess had no choice but to accept Mrs. DeWitt’s invitation.
“I’d like to see that,” Gemma Drysdale said. “The marquess before Society got its paws on him.”
Rose expected Tavistock, the host, the peer, the largest specimen in the room, to thwart her. Instead, Gavin merely shook his head.
“You will stay, if you please. You will want to hear what’s said.”
