Wicked and Wonderful (14 page)

The devil take it.

Good God, was there nothing about her that would not lead him into this dangerous passage?

Her shoes. She wore rather ugly shoes today, he must say. They were black and somewhat scuffed, quite inappropriate for a simple muslin gown. She had rather have worn no shoes than these thick black ugly ones. They were so different from the pretty embroidered slippers she had been wearing in her tent. How small her feet had seemed peeping from beneath her nightdress, couched in brightly patterned almost festive colors. He wondered what her feet looked like and how she would have responded had he removed her slippers, very slowly, touching her ankles, maybe placing little kisses on the top of her foot where the prettiest curve led the eye up the leg.

Hell and damnation. Even her ugly shoes had diverted his thoughts into unwanted channels.

He looked away. The horses were not far. He concentrated on how many of them swished flies from their flanks. How many horses were there? He counted them. He counted the carriages and the horses, the wagons, the wheels of the coaches, wagons and carriages, then the number of whips probably used, the reins ... finally applause sounded in his ear.

Thank God.

Laurence, sitting beside him, elbowed him hard in the ribs. “What a sapskull you are. Could you not at least have made an effort at indifference? Miss Currivard deserves far better from you and well you know it, or at least you ought to know it. She is one of the sweetest ladies I have ever known, besides being quite beautiful, and you are treating her abominably. And why were you staring at the horses?”

“Do stubble it,” he whispered back, crossing his arms over his chest. “You need not remonstrate. Trust me, my conscience has barked more words than you have just now.”

She left the stage and though Radsbury and Amy both cried out for an encore, and though Judith returned once to offer another deep curtsy, the stage was quickly overtaken by Mr. Hemyock who recited a long passage from
Hamlet
.

Ordinarily, Kelthorne might have started yawning but Charles Hemyock did have abilities and he was soon drawn in, thankfully, to his performance. At last, Judith was forgotten.

*** *** ***

Judith remained backstage, hidden from the castle party. She felt both relief and dismay. Kelthorne had taken a disgust of her and she did not like it, not by half. He could hardly set his gaze upon her, he looked over her head at nothing rather than at her and once he saw her shoes, which she had to admit were quite atrocious, his disgust had deepened immeasurably.

Perhaps Margaret was right. Perhaps she ought to have worn one of her prettier, more resplendent gowns. Finally, he had rather have looked at the cattle than at her.

She then wondered if she had sung poorly. But that would not fadge because the remaining guests had applauded very loudly, requiring that she return to the stage a second time to acknowledge their appreciation.

Of course, she was in truth quite relieved, extraordinarily relieved that he had lost all interest in her, that he had now begun to see her undoubtedly as a paltry songstress earning her keep in the rustic wilds of the West Country, not even fit for London, worth less than a flea really. Of course she was relieved, beyond words. And so very happy.

She sighed heavily. She would probably not even converse with him once in the course of the day. How perfectly delightful.

Once Charles’s performance was complete and the applause reverberated from one granite cliff to the next, John announced that targets would be erected for the purpose of the gentlemen engaging in a shooting contest, actors and castle party alike. Judith took the moment to make her escape. She hurried in the direction of the wagon where Mrs. Marnhull had established a private area for the troupe. She found Shelly there playing with a magnifying lens. “Look, Judy. I found a dead bee.”

Judith, grateful for so innocent and simple a diversion, sank to her knees on the grass and through the glass examined the bee. “How fascinating. Why, he looks covered in fuzz.”

“‘Tis not a ‘he,’ ‘Tis a ‘she.’ I named her Molly.”

A dead bee named Molly. Judith withheld her smiles and nodded seriously. “Well, Molly looks like she has been covered in yellow fuzz.”

Shelly smiled broadly, then her gaze drifted up and to her left. “Hallo,” she said softly. “Are ye an angel?”

Judith turned and looked up to see a lady standing over them—the one designated to become the next Countess Kelthorne. Her hair was the color of sunshine, her eyes an unearthly green, her demeanor poised, and her smile welcoming. Shelly was right, Miss Currivard looked like an angel.

“An angel?” Miss Currivard queried sweetly. “Not by half, I fear. Only tell me what you have there? Is that a magnifying glass?”

