She was a striking woman in every respect. Atthirty-six, she had maintained the willowy proportions of heryouthful figure – merely by adding inches in equal measure to eachof her maturing feminine curves. Two of the latter were audaciouslydisplayed in a low-cut sateen gown of a shimmering green hue with aprovocative yellow bow winking at its waist. Attempting to tame herflaming curls was a diamond tiara that glittered like a profanehalo and framed her heart-shaped, delicately featured face. It washer brown eyes and milky skin, however, in contrast with the bushelof red hair that drew libidinous glances from the twice-widowedAndrew Dutton and the well-married Cyrus Crenshaw, and compelledHorace Fullarton to find less volatile objects to rest his gazeupon. Clemmy Crenshaw also found her gaze settling upon Lady Mad(as Sir P. fondly referred to her), though more in envy than inlust.
Clemmy herself was a forty-five-year-oldwoman of ample proportions, which she unwisely tried to disguisewith a garish frock two sizes too small for the package it wasmeant to encompass. Her plain brown hair had been steamed intorebellious ringlettes, which gave an effect not so much of feminineallure as of permanent fright. Her freckled complexion had beenover-powdered and much-rouged, and her eyebrows startled into adouble arch. The latter merely emphasized the hazel eyes, whosepupils seemed to bulge outward as if propelled by belladonna. “Oh,what a gorgeous table!” she had cried upon entering the dining-room- in a voice that tended to wobble from a trumpet to a screech. “Itis positively mellifluent!”
Before the meal, Sir P. (as all and sundrywere urged to call the baronet in the spirit of camaraderie) hadgiven his guests the royal tour of Oakwood Manor, commenting withamiable condescension upon its many glories, and once being so goodas to mention the role that “Horace” had played in its design. Ofthe numerous, impoverished in-laws, there had been no sign: theynot only inhabited their specially constructed wing, they wereapparently sealed within it. The pièce de resistance, ofcourse, had been the ballroom converted into a temporary theatrefor the proposed production of scenes from Shakespeare’sDream. “I think of this space as our Blackfriars,” Sir P.had quipped, alluding to the Bard’s own intimate, in-doorplayhouse.
At the far end of the tall-windowed room,where at least one formal ball had been held for the worthiest ofthe worthies in the capital, a stage had been built – abouttwo-feet high with a playing-surface about twenty-five by fifteenfeet. There was no proscenium arch, but a right-angled, rectangularframework and curtains had been rigged up on either side to provide“wings” and a concealed area for those waiting off-stage for theirentrance cue. At the back of the stage, the visitors noticed a mantacking canvas onto what looked like quilting-frames.
“That’s Mullins, preparing the flats we’lluse,” said Sir P. helpfully. (Mullins was the Shuttleworth’sgardener and general handyman.)
“We brought with us a steamer-trunk full oftheatrical costumes and props,” Lady Mad added in her low, throatyvoice, “but naturally we had to leave most of our flats and fliesat home.”
“We’re goin’ to have costumes?” Clemmysaid.
“The works,” Sir P. replied.
“Our little nieces and nephew – four of them- have volunteered to play the fairies,” Lady Mad said. “But we’llhave to find someone locally to make them fairy outfits.”
“There are a number of competent seamstressesand dressmakers in town,” said Dutton, brushing up against a puffedsleeve of green sateen.
“I’d recommend Smallman’s,” Crenshawsaid at the other sleeve. “Rose Halpenny is the best, Milady.”
“You must try to call me Maddy, all of you,”Lady Mad said generously, “except of course when the servants areabout.”
“I shall try, Milady,” Crenshaw said.
“Oh, I don’t see how I could,” Clemmysaid. “It would seem too – too condescending.”
“Still, you must try,” said Sir P. as hepointed out a cozy den adjacent to stage left, which wouldeventually serve as a dressing-room, discreetly partitioned, forboth sexes. “Putting on a play brings its participants into closeand familiar contact. There can be no standing on ceremony. That iswhy it is crucial to have only ladies and gentlemen in thecast.”
This remark had caused Clemmy to blush withpleasure and her husband to smile inwardly at his good – and, hewas certain, well-deserved – fortune.
While Horace Fullarton immediately upon hisarrival had started to tell Sir Peregrine about the eventssurrounding the arrest of the youngest member of their troupe, SirPeregrine had silenced him, saying that no serious talk waspermitted till after the meal. True to his word, as the coffee wasbeing served to his guests, groggy from food and drink, Sir P. heldup his plump right hand and called for attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen, in a moment we shalladjourn to the theatre to begin our first read-through of thescripts I gave you and the roles I assigned. My butler Chivers andhis minions are setting up a table and chairs for that purpose.After our efforts, some light refreshment will be served. Butbefore we initiate these delights, we must address an unexpectedand pressing problem.”
“Young Langford’s in jail, ya mean?” Clemmybrayed through her hiccoughs. She, like several others, had beenwaiting for a suitable opportunity to raise the question ofBrodie’s absence without offending their host or in any waydisrupting the atmosphere of congeniality and deference he hadstriven to create for them.
“Putting it in the bluntest terms, yes,” saidSir P. “Though Horace assures me that it is all a terrible mistakeand Brodie will soon be released.”
“I heard he stabbed some tramp nearIrishtown,” Clemmy said.
“There was a wild rumour going around about aduel,” Dutton said, “but I paid no attention to it.”
“Anyone know who the victim was or whyLangford would be involved?” Crenshaw said.
“Chivers told me his name was Durgens orDougan – something like that,” said Lady Mad. “He didn’t mentionMr. Langford, though, and I’ve never heard of this Dougan.”
Nor had anyone else, it seemed, for there wasa long pause.
“I’m sure nothing will come of it,” said SirP., wiping his rubbery lips with a monogrammed napkin. “Surely anygentleman accosted on the street by a lowlife is entitled toretaliate in kind. If not, then there is little hope for thiscolony.”
“I agree that young Brodie is certain to bereleased tomorrow morning,” Fullarton said, “but his lawyer, Mr.Edwards, told me, when I saw him earlier today, that Brodie felt -whatever the outcome of his arraignment before the magistrate – hemust resign his membership in the Shakespeare Club.”
“He must do nothing of the kind,” Dutton saidrather primly.
“Apparently he feels that this sordidepisode, in which he gave into his anger and resorted tofisticuffs, would harm the reputation of the club and itsrespectable members.”
“And he is adamant?” Sir P. said.
“He is. And while I regret such a decision, Iadmire the courage and selflessness behind it.”