Viola picked them up and began reading, only to catch a slight motion from the corner of her eye. Bridget had slid something beneath the blotter. Her eyes narrowed, but she kept her mouth closed. She’d got into a battle of wills with Bridget before and always ended up completely routed. There was no one here, and as Bridget had said, the snow was much too deep for anyone to have snuck into the Kingstag gardens and up to this terrace.
That said, Viola would have wagered a week’s salary that Bridget had been talking to someone through that open door.
“It does sound ridiculous,” she commented after reading the scene Bridget had given her.
The girl beamed. “Doesn’t it? And so fitting for Serena.”
Viola read again. “That she’s pursued by a swan?”
“Well, that’s what Frye is,” Bridget replied. “Handsome but cruel.”
“But Lord Gosling plays the swan, not Frye.”
“Drrr!” Bridget rolled her eyes. “Obviously I could not write a part for Frye, because he’s not here. Gosling will do just as nicely, though. I don’t care for him.”
“Because . . .” Viola couldn’t even think of a reason.
“He’s too agreeable! Whatever odd thing I write for him, he smiles and carries on. Agreeable men are so very disagreeable, don’t you think?”
She laid the pages back on the table. “If you say so . . .”
Bridget beamed again. She knew she’d won.
On the fifth day things slipped a bit further out of control. Lady Sophronia had taken over supervising the play rehearsals, with Bridget’s help when the latter wasn’t off in the library writing, and Viola was shocked to see her almost encouraging Mr. Jones, playing a pirate from Shropshire of all places, to kiss Serena, playing a maiden—or, as Bridget insisted on calling her, a Lonely Spinster. The kiss wasn’t called for in the script, although the pirate did bear away the maiden at some point, but Viola was alarmed by this. She managed to insert herself into the direction and even the acting twice, but finally Sophronia pinned a gimlet gaze on her.
“Dear Viola,” she said, “I have not seen Lord Winterton in an age. The poor man, he must be feeling very put out to arrive and have no one to look after him.”
Viola blinked. “Lady Sophronia, he’s quite comfortable. He assures me so every morning.” Viola looked forward to those brief meetings over breakfast; it was easily the most pleasant conversation she had all day. Her worries about the earl had subsided. He might not know Wessex personally, but he was clearly a gentleman and had behaved with the utmost propriety.
But he had been strolling all over the castle, and Sophronia’s words planted a seed of doubt. Perhaps she had neglected him. She could hardly blame the man for avoiding the antics of the young people, who were scouring the castle for props and costumes and—Viola was sure—a bit of mischief whenever possible.
“Balderdash,” said Sophronia bluntly. “A man won’t say when he’s bored, Viola, he shows you. Winterton has been wandering the corridors like a lost child. I’m very much afraid he shan’t give a good report of our hospitality to Wessex.”
Viola’s lips thinned at this transparent effort to get her out of the drawing room. “I am sure Lord Winterton understands the circumstances.”
“But do you want to chance it?” Sophronia looked past her as Viola reeled. “Bridget! What have you got for us today?”
“A new scene, but we lack any suitable props.” Bridget plopped onto the sofa beside her great-aunt. Sophronia leaned her head close to see the pages she held. Viola had long since decided that Bridget was Sophronia reborn, exuberant and irrepressible. “Viola, could you help locate them? Everyone else is busy rehearsing.”
She shifted uneasily. The pair of them were looking at her so innocently, it immediately put up her guard. “What do you need?” Perhaps it could be found swiftly and she could be back before anything untoward happened . . .
Bridget consulted her pages. “A large book, a cape—preferably red velvet; what do you think, Aunt Sophronia?”
“Oh yes, definitely red velvet,” said the old lady in delight.
“A set of goblets that may be thrown around and not break, and an iron chain.”
Viola, having listened in growing dread, blinked at the last. “An iron chain?” she cried. “Bridget, what’s in this play?”
“A ghost,” said Bridget patiently. “I’ve told you that for days. But we haven’t got a chain, or a crown—”
“A crown?”
“He’s the ghost of the king.”
Viola put one hand to her temple. “You said the ghost delivered a prophecy about the king.”
“Yes. And then the king dies and becomes another ghost.” Bridget smiled as if she’d just answered every question. “And the prince becomes king after that, you see.”
Viola stared helplessly. “Of course.”
“There must be a chain and a crown somewhere in the house,” Bridget went on. “It is a castle, after all. Ask Mama if you cannot find them on your own.” She paused, then added, in a markedly offhand manner, “Perhaps Lord Winterton would help you look.”
Viola glanced at Sophronia, who merely gave a tiny smile and nod, and knew she was stuck. “Very well, I shall ask him. But you must promise to behave,” she added in a lower voice.
Sophronia waved both hands. “Of course! Of course!”
“No more kisses on stage,” Viola added, casting a glance at Serena and Mr. Jones. Serena was talking to Lord Gosling, but Mr. Jones was watching her with a strangely pensive expression. She was afraid the kissing would give the poor man ideas, which would be unfortunate. Frye might be despised as a scoundrel by Alexandra and Bridget, but Viola knew the dowager duchess still hoped Serena’s erstwhile suitor would return and persuade her to mend the broken engagement.
Bridget rolled her eyes. “We need the chain desperately. Otherwise Mr. Penworth will have no way to rehearse his scene, which is vital to the plot.”
“We cannot have that,” said Sophronia at once. “Viola, I am certain no one can find these things as quickly as you can.”
Viola very much doubted there was a plot to this play, but she couldn’t overrule Lady Sophronia. She nodded and went to find the earl.
He was in the small parlor near the grand hall, admiring a book of engravings laid out on a table near the windows. He glanced up as she came in, and a broad smile crossed his face. “Mrs. Cavendish. How does our grand entertainment progress?”
“I cannot speak to its grandiosity, nor to it being entertaining,” she said wryly. “I have been sent in search of props, and hoped I might enlist you as well.”
“Of course.” He closed the book and faced her. “What are we in search of, and where should we begin?”
“That’s why I need help,” she replied. “A most ridiculous list, and I haven’t the first idea.”
His eyes lit up and he grinned. “Excellent! An adventure.”
“That it will be,” she agreed, and they set out.
One item was easily accomplished. A visit to the kitchens and a few words with the cook unearthed some tinware that the actors could throw and not break. Viola told a footman to take it to the drawing room where the play was being staged, and they went in search of the next item.