Page 71 of Miss Dramatic
“DeWitt,” Tavistock said, “what shall we do with yonder thief?”
The most precious loss Drysdale’s scheming had caused hadn’t been the blasted necklace, or Lady Iris’s time and effort, or Gavin’s budding theatrical ambitions, or even Gemma Drysdale’s peace of mind.
The most precious loss had been Rose’s self-esteem, though she’d regained it and then some.
“Mrs. Roberts,” Gavin said, “the decision is yours.”
Rose and Gemma exchanged some sort of silent communication. “If Gemma sought to profit from her husband’s larceny, she would be kicking her heels in Rome, the necklace long since broken up and sold in parts. She chose to stay by Drysdale’s side, to continue protecting him from his own folly. I’d like to hear what Drysdale has to say to her.”
“So,” said Lady Tavistock, “would I.”
“The jury of the distaff are unanimous,” Lady Phillip said. “Drysdale, this had better be the most convincing speech of your life.”
ChapterSixteen
Rose wanted nothing so much as to kick Hammond Cicero Drysdale from Berkshire to the Borders, and she was feeling none too charitable toward Gemma Drysdale either. And yet… to be tied to a man whose ambitions exceeded his abilities, a man convinced of his own victimhood, a man loyal only to his own pleasures…
Drysdale wasn’t Dane, but they shared an immature version of honor that came perilously close to self-delusion. She had wanted to believe that Gavin was different, but her faith in a nascent romance had been eclipsed by too much experience with disappointment.
That, and by the Drysdales’ marital drama.
“Drysdale,” Gavin said, “you have the floor.”
The actor remained in his seat. “I never planned to steal that necklace.”
Gemma snorted.
“What I mean is, I had popped into a random sitting room to retie the garters on my knee breeches and realized I was in the private sitting room of the lady of the house. The appointments were old-style and ornate, and that made me curious about the bedroom, which proved to be just as lavishly decorated. The ceiling mural alone had likely cost a fortune, and the bed hangings… I digress.”
No grand gestures accompanied his discourse, which was fortunate for Rose’s temper.
“I was agog at the surrounds,” Drysdale went on more quietly. “Heartbroken, in a sense, to think that one person enjoyed all that comfort and beauty, while my players often shivered in their cots. I know the way of the world, but the world used to appreciate theater, music, the arts. Now… traveling troupes are a dying breed. Every market town has its assembly rooms, every goosegirl can lisp a few lines of Sheridan. The gentry can pop into Town for some professional entertainment, and John Bull otherwise can’t be bothered to waste what little coin the nobs allow him.”
As opening monologues went, Rose was decidedly unimpressed with this one. “You did not steal that necklace to improve the lot of the poor, Mr. Drysdale. You are lucky half the maids weren’t sacked because of your larceny.”
“The maids are sacked, madam, because quite often, they’re guilty of larceny, not that I blame them. I didn’t steal the necklace to fritter the proceeds away in a London gaming hell.”
Drysdale couldn’t know how close his comment came to a hit, given Dane’s proclivities. “What did you plan to do with your stolen goods?”
“Exactly what Gemma foresaw. New sets, new costumes, decent rooms for the summer at a northern spa town. Time and energy to tackle the more ambitious theatrical works. If the troupe could develop a circuit of those spa towns, then a school for the dramatic arts might not be too big a stretch in a few years. I may not be directly descended from Thespis himself, but I am a fair director and a better teacher.”
Gavin, Rose noted, did not contradict Drysdale’s claim.
“Hammond,” Gemma said tiredly, “how many trinkets and spoons did you intend to steal before you gave up on that dream? A noticing footman, a sharp-eyed maid, an innkeeper with a dim view of actors… You put us one accusation away from ruin, time and again. A spoon isn’t worth your life.”
“And what if,” Drysdale said, sitting up straighter, “that spoon stood between us and utter failure, Gemma? Yes, I have dreams, but the players need to eat. They need shoes and scripts. Spoons go missing all the time.”
Rose had heard enough. “If I were a jury, Drysdale, I’d convict you of blind arrogance in addition to thievery. What you need is sponsorship, and you are too proud and dunderheaded to ask for it.”
“Hammond Drysdale wouldn’t ask Saint Peter for admission to heaven,” Gemma said. “I’ve tried telling him that good theater has always been appreciated in Merry Olde, but he won’t even try to find us a patron. He claims that’s the difference between actors and beggars. We have our pride, they have their occasional crust. He has yet to explain why that makes acting the better choice.”
“It’s not a choice,” Drysdale said with some of his old hauteur. “The stage is a vocation. One cannot refuse the call of his art any more than a warhorse can ignore the drums presaging battle, and whom would I ask to sponsor us? The Players are the provincial hacks all of London disdains, no matter that our comedy is better than theirs and our actors more versatile than that lot in Drury Lane.”
“If you’re so accomplished,” Rose said, “then don’t look for sponsors, look for investors.”
Lady Phillip whispered something in her husband’s ear. Lord Phillip kissed her cheek.
“I might know some interested parties,” Lady Phillip said. “We’ll want budgets, estimates, and schedules. Records from the past few years’ performances. A list of the troupe’s repertoire, the current members’ abilities, assets and liabilities, that sort of thing.”
