The four principals had been rehearsing now for nearly fifty-five minutes. De Ville had been leaving them pretty much to themselves, his heavy, frog-like face expressing nothing but a settled gloom. Probably he had resented being dragged away from his post-prandial nap and subjected to yet another sea trip merely to indulge Clarissa's wish for a final run-through in costume of her more important scenes. Ivo glanced at his watch. Boredom was taking hold of him as he knew it would, but the effort of moving seemed too great. He glanced along the row and watched Cordelia's face, upturned to the stage, the firm yet delicate chin, the sweet curve of the throat. He thought: two years ago I should have been mildly agonizing over her, scheming how I might get into her bed before the weekend was out, fretting at the possibility of failure. He recalled his past exploits, less with disgust than with a detached wonder that so much time and thought and energy should have been expended on such petty expedients against boredom. The trouble had been so disproportionate to the satisfaction, the desire less urgent than the need to prove himself still desirable. What, after all, would getting into bed with her have meant but a small fillip to the ego, ranking only a little higher than the quality of the food and wine and the wit of the after-dinner conversation as an index of the success of the weekend. Always he had aimed to conduct his affairs on the level of a civilized, uncommitted exchange of pleasure. And always they had ended in rows, recriminations, in messiness and disgust. It had been no different with Clarissa except the rows had been more bitter, the disgust more lasting. But then, with Clarissa he had made the mistake of letting himself become involved. With Clarissa, at least for those first six months when he had been cuckolding Simon's father, he had known again the agonies, the ecstasies, the uncertainties of love.
He made himself look again at the stage. They were playing the second scene of Act Three. Clarissa, dressed in a voluminous, lace-trimmed dressing-gown was seated at her looking-glass with Cariola in attendance, hairbrush in hand. The dressing-table, like all the props, was authentic, borrowed, he supposed, from the castle. There was more than one advantage in staging the play in the eighteen nineties. The scene was being played with the accompaniment of a musical-box which had been placed on the dressing-table and which tinkled out a medley of Scottish airs. That too was probably another of Ambrose's pieces of Victoriana, but he suspected that the idea was Clarissa's. The scene began well enough. He had forgotten how Clarissa could take on an almost luminous beauty, the power of that high, slightly cracked voice, the grace with which she used her arms and body. She wasn't a Suzman or a Mirren, but she did manage to convey something of the high erotic excitement, the vulnerability and the rashness of a woman deeply in love. That wasn't surprising; it was a part she had played often enough in real life. But to produce such conviction with a leading man who obviously saw Antonio as an English country gentleman sinning above his station was something of an achievement. But Cariola was a disaster, nervous and skittish, tripping across the stage in her goffered cap like a soubrette in a French farce. When she had stumbled for the third time over her lines De Ville called out impatiently:
'You've only to remember three lines, God help you. And cut out the coyness. You're not playing No, No, Nanette. All right. Take it from the beginning of the scene.' Clarissa protested:
'But it needs pace, lightness. I lose the impetus if I have to keep going back.' He reiterated:
'Take it from the beginning.'
She hesitated, shrugged, then sat silent. The cast glanced at each other furtively, shuffled, waited. Ivo's interest suddenly rekindled. He thought:
'She's losing her temper. With her, that's halfway to losing her nerve.'
Suddenly she took the music-box and slammed down the lid. The crack was as sharp as a gunshot. The tinkling little tune stopped. It was followed by absolute silence as the cast seemed to hold their breath. Then Clarissa came forward to the footlights:
'That bloody box is getting on my nerves. If we have to have background music in this scene, then surely Ambrose can find something more suitable than those damn Scottish tunes. They're driving me mad, so God knows what they'll do to the audience.'
Ambrose called quietly from the back of the auditorium. Ivo was surprised to hear him and wondered how long he had been silently sitting there.
'It was your idea, as I remember.'
'I wanted a musical-box but not a bloody Scottish medley. And do we have to have an audience? Cordelia, can't you find something useful to do? God knows, we're paying you enough. Tolly could do with some help ironing the costumes, unless you propose to sit on your ass all afternoon.'
The girl got to her feet. Even in the half-light, Ivo could detect the flush rising on her throat, could see her mouth half open in protest, then close resolutely. Despite those candid almost judgemental eyes, the disconcerting honesty, the impression of controlled competence, she was at heart a sensitive child. Anger rose in him, satisfyingly strong and uncomplicated. He rejoiced that he could feel it. With difficulty, he pulled himself erect. He was aware that all eyes had turned towards him. He said calmly:
'Miss Gray and I will take a walk. The performance hasn't been exactly riveting so far and the air outside will be fresher.'
When they were outside, their going silently watched by the cast, she said:
'Thank you, Mr Knightley.'
He smiled. Suddenly he felt well, extraordinarily well, his whole body mysteriously lighter.
'I'm afraid I'd make a poor dancer in my present state, and if I had to cast you as any character in Emma it certainly wouldn't be poor Harriet. You must excuse Clarissa. When she's nervous, she's apt to become rude.'
'That may be her misfortune but I don't find it particularly excusable.'
He added:
'And public rudeness provokes in me the kind of childish retort which is only satisfying for the second after it's spoken. She'll apologize very prettily when she next sees you alone.'
'I'm sure she will.'
Suddenly she turned to him and smiled:
'Actually I should like a walk if you won't find it too exhausting.'
She was, he thought, the only person on the island who could say that to him without making him feel either irritated or embarrassed. He said:
'What about the beach?'
'I'd like that.'
'It'll be slow going, I'm afraid.' 'That doesn't matter.'