Tory could not count herself much impressed by her first glimpse of a traditional English pantomime. She had so been looking forward to romping through the role of Columbina with Jack's Harlequin, vamping and teasing him onstage in a way she did not dare to off. But Harlequin and Venus, or Love Denied proved to be no more than a silly farce of love and marriage, a bawdy fairy tale cobbled together by Mr. Fairweather and Mr. Ingram, the stage manager, to follow a popular formula. Jack was put in for Harlequin in lieu of the absent Mr. Harding, and the manager was eager to try out Alphonse as his new Clown, but Tory was relegated to the role of supernumary, decorating the margins of the busier scenes.
So she had plenty of leisure to watch from the wings as the absurd thing played out. Violet Owen and Christopher Bell played young lovers, spouting a great deal of doggerel about true hearts united that could never be torn asunder. But they were parted by her cruel guardian, played with pinched menace by Mr. Gabriel, who had arranged his ward's marriage to an ancient, but wealthy suitor, played by elderly Mr. Warendale. Mrs. Kennett then appeared as Venus, the benevolent Deity who transformed the lovers into Harlequin and Columbina.
Violet and Mr. Bell made their exit under a cloud of oily smoke, and Jack and the pretty little dancer, Miss Bishop, dressed in patchwork motley, stepped into the roles. But theirs was a strange sort of dancing, composed of fussy little figures and frozen "attitudes." Mr. Gabriel remained as the guardian became the comic villain, Pantalone, and Alphonse’s Punch, called Clown, came on as Pantalone’s servant. Harlequin had a magic bat, and he and Columbina visited as many exotic locales as the Fairweathers had painted screens — a Gothic castle, Arabia, Mount Olympus —pursued by Pantalone and Clown, who were given all the pratfalling comic business as their efforts to trap and thwart the motley lovers went awry.
Harlequin and Columbina were soon lost in all the pageantry, to say nothing of the buffoonery created by what Tory considered far too many ridiculous villains. Pantalone and Clown were joined in their schemes by a blustery Captain, played with gusto by Mr. Plumleigh, who was famous for his villains. The action was interrupted on several occasions for songs from the company singers, Mrs. Swan and Stephen Fairweather, the manager's eldest son by his first marriage, and there was a dark scene when Harlequin lost his magic bat and was separated from Columbina.
But just when it seemed that Pantalone would triumph, Venus intervened again to reunite the lovers. Deus ex Machina, that's what Jack called it, the device of a helpful god who stepped in to put things right. The motley was cast off, Violet and Mr. Bell reappeared as the lovers, and everyone paraded off to the Temple of Hymen for the marriage without which no comedy could possibly conclude.
It was all a far cry from the ribald, rough-and-tumble Harlequin Jack had played to her saucy Columbina in the islands, where their spectacle had had a purpose — a dumb show of comic, cunning escape to inspire the slaves to freedom. Harlequin and Columbina, civilized, were figures of very little matter, and Tory hated to see them so devalued. Civilization would always be a mystery to her.
"Well, Kit, I thought you said there was some nightlife to be had in this establishment,” said Jane Kennett, with a cursory glance round the room.
"So there was, the other night, and I had him. Perhaps there was only just the one."
"And you used him all up, drunk all and left no friendly drop for me." But Jenny’s reproach was mild as her eyes roved more slowly around the small, dim chamber, a private room in back of the ordinary at the town’s most discreet inn. The lamps were turned down low and conversation was also hushed, but for an occasional outbreak of hopeful laughter among the shadowy patrons — most of whom were male.
"Had you troubled to meet me on time, we might have shared the bounty. Such as it was." Christopher Bell took another sip of brandy and lounged more gracefully back in his chair.
"But I had to instruct Mrs. Lightfoot in the niceties of dress. Somebody must, or she’ll disgrace us all." Jenny leaned forward and propped her chin in her hand. "I confess, I don’t know what to make of the girl. She appears knowledgeable, if you take my meaning. Worldly. I never see her blush."
"Quite an accomplishment, with you about," Kit noted.
"Aye, not like Owen. I should never call her naive, exactly."
"Well, consider, Mrs. Kennett, she is a widow, not a nun."
"But it would almost make more sense if she had been a nun," said Jenny. "There is something very different about her, removed. Untouched. Her clothing is completely unencumbered by any hint of fashion. And I find her most appallingly backward in the simplest matters. I don’t believe she has ever worn stays before."