“Aye.”

“And what are you looking at?”

“Molly. She’s a bee but she’s dead.”

“Well, that is very sad. May I look as well?”

“Aye.” Shelly extended the glass to her.

To Miss Currivard’s great credit, she too sank to her knees, took the glass and examined the bee.

“She is the color of yer hair,” Shelly said softly, as if in some awe. She reached out and touched a lock that hung forward from the cluster dangling down her back.

Judith glanced at Mrs. Marnhull, who was busily knitting a stocking, her particular contribution to their regular donations to the local churches. That good lady was nodding her approval of Miss Currivard.

“Molly is quite beautiful,” Miss Currivard said. “Have you found a bed for her yet? Do you not think a dead bee should have a proper bed?”

Shelly’s eyes brightened. “Marny, have ye a bed for Molly?”

She shook her head. “Nay, m’darlin’.”

“Perhaps we could make one,” Miss Currivard suggested. “A few twigs, a little grass, everything woven together with some yarn, if there were any yarn about that is.” She was smiling as she glanced up at Mrs. Marnhull.

Shelly was on her feet in an instant. “Will ye give us a bit of yarn, Marny, fer a bed fer Molly?”

“Aye.” Mrs. Marnhull reached into her sewing bag and snipped off a generous length of rose pink yarn and gave it to Shelly.

In turn, Shelly gave the bee and the magnifying glass to Mrs. Marnhull. “Let’s go,” she cried, whirling around.

Judith rose to her feet. “Shelly, one moment.”

Shelly stopped and looked up at her as though she had thrown water on her head.

Judith explained. “We have not yet made the lady's acquaintance. I think there ought to be some introductions. After all, she does not even know your name.”

“I am Shelly,” she stated, looking up at Miss Currivard and extending her hand to her.

“Well met, Miss Shelly,” she said, taking her hand and giving it a shake. “And how do you go on?”

“Wery well, thank ye.”

Judith said. “I am Miss Lovington and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“I am Miss Currivard. I dare say I should have asked for a more formal introduction.” A loud burst of rifle shot ripped through the air. “But as you can see, there were none left to perform the duty since it would seem all the gentlemen must shoot and prove themselves and the rest of the ladies have gathered around to admire their effort. I have been given to understand that you are acquainted solely with Lord Kelthorne and his friend, Mr. Doulting.”

“Yes,” Judith said, feeling uneasy. Did Miss Currivard know that Kelthorne had visited her tent only two nights before? “I have not yet had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of any of the ladies.”

A soft smile touched her lips. “Mr. Doulting was right. You speak as a lady.” Judith must have blushed for Miss Currivard continued on hastily, “I do beg your pardon. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable. Forgive my impertinence. Will you take a walk with me? I was hoping for a little conversation as well as a bit of distance from the firearms.”

“Yes, I should like that,” she said, but she could not understand Miss Currivard’s interest in her.

Shelly tugged on Judith’s hand. “Let’s go. Molly needs her bed.”

“Let us, indeed.”

As they passed by the target area, watched carefully by several of Kelthorne’s servants who helped in the loading of the weapons, Charles Hemyock began cursing quite loudly.

Judith explained quietly, “He is the worst shot imaginable though he prides himself on his skill with rifle or pistol.”

Miss Currivard whispered, “A rather arrogant, self-satisfied sort, I dare say.”

“You have drawn his character exactly. He could not be more provoking.”

“I don’t like Charles,” Shelly muttered. “He always pulls me braids and pinches me cheeks.”

“That decides the matter for me,” Miss Currivard responded. “I do not like him either.”

Shelly beamed her approval. “Ye talk like Judy talks,” she stated.

“I suppose I do,” she said.

John’s voice called out, “Fire.” A volley of shots ripped though the air. The ladies jumped.

“I must say, I am grateful for the walk,” Judith said. “And the more distance we place between ourselves and that noise, the happier I shall be.”

“I as well,” Miss Currivard said. She glanced at Judith then began, “You know, Miss Lovington, I once lived in a tent for several months but that was, goodness, five years past now. It seems but yesterday. My father is a man of trade, you see. I am excessively devoted to him and an only child. He took me, after I had begged it of him for months, on a trip to India and to the Orient. I should suppose in that way, Miss Lovington, that you and I have shared a similar experience.”

