A Midsummer Night's Fling (Much Ado about Love #1) (29 page)

“I don’t really,” Lachlan said.

Tierney elbowed him in the ribs.

He flinched, then rolled his eyes skyward and said in a monotone, “I am sorry, Maxim, for kicking you in the cobblers.” He turned to Tierney. “Now may I go have a smoke?”

She waved her hands. “You’re excused.”

He clicked his heels together and bowed to her, then slammed out of the dressing room, his stiff face betraying that even after the two fights with Max, Lachlan was still fuming.

Tierney hugged herself and sighed. “He won’t tell me what’s wrong, and I don’t think this is all about you, Max.”

“Coulda fooled me—and my cobblers.” Max pushed to his feet and flopped onto the couch next to Nicola, slinging one mail-clad arm around her shoulders. The chain mail dug into her skin, but she didn’t move.

Tierney grabbed Max’s chin and turned his face right to left. “
Oh hell
.”

His eyes widened in the deep, primal fear all actors have for their faces. “Is it bad?”

“Not in the long term,” Tierney said, “but for today, it’s a disaster. Mom was going to end with one of you yokels doing the speech at Agincourt from
Henry V
. She wanted to use it as a contrast to the opening with you guys in the swords and the costumes.”

“Sort of like we showed you how good we are with all the trimmings in place,” Nicola said, “now let us show you how good we
really
are without that stuff?”

“Exactly,” Tierney replied. “We got those kids fired up with fighting and swords and lights. Can we get them excited with a bare stage and a guy in jeans and a T-shirt talking to them?” Tierney growled with annoyance and slapped her thigh. “But Lachlan’s face is a wreck and yours isn’t much better, Max. Gil doesn’t know the speech, and I wouldn’t trust him to sell it even if he did. So, fuck, we need Plan B.”

“I can do a Titania speech. Or Juliet,” Nicola offered.

“We’ll see what Mom wants to do. You are
so
going to be on her shit list for this, Max.”

He sighed.

“Anyway,” Tierney made a come-along gesture. “Nic and Gil are about to go on with the Titania-Bottom scene. Let’s go.”

* * *

W
ith all the
drama of the fighting, Max figured they’d missed about half of Isabelle’s dog-and-pony show. He had done enough of these, though, he could fill in the gaps. As the presentation progressed, the actors all worked in groups of twos and threes, performing famous scenes and speeches, then trying to make it accessible to the students by explaining the language, the emotions, the politics behind each scene. Sometimes production crew came out and explained what goes into the design of a play—why certain choices were made with lighting, costumes, and sets.

Tierney presented a small fashion show with some costumes she’d done for
An Ideal Husband
and a few work-in-progress pieces from
Midsummer
, including Nicola’s “naked” dress. When the mannequin wearing Nicola’s shimmery, rainbow-y costume was wheeled out, Max wiggled his eyebrows at Nic. She elbowed him in his sore gut. He recoiled and rubbed his belly.
Damn Lachlan
.

Although, the more Max thought about it, the more convinced he became the fight had little to do with himself. Lachlan was stewing about something, and he was going to keep exploding at everyone until he dealt with whatever it was. Max had cooled down just enough after the fight to actually be a little worried about the bastard. Lachlan was usually smug and superior, not angry and mean.

As the show progressed, they all kept trying to get word to Isabelle that she had no Max and no Lachlan for her planned big finish. But she kept standing on the opposite side of the stage from them. She was oblivious to sign language, and she ignored Tierney when her daughter tried to catch her.

By the time it had occurred to them that the stage manager had a headset on and could communicate with the other side of the stage, it was too late. The set designer finished his spiel and exited, then Isabelle swept onstage in that grand way of hers, beaming, arms open as if to embrace the audience. “Have you guys enjoyed the show?”

The audience cheered and clapped.

Nicola cast Max a wry glance. “We tried.”

“That’s not gonna be enough,” he said. “Isabelle hates surprises, and she doesn’t like to look stupid.”

“We tried to get her attention, and she ignored us.”

He sent Nicola a pitying grimace. “Ah, my beloved, how little you know of our Isabelle if you think that will matter.”

Nicola blinked, her mouth slightly open. Max frowned at her, wondering what was wrong, but then Isabelle caught his attention as she wound up her closing remarks.

“I want to end our program today,” Isabelle said, “with one of my favorite moments from Shakespeare: the speech at Agincourt from
Henry V,
performed by one of our very talented company members.”

Max stifled a groan. They’d already agreed between them that Nicola was the best substitute in terms of performance ability and being able to remember long speeches off the cuff—she
had
won the Sonnet Faceoff—but she was going to do Titania or Juliet. She’d have to correct Isabelle onstage and make them both appear ill-prepared, ending the whole school program on a sour note.

Nicola sucked in a strange, rattling breath and squeezed his hand. Then she stepped onstage, crossing to Isabelle.

Isabelle’s eyes widened ever so slightly, then narrowed, but she was so much the professional that these were the only outward signs of her shock to have Nicola and not Max onstage beside her.

There were a few minor rumblings from the audience as Nicola appeared. People in the know had been expecting a male actor, of course.

Isabelle flapped her hands, silencing the murmurs. “I also wanted to use this closing scene to show the incredible versatility of Shakespeare’s works. The words are so universal, the emotions so genuine that having a man play a woman or,
indeed
, a woman play a man does nothing to dilute the potency of a speech.”

Max snorted and glanced at Tierney. “Hand it to your mom, she can think on her feet.”

Tierney nodded and stared ahead, gnawing on her fingernails.

“For the speech at Agincourt,” Isabelle continued, “King Henry is trying to rally his troops