Three
“N
ow then, Mr. Fortesque.” Camille studied the actor standing before her in the parlor. “Are your players ready?”
“We are always prepared for a performance, my lady,” Frederick Wenceslas Fortesque said in a lofty manner. Fortesque was the manager and lead player of the troupe of actors she had hired. He had taken the part of the family butler because, as he had said, regardless of the play, the butler was the pivotal role. Camille bowed to his expertise in this particular matter, even if she wasn't entirely convinced. “The prince noticed nothing out of the ordinary when he arrived this morning.”
Indeed, Nikolai had arrived an hour or so ago in a most discreet manner, in an elegant hired coach. He was now freshening up from his travels and would shortly join her for tea. He had arrived unaccompanied, which had struck Camille as odd. She had always assumed royalty, even royalty traveling incognito, would travel, nonetheless, in a manner befitting, well, royalty. Or, at least, nobility. Still, the prince was adamant about not attracting undue attention. Not merely because of his desire to see the true nature of a country he was visiting, but because he had hinted darkly to her that one never knew what sort of brigands might be lurking about. Kidnapping and assassination were a constant threat for a royal. She had never quite considered that, but it did tend to dampen a bit of her enthusiasm for becoming a princess.
“That's something at any rate,” Beryl said sotto voce. She sat on a nearby sofa to lend her sister what she called moral support, although Camille suspected Beryl simply hated to miss the opening act.
“It was an excellent beginning,” Camille said with more confidence than she felt. She twisted her hands together absently. She would never admit it to Beryl, but she was far more apprehensive about this farce than she had expected. In spite of her assurances to her sister before their arrival, she was well aware of exactly how many things could go wrong. What had she been thinking, anyway? Still, it was too late to turn back now.
“Perhaps it would ease your mind somewhat if I were to reiterate, again, who is playing which of the primary roles,” Mr. Fortesque said with a helpful smile.
Camille couldn't help but like the man; he was a most likeable sort. Older, somewhere in his forties, she thought, quite tall, with a head of hair that had seen fuller days, he had thrown himself and his players into this production with enthusiasm. Naturally, she'd had no other choice but to take him into her confidence, at least to some extent, to explain why she thought it was necessary to conceal her family's eccentric nature from Prince Nikolai. Mr. Fortesque appeared to understand and had vowed he and his troupe would do all in their power to ensure a successful performance. But then she was paying them a significant amount to do so. Mr. Fortesque understood as well that if their farce did not end happily, payment for services rendered might be far less than expected.
“Oh, please do,” Beryl said brightly.
Camille cast her a quelling glance. “That would be most appreciated, Mr. Fortesque.”
“Very well.” He cleared his throat. “The role of your mother, Lady Briston, is being played by Mrs. Angela Montgomery-Wells. She has vast experience, has spent years touring the provinces and has played mothers of every ilk and fashion. A fine actress in her day.” He winced slightly, as if he had said more than he had intended.
“Do go on, Mr. Fortesque,” Beryl said.
He chose his words with care. “On occasion she might be somewhat absentminded. Rarely she has been known to forget her lines. But I have rehearsed her quite thoroughly,” he said in what was obviously meant to be a reassuring tone. “She could play this part in her sleep. This role was made for her.”
Beryl bit back a grin. Camille did wish her sister would desist being quite so amused.
“The part of your younger sister, Lady Hargate, is being played by our ingénue, Edwina Murdock. Not overly experienced before she came to us, but most enthusiastic and extremely friendly, with a natural gift one does not see often.” He lowered his voice in a confidential manner. “With her looks and her talent, that young woman will make her mark in the theater one day.”
“Talent will tell,” Beryl said.
“She is quite pretty.” Camille wasn't entirely sure of the girl's acting ability, however. Upon meeting Miss Murdock, one wasn't struck so much by the young actress's intelligence as by her appearance. Still, no man in her presence would question what she was saying, as they would, no doubt, be too busy staring at her red curls or her pouting lips or voluptuous bosom. Camille suspected the young woman's primary success on the stage would be in catching a wealthy husband.
“And the role of your uncle, Colonel Channing, will be ably managed by Mr. Wilfred Henderson. A fine Shakespearean actor with extensive credits and, even now, a considerable presence on stage.”
“Really?” Beryl's brow rose. “I've never heard of him.”
“He never quite gained the acclaim he should have.” Mr. Fortesque paused. “Mr. Henderson had the unfortunate habit of imbibing more than was wise before a performance.” He hesitated. “Afterward as well. But he has given up overindulgence,” he added quickly.
Beryl snorted.
He ignored her. “The rest of the troupe will be playing the parts of maids and footmen. And while they may be actors now, very nearly all of them left a life of service to seek their fortune among the footlights.”
He met her gaze with confidence. “You may rest assured, Lady Lydingham, this shall be our greatest performance ever.”
Camille cast him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Mr. Fortesque.”
“It is I who should thank you.” He hesitated. “I should confess that we are not, as yet, a very accomplished troupe. We have only recently formed, in fact, and, indeed, some of us are as yet lacking in . . .
extensive
experience on stage. We are most grateful for the opportunity you have provided us to hone our skills, as well as spend Christmas in as magnificent a house as Millworth Manor.”
Camille stared. “How recent?”
“Specifically?” Concern flashed across the actor's face.
“No, no.” She thrust out her hand to stop him. “I don't think I want to know, after all. It's far better to maintain hope than have it shattered.”
“That's what I always say,” Beryl added.
“Not that I've noticed,” Camille snapped. Perhaps she should have been somewhat more selective in hiring the troupe, but she'd never hired actors before and considered herself fortunate to have found these. Besides, nothing could be done about it now, but hope for the best. She adopted a pleasant smile. “I'm certain you will all do an excellent job.”
