Page 82 of Miss Dramatic
“I’ll take those,” Gavin said.
“You will have something to drink as well.” Rose poured two tall glasses of lemonade and added a sprig of mint to each. “Traveling works up a thirst.”
Well, yes. Gavin was parched and famished and saddle sore, and none of that mattered. He’d had weeks to rehearse for this moment, and now that his cue had come…
He thrust a sheaf of papers at Rose. “Tell me what you think. Be honest, and when you’ve read that, we’ll talk.”
She took the papers. “A Crosspatch Contretempsby Gavin DeWitt.”
“I thought about using a pen name, but that’s nonsense. Either I’m proud of what I’ve created, or I should publish anonymously.”
“I rather liked Galahad Twidham. Had both dash and charm. If you publish anonymously, everybody will—”
“Rose, please just read the damned play.” He hadn’t raised his voice, but it was a perilously near thing.
She passed him a glass of lemonade. “I will read it right now, and you will drink that, admire the garden, and cease fretting. If you wrote it, I will love it.”
How he lovedher. “You might not. I took some risks, but I’m open to revisions if you think them imperative.” Gavin had never felt so vulnerable, so stripped of defenses, but this was Rose, and he needed her to be honest.
“Take the tray,” she said, tucking herself into a wing chair. “The views from the terrace are lovely, and I am a fast reader. Give me an hour.”
Gavin wanted to give her the rest of his life. He did as she bade and even made himself drink two glasses of lemonade and eat one sandwich. Hewasparched and famished, and he might—heaven help him—need his strength for a return to Berkshire before nightfall.
He sat on a shaded bench, admiring the golden beauty of Rose’s home. She’d done this—restored the gardens, subdued the parklands, rebuilt the terrace—and best of all, she’d done it for herself.
A woman like that deserved…
Gavin heard a soft chortle from inside the parlor. Thinking his ears might have deceived him, he moved to a bench closer to the French doors. Ten minutes later, he heard Rose laugh, and five minutes after that, she went off into whoops.
She likes it.No benediction from heaven could have pleased him—and reassured him—half so much as the sound of Rose’s merriment. Gavin waited another thirty minutes on his bench, his backside aching, his bones weary, his heart buoyant. When Rose came out, his script in hand, she was wreathed in smiles.
“Roland and his editorial flatulence will steal the show,” she said. “‘Halt in the king’s name!’” Then she made a rude noise reminiscent of Roland at his most gaseous. “But the love scene… Oh, Gavin, you will have every lady in the house weeping for lack of such declarations in her life.”
“If the men in the audience are astute, they’ll be busily paraphrasing my romantic drivel and purloining daisies from the village churchyard. You like it?”
“I adore it. I gather the character of Randolph is based on your Mr. Dabney?”
Gavin escorted Rose to the shady bench and poured them another lemonade. They discussed the play, Gavin’s plans for a debut at the Merchants’ establishment in Bristol, and Drysdale’s suitability as a director for a production in which he had inspired the role of the foolish, lovelorn villain.
“Dabney wants a sequel featuring a clever liveryman gone to London on his trusty steed, Roland. Our hero’s country wisdom and fancy riding will save the day when all the Town dandies can’t sit a horse because their breeches are too tight. Dabney’s preferred title isA Crosspatch Cavalier.”
“Mr. Dabney is not far wrong regarding London fashions. You are considering it?”
He had the play half-written in his head. “One project at a time. You’re sure you like myContretemps?”
“Very much. I wouldn’t change a word of it. Have you become a playwright, Gavin DeWitt?”
She put the question playfully, but Gavin’s heart had taken up a slow tattoo. He hadn’t rehearsed this moment, hadn’t dared.
“I will write plays,” he said softly. “I should be writing plays. When I’m in the middle of a scene, trying to get the dialogue just so—sincere, entertaining, clever—then it’s like a good gallop on Roland. I’m entirely absorbed. I don’t hear Diana tackling her Beethoven. I forget that I agreed to meet Phillip for a few games of chess. I’m on some imaginary stage, before an audience of my own making, and, Rose… I am having the best time. Better than all the third-act speeches in all the houses by all the leading men… I’m pursuing one of the passions I was born to pursue.”
“Good.” She hugged him tight with an arm around his waist. “I’m glad. I’m overjoyed, in fact. Dare I hope that another one of your passions can be pursued with me?”
“Reconcile yourself to that unalterable fact. I have a whole proposal ready, if you’d like to hear it.”
She sat up. “Does it rhyme?”
“I tossed that draft out. I tossed a lot of drafts out.”