Another volley of shots rang up the gorge, still far too loud for comfort.

Judith was surprised to think Miss Currivard would think anything they had shared was similar in nature. “Except that I have never once left the island,” she said, smiling.

“But, contrary to your upbringing, you have lived a life of some adventure, if I do not mistake the matter.” Judith glanced at her. Miss Currivard was smiling as well, but there was a serious, knowing expression in her eye. “I begin to understand the comparison,” Judith said.

“You have undoubtedly seen more of the world already than most young ladies are likely to in the course of a lifetime.”

Judith glanced down at Shelly and patted the top of her head. “That much is quite true.”

Miss Currivard started. “Were you... that is... did you attend... her birth?”

“I was greatly privileged to have done so.”

“I think it marvelous. I know my father has every intention of seeing the family’s position in society raised through my marriage, and I have strived to embrace all that is thought genteel and of good breeding. However, there are times when I am certain something grand and beautiful has been lost when one is surrounded solely by comfort, entertainment, and the supreme object of learning to set a stitch or manage a palette of watercolors properly.”

“You would certainly have much to discuss with my governess. She was wont to say—” Judith said, but she broke off suddenly for she had just revealed more to Miss Currivard than she had to Margaret in all the years she had been with the troupe. She had, in essence, just revealed the truth.

“So it is true, then,” Miss Currivard whispered.

Judith lifted her chin. “Is what true?” she queried. She met Miss Currivard’s gaze squarely. She could see the young lady struggle in her mind as to what she ought to say next, that a thousand questions were poised on the tip of her tongue. She hoped she would not attempt it for then she would have to terminate the conversation instantly.

Miss Currivard laughed and swung an arm in a wide arc. “Is it not true that the day is beautiful almost beyond bearing? Would you not say so?”

Judith breathed a sigh of relief. At the same time, she rather thought she might have found a friend in Miss Currivard. “Yes, quite so.”

More shots rang through the air, but the distance was increasing so that the sound this time did not cause Judith to flinch.

The ladies pressed on, trailing behind young Shelly as she sought out treasures from the stream, from the grassy patches, and from the base of trees. She continued shoveling her growing collection to either Judith or Miss Currivard. From behind them, the sounds of the volleys of shots grew less marked the farther the ladies traveled.

While they marched uphill, Judith responded to a question Miss Currivard had about life with the troupe, in particular about her daily regimen.

“Horace is the rock of our troupe at this time,” Judith said. “Though he hardly knows it. But he keeps the water flowing and, believe me, among thirteen adults and one child, a great deal of water is required.

“In addition, Mrs. Marnhull keeps one very large kettle full all day of steaming water. She is the soul of our group. She feeds and tends us, scolds when we are being ridiculous, and teaches any who wish to learn how to cook. I help her with the daily loaves of bread, of which many are required as you may imagine.”

“You bake your own bread in such a camp?”

“The actual baking, no. But we do prepare the dough. Once the dough has fully risen in the pans, Mrs. Marnhull takes them to the local baker and for a small fee we have use of his ovens. In fact, upon arriving in a town or village, that is her first call. And if I may say so, the bread we enjoy along with goat cheese, is truly wonderful.”

“I recall such experiences in India. I have come to believe that no matter how skilled a chef, there is something even more wondrous that occurs when food is cooked over an open fire in the fresh air. Do you not agree?”

“Yes, very much so. During the winter, we do not camp but have to spend some of our very hard-earned shillings upon inns and hotels. The food is rarely comparable to Mrs. Marnhu1l’s skill. The summer spoils us in more ways than just excellent weather.”

“Who makes your costumes?” Shots once more reached up the gorge. Judith turned back to see that a great deal of smoke had accumulated near the targets but was, thankfully, drifting rapidly to the east caught on a breeze.

Resuming their conversation, Judith answered her question. “We all make full use of our needles, including the men. Margaret, John, Henry, and Charles do most of the design work, creating the proper garb for the latest plays or tumbling routines or farces that have been concocted.”