"Scarcely a criminal offense," observed Kit. "Although in many cases, it ought to be."
"Still, it’s damned odd. And she has that exotic look about her. Oh, it’s plain no one has ever taught her to keep her complexion out of the sun, although I daresay there are men who go in for that unvarnished country girl look."
"There are men who go in for almost anything," Kit agreed.
"But there’s more to it than that. It would not surprise me if she were part Moor. And is it not odd the way they all three suddenly appeared, out of the thin air? Why have none of us ever heard of them before? Why have they turned up here, now? No, there is more to the matter than they're telling, I am convinced."
"Well, you’re certain to ferret it out if it’s lurid and nasty enough, my dear," Kit sighed. "Now do let’s talk about something interesting."
Jenny settled back again, happy to forget the puzzle of Mrs. Lightfoot for the pleasure of looking at Kit. Dressed in deep royal blues and pearl greys that set off his disturbing dark blue eyes and fine fair hair, he seemed to radiate his own light in this place. Although how he could manage to look so killing after the tragic prince, the second soldier in the after-piece, and the young lover in the panto, she could not imagine. And no matter what sort of frenzied campaign ensued tonight behind closed doors in this place, or how much energy it cost, she knew Kit would look every inch as unruffled and divine when he went onstage tomorrow evening. After all this time together, there were still moments when his beauty took her breath away.
Not that Kit’s beauty was of any practical use to her, but for the way he invariably attracted the notice of the most interesting men at any assembly of this kind. Glancing around again at the custom, it occurred to her that they might as well have picked up the same cast of idlers and travelers and second gentlemen and carried them about from place to place like any other supernumaries, they were so exactly alike from one establishment to the next, whatever town they were in. Not even Kit, as youthful and vigorous as he was, could ever satisfy them all and there were often one or two gentlemen in the company eager enough to display their virility with any gender. Or who required a female partner to prove to themselves they were not wholly at the mercy of their shameful predilection. It made no odds to Jenny, so long as they amused her for an hour. She asked for nothing more from men, who were capable of giving so little.
And even if the company were poor and the entertainment mean, she had only to imagine what Mr. Crowder, her lawfully wedded spouse, might say to finding her in such a place, with such company, and she would enjoy herself with renewed glee. Her connection to the theatre was scandalous enough, even though she had divested herself of his precious name in the bills, no more eager to be burdened with it than with the man himself. No wife of his would disgrace him by going on the stage, he had cried; her eye throbbed and her arm burned again at the memory. "What sort of legacy is that for a son?" he had raged.
But Jenny did not trust herself to think about Mr. Crowder or his son. That memory was unbearable. And that was why the appearance of these odd strangers was so troubling. Where had they come from? What business had they here?
But she would never submit to Mr. Crowder again, not without a fight. And she lifted her chin, gazed into Kit’s blue eyes and drained the rest of her brandy in a single, deep swallow.
"The hell with ‘em all, eh Jenny?" Kit’s extraordinary mouth spread into a wry grin as he raised his own glass to join in her salute.
Dear Kit, she thought, with an answering smile. He was ten years younger than she, but having spent all his life in the theatre, the business of illusion, he had no illusions about life, whatsoever. In which respect they understood each other perfectly.
Kit caught her eye for an instant and slouched even deeper into his chair. Jenny saw him, too, a young-ish man with wavy brown hair and a confident smile drawing away from the bar to approach them. He wore a traveling cloak; stopping for the night, then.
"I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, sir. I’m Wetherby."
Kit glance up and held the other’s eye for a pregnant moment.
"Bell," he murmured, extending his hand.
"Your servant, Mr. Bell," said Mr. Wetherby, cradling Kit’s slender, long-fingered hand in his own. "Would you permit me to stand you to a glass of something?"
"How kind you are, Mr. Wetherby. But as you see, I am here with my dear friend. Mrs. Kennett, Mr. Wetherby."
"Why, what an extraordinary coincidence! I travel with a friend, myself, a gentleman of a rather broad-minded character. May I present him to you, Mrs. Kennett?"
"By all means, sir," Jenny smiled. Then the broad-minded friend appeared over Wetherby’s shoulder, older and plain, but robust-looking, his expression frank and eager. A no-nonsense sort of man. Jenny’s smile grew warmer. She would brood no more about marriage this night.
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