Chapter Five
The next morning, Joan made her way to the library thinking, as she had all night, of Lord Greywick. Of his proposition. Her imagination seemed to have caught on his frowning eyebrows and fierce eyes. But at the same time . . .
Of course, she hated him.
Loathed him.
Despised him.
She was just having trouble remembering that fact, perhaps because even given years of knowing how desperately she’d love to be on the stage, her family had always dismissed the possibility. Greywick had listened to her for two minutes and come up with a solution.
He was peremptory, and he considered her a walking scandal, and he didn’t like her as a person. Yet she knew, deep in her soul, that the chance to perform on a public stage that he’d offered would change her life. Perhaps she would love the experience so much that she truly would join the theater troupe.
A cluster of Wildes could always be found in the library. Whereas the equivalent chamber in the duke’s London townhouse was austere and formal, Lindow Castle’s library was full of large stuffed chairs arranged in haphazard circles, the duke’s weighty desk piled with unanswered correspondence, books and needlework stacked on the floor. A thick Aubusson carpet covered the floor, and tall windows leading to the Peacock Terrace were often thrown open in good weather.
Pushing open the library door, she found that Otis, dressed as Ophelia, was already there, seated on a dark purple sofa beside Viola, who was propped up with pillows, the better to accommodate her pregnant belly. Aunt Knowe sat opposite them, flipping through a copy of Hamlet.
“You look cross,” Viola said, waving her over. Viola was the only person who was never fooled by Joan’s “calm” face.
“Do tell me that your father changed his mind about your performance of Hamlet,” Otis complained. “I feel as if I’m about to pop like a ripe gooseberry in this corset. I mourn the sea beast who gave his life to support torture-by-whalebone.”
“Stop grumbling, Otis,” Aunt Knowe ordered. “My brother never changes his mind, and ladies survive a lifetime in a corset.”
Aunt Knowe was one of Joan’s favorite people in the world: Tall, brusque, and loving, she had ruled the nursery for Joan’s entire life. More than anyone except Viola, Aunt Knowe understood the limitations that made Joan feel confined, even imprisoned.
“Given my name and my current state,” Viola said, “I have claim to being a ripe gooseberry, not you.”
“You do seem to be on the bloated side,” Otis commented, eyeing her.
“Otis!” Joan cried, sitting down opposite them. “You can’t use that word about a woman carrying a child.”
“This morning my own dear husband told me that I’m as fat as a distillery pig,” Viola said, smiling as she folded her hands on top of her tummy.
“Since Devin adores you, I won’t run him through with this useful rapier,” Joan said, patting the hilt. “Though his insult bolsters the case for being an old maid, which is definitely in the cards for me.” She blinked, remembering that she’d rashly promised Greywick that she would marry a gentleman of his choosing.
Surely he wouldn’t hold her to it.
Yes, he would.
“What are you thinking about, my dear?” Aunt Knowe asked. “That is quite a ferocious scowl.”
“Nothing important,” Joan said. “Otis, do you have your script? We can work on Ophelia’s scenes.”
“I suppose you already have Hamlet’s mawkish speeches memorized?” Otis asked, catching the book that Aunt Knowe tossed to him.
“Yes.” Joan had memorized the lead parts in most Shakespeare plays years ago.
“I hope my baby comes soon,” Viola said dreamily, ignoring the conversation. “I can’t wait to meet him. Or her.”
“At least a few weeks, my dear,” Aunt Knowe said, leaning over to pat her shoulder.
Joan shivered. Babies were another reason to eschew marriage. Children were wonderful: imaginative and fun, with no silly rules about boys and girls getting in the way of make-believe and putting on plays.
But babies?
Burping, vomiting, crying, slobbering. Pooing.
“All right,” Otis said discontentedly, leafing through his playbook. “When does Ophelia first show up?”
“Act One, Scene Three,” Aunt Knowe said. “Her family clusters about to give her advice, as I recall.”
“Ah, my father’s favorite activity,” Otis said, brightening. “At least I’ll know how to play that scene.”
Joan gave him a sympathetic grin. They were both the recipients of stifling, if loving, family advice; Otis had entered the priesthood after his father’s entreaties grew to a clamor.
He found the right scene and read a few lines aloud before breaking off with a groan. “Why did you have to pick such a dreary play, Joan? If you’re going to ruin yourself by performing a man’s part, why not a jolly farce written in language that the audience could understand?”
“I’m likely to perform alongside a proper theater troupe only one time in my whole life, so I want to perform the most important play of all time. And play the most important role.”
“No one could accuse you of modest goals,” Otis said. He dropped the book and pulled up his skirts. “Look at my feet.”
Joan and Aunt Knowe looked; Viola had fallen asleep.
“These shoes are pointed. Who invented such a monstrosity? My toes are pinched, and I’m not even standing up.”
“Those are my old shoes,” Aunt Knowe said. “I suppose they came from the attic.”
“I can’t survive an entire Shakespeare play in these shoes. The speeches are long and boring, to call a spade a spade.”
“I don’t think the Bard’s plays are boring,” Aunt Knowe said. “Mind you, I prefer romantic stories such as the one with adorable fairies. Joan was an excellent Helena.”
“We’ve performed A Midsummer Night’s Dream three times in the last ten years, Aunt Knowe,” Joan pointed out.
“Couldn’t I please take another role?” Otis begged. “I’d love to play the dead king, running around reminding Hamlet he’s dead. Remember me,” he intoned hollowly, throwing out his arm so that his wig tipped over one ear again.
“The only way my father agreed to my performing with the Theatre Royal was if you played Ophelia to my Hamlet,” Joan reminded him. “Please, Otis! You were fabulous in the pantomime last Christmas.”
He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t have to wear a corset. Frankly, I still can’t believe your father agreed, whether I play your beloved or not. One of the actors in the troupe is sure to sell an etching of you in breeches.”
“My brother has given up trying to eradicate prints of his children,” Aunt Knowe informed him. “Joan, my dear, I’ve been so careful with my knitting, and yet a hole has appeared in the middle. What did I do wrong?”
“You dropped stitches,” Joan said. “Otis, let’s start. I have an extra copy, Aunt Knowe. Would you please read all parts except for Ophelia and Hamlet?”
The door opened, and Greywick appeared.
“Do join us!” Aunt Knowe called to him.