Page 61 of To Marry and to Meddle
“I’m notdespondent,” Julian said, appalled; Christ, had things really sunk so low that he was being described in the same terms used to describe widows and invalids? “I’m merely… contemplating the virtues of celibacy.”
Bridgeworth snorted. “I wasn’t aware you knew that word.”
“I’ll admit it’s not one I’ve been overly familiar with,” Julian said, “but I’m beginning to consider its advantages.”
“Marriage, Belfry, is the greatest gift a man can ever receive,” Bridgeworth began, and Julian briefly contemplated flinging himself out a window. “All one has to do is remember one simple fact.”
“Oh?” Julian asked, now considering the curtains and whether it would be possible to strangle Bridgeworth with them.
“Your wife is always right,” Bridgeworth said simply, then leaned back in his seat, smiling cheerfully as though he had just imparted some great wisdom.
Julian stared at him incredulously. “You cannot be serious.Thatis your advice?”
“It is,” Bridgeworth said calmly, picking up his glass. “I’ve found it serves me admirably—you’ve seen how well Jemma and I get on.”
“The last time I was at your house for dinner, she threatened to disembowel you with a toasting fork if you didn’t agree to accompany her to some dreadful poetry recitation,” Julian said.
“Ah, an excellent case for study,” Bridgeworth said, still wearing that infuriatingly smug smile that every happily married man of Julian’s acquaintance seemed to find necessary to adopt during thesesorts of conversations. “She did indeed threaten me with grave physical harm, which I neatly avoided by simply agreeing to attend.”
Julian stared at his friend.
“Bridgeworth,” he said, feeling a trifle alarmed, “this sounds like a hostage situation.”
“Oh, it is,” Bridgeworth said while smiling, not sounding at all bothered by this characterization of his marriage. “But all marriage is, old chap, so you’re best off accepting that and proceeding accordingly.”
“I don’t think this is the sort of advice I was looking for,” Julian said.
“You weren’t looking for any advice at all,” Bridgeworth reminded him. “You were content to stare broodingly into your drink and mutter about women without discussing any of the specifics of your female-shaped problem—not a very productive line of attack, but whatever you think is best, I suppose.”
“It’s the theater,” Julian said, more to get Bridgeworth to shut up than anything else. “Emily and I have… differences of opinion, shall we say, about what the best path forward for the Belfry is.”
“Ah,” Bridgeworth said, as if he understood things much more clearly now—which it was entirely possible that he did, given the length of their friendship. He was one of the few of Julian’s Oxford friends who hadn’t abandoned him over the years; it wasn’t that he had been cast out of his social circle, but as his friends aged and took their places in society—some by inheriting their titles; some by joining the army or the clergy; some by marrying—they seemed to find less room for him. It was vastly amusing to have a friend who’d made himself the talk of London when one was five-and-twenty; it was somewhat less so when one was approaching thirty and beginning to haunt the assembly rooms at Almack’s on Wednesday nights, in search of a bride.
“What’s her idea, then?” Bridgeworth asked curiously.
“One of the actresses fancies herself a playwright, and she’s written a script for a show entirely starring women,” Julian explained. “It’s a satire of theton—bound to be utterly offensive to any lady who watches it. Men might find it amusing, but no gentleman is going to want to come to the theater to watch a show full of women standing around talking, instead of removing their clothing.”
“Is it any good?” Bridgeworth asked, taking another sip from his drink.
“It is,” Julian admitted reluctantly, feeling a bit guilty over his dismissive characterization of Miss Congreave. She didn’t justfancyherself a playwright—in fact, if that script was anything to judge by, she was a damned good one. “It’s very good, actually.”
“And Emily thinks you should stage it?”
“Emily hasn’t even read the script yet, but she’s taken this idea into her head that we could pitch it directly to the ladies of polite society—bypass the men entirely. She thinks gossip about it would spread and draw a crowd solely out of curiosity.”
“She might be right,” Bridgeworth said, raising an eyebrow.
“I know,” Julian said heavily. “But our reputation would never recover—it would be the only thing we were known for. I don’t want to change the nature of the scandals the Belfry is known for; I want us to be seen as a theater on par with the patent theaters, with the finest theatrical fare and the best talent. That would show—”
He broke off abruptly, slightly rattled; his tongue had gotten away from him, and he’d found words spilling out of his mouth that he hadn’t intended to speak aloud to anyone—words that he hadn’t fully admitted to himself.
Bridgeworth was watching him very carefully now, his gaze sharp. Julian had known the man long enough to know that the sleepy lookhe gave the world at times was nothing more than an act, but it was still disconcerting to be reminded of this fact.
“If you think that you are proving something to… anyone,” Bridgeworth said, speaking carefully now, “by running your theater in such a way that any joy you find in the endeavor is robbed from you, I wonder if you might wish to reconsider.”
“I run my theater the way I please,” Julian said tersely. “I think of myself, and my actors, and every man and woman in my employ, and try to make decisions that will best suit them. No one else comes into the equation.”
“Not even your wife?” Bridgeworth asked slyly, and Julian mentally cursed, knowing he had walked right into that one.