“The theater is in our blood, my lady. We have all thrown off the shackles of ordinary lives to pursue the dream that is
the theater
.” His voice rose, and he stared off into the distance. Camille exchanged glances with her sister. “The dream of speaking the words of Shakespeare as they were meant to be spoken or performing the works of Mr. Gilbert and Mr. Sullivan as they intend them to be performed.” He reached his hand out, palm up, as if to catch something just out of reach. “The dream of taking an audience away from their dull existence and bringing them, however briefly, to another place, another time, to a story they will long remember. And that”âhe closed his hand and pulled it back to rest over his heartâ“is the dream and, yes, the magic of the theater.” He bowed his head.
Beryl choked back a laugh. Camille wasn't sure if she wished to laugh or cry.
“Quite,” she said in a weak voice, then cleared her throat. “Well, then, Mr. Fortesqueâ”
“Simply Fortesque, my lady,” the actor said. “If I am to play the role of your butler, you should address me as such.”
“Yes, of course.” Camille nodded. “Thank you, Fortesque.”
“Now, then, if there is nothing else at the moment, I shall make certain your mother, sister and uncle are preparing themselves for their first appearance, as well as oversee the preparation of tea.” He nodded at the sisters and took his leave.
“That went well.” Camille forced a cheery note to her voice.
“ âWell'?” Beryl stared in disbelief. “ âWell'?”
“Yes,” Camille said firmly. “Well.”
“It doesn't concern you that you have a house filled with actors who need to
hone their skills
because they are lacking in
extensive
experience?”
“But what they lack in acting experience, they hopefully make up for in the positions of servants.”
“Thank God for that,” Beryl said sharply. “Have you also considered that you have a drunkard playing your uncleâ”
“Former drunkard, if you please.” Camille sniffed. “He has given up overindulgence and we should give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“What we should do is inventory the brandy. And probably the silverware as well,” Beryl added darkly. “Add to that, a tart for a sisterâ”
“With a natural giftâ”
“No doubt.” Beryl sniffed. “One suspects that gift is not for acting.”
“You haven't mentioned Mrs. Montgomery-Wells,” Camille said. “She apparently has a great deal of experience at playing the role of a mother.”
“She forgets her lines!”
“So does Mother.” Camille shrugged. “Yet another way in which this role was made for her.”
“Good Lord, Camilleâ”
“We just have to get through Christmas, Beryl.” Camille paced the room. “Just Christmas. A traditional, Mr. Dickens's Christmas, with a proper English family. That's all. Certainly, I had planned to stay here through Twelfth Night, but I can see now that might be a mistake. Of course one never knows.” She cast her sister an optimistic look. “This might go much better than anticipated.”
“It would have to.”
Camille paused in midstep and glared. “Thank you for your support.”
“I'm here, aren't I?”
“Yes, and I am indeed grateful for that. And Lionel is still coming as well?”
Beryl nodded. “Yes, but probably not until Christmas Eve. He is a very busy man, you know. And he does hate to be away from London for any length of time. But once I explained the circumstances . . .” She chuckled. “He has a better sense of the absurd than I give him credit for. He said he wouldn't miss it.”
“Wonderful. Very well, then.” Camille resumed pacing. “I shall come up with some reason why we must return to London at once. You can help me with that. You can be quite devious when you wish.”
“Thank you.”
“Perhaps we could arrange . . .” Camille thought for a moment. “I know! A telegram from his country calling him home.”
“How on earth would we do that?”
“Oh, it wouldn't really be from . . . from . . . oh, wherever it is.”
“Do try to remember the name of his country, Camille.” Beryl shook her head. “It's rude to become the princess of a country whose name you can't recall.”
“As I cannot recall it, it's difficult now to fit asking what it is into the conversation.”
“Even soâ”
“Regardless.” Camille pinned her sister with a firm look. “I think sending a telegram insisting he return home is a brilliant idea. A crisis of some sort, I would think. Now, what sort of crisis . . .” Her mind raced. “I suppose a declaration of war on the Kingdom of Whatever would be extreme?”
Beryl grimaced. “Probably.”
“Then perhapsâ”
“Monetary,” Beryl said abruptly.
“ âMonetary'?”
Beryl nodded sagely. “Tiny countries are always having monetary crises of one sort of another.”
“It sounds rather dull.”
“It can be, which is what makes it perfect for your purposes. A monetary crisis is at once vague and threatening.”
“Excellent.” Camille beamed. “Then we shall lure him back to his country with the report of a monetary crisis. Although . . .” She frowned. “I should hate to worry him unduly.”
“That's the lovely thing about monetary crises. If his country's economy is stable, it's a momentary problem. If not, well . . .” Beryl shrugged. “If not, he shouldn't be traipsing across England in the first place.”
“Then he should have nothing to cause undue concern. Although, when he's worried or is concentrating, he gets the faintest little furrow between his brows. It's quite delightful and makes him look rather serious and . . .” Of course, she should have seen it before now. She cast her sister a smug smile. “I know what is going to make this all much easier.”
“Oh, do tell.”
“I should have realized it before. English is not Nikolai's native language. Aside from that charming accent, one would never know it, as he seems quite proficient. But he has confessed to me that, on occasion, there are things he doesn't understand. Any odd occurrences in conversation or behavior from Mrs. Montgomery-Wells or Mr. Henderson or Miss Murdock, he will attribute to his failure to completely comprehend.” Delight washed through her. “He won't question a thing. I've noticed this before. When he doesn't quite comprehend, that tiny furrow appears and he smiles and nods and pretends to understand. It's most endearing.”