Page 75 of Miss Dramatic
“He and his troupe will perform, gratis, for all of Hecate’s sailors’ homes every year without fail. They will perform at Chelsea on the same terms, if invited, and for other audiences of your choosing. Drysdale thrives on a challenge, and bringing some laughter and joy into those lives should motivate him to do his best.”
“And also remind him of how fortunate he is. I like it.” She passed Gavin his cravat and was smoothing his hair—or pretending to—when the baying of a hound pierced the morning stillness.
“Fortinbras,” Gavin said, kissing Rose’s cheek. “The coach will be pulling into the Arms within a quarter hour. That dog is more accurate than any clock. Shall I see you back to Miller’s Lament?”
“You’re anxious to get on your horse?”
“Roland will be saddled and waiting for me, but that’s immaterial.”
The horse who had kept Gavin sane over some very difficult months would never be immaterial to him. “You’re angry?”
This time, he kissed her cheek. “No, but I am in imminent peril of begging you to marry me. I appreciate that you’re correct—I love the theater, I love its history and wisdom, its power and frailty. That has been true since I was a boy. I love you, too, and I’m not sure what you’re asking of me.”
Rose was asking him to love himself and his own dreams with the same passion he brought to his care for her. Not a small request, as she well knew.
“Think on the puzzle, then, while I see to harvest at Colforth Hall and wait for letters from the man I adore.”
He kissed her on the mouth. “My family might think I’m running off again if I resume my interest in acting.”
One more kiss and Rose would be doing the begging. “You were not running away from them. You were running toward a dream.”
The dog howled again, and Gavin went still. His gaze became distant, and for the longest moment, he did not move.
“What?” Rose asked, willing herself not to touch his hair again. “Something troubles you.”
“Drysdale will run away.” Gavin grabbed his coat and gave Rose a thorough smacker. “Drysdale is doubtless planning to be on the morning stage. If he gets to London, we’ll never find him.”
“Gavin, what are you…?”
“I’m off for a rousing gallop. I love you.”
“I love you too,” Rose called after him as he loped through the door and took off down the towpath at a brisk jog. “So very much.”
She sat on the bed and munched on a cinnamon biscuit, wondering if she’d just been an enormous fool, or truly wise. Gavin hadn’t really put up much of an argument, and he certainly had not begged her for her hand.
“I cannot have another discontented husband,” she said, finishing her biscuit. “I cannot ever again be a wife made unrelentingly anxious by her husband’s personal discontent.” She tidied up and left the hamper on the balcony, then locked the door with the key above the lintel.
She’d no sooner made her way to the towpath than a thundering streak of horse and rider pounded past. Ye gods, they made a magnificent picture in the predawn mists. Rose blew a kiss in their wake and half hoped Gavin would let Drysdale escape.
Then Gavin would have to step in with the Players, and that might solve several problems at once.
“But is that what would make him happy?”
She trundled up the towpath and was soon in her bedroom, dreaming of Gavin reciting those wonderful sonnets, just for her, and also for a packed theater of misty-eyed women.
Gavin knew all the shortcuts, and more to the point, Roland knew them. Once the horse sensed that the objective was to gain the London road, he needed no guidance. Gavin’s job was to give the beast his head and let him do what he loved to do.
Roland took two stiles in foot-perfect rhythm, streaked across a pasture, splashed through a tributary to the Twid, and cleared the streambank in a single mighty bound.
You were made for this.A ditch, a ha-ha, and one more stile, and Gavin was on the London road, the stage a quarter mile ahead and kicking up a cloud of golden dust.
Gavin applied a hint of leg. “Go, boy. Catch him for me, for Rose, and for the Players.”
Roland’s terrific speed increased yet more, until Gavin was galloping directly behind the stage. The travelers up top waved and began to cheer him on. A small boy stuck his head out the window and nearly lost his cap when the coach careened around a curve.
The coachy was apparently not inclined to pull to the side, which meant more strategy was in order.
On the next broad, sweeping curve, Gavin sent Roland across the field that the thoroughfare bordered. Roland not only made short work of the whole distance, but also cleared the stone wall on the far end as if he were merely beginning his morning romp.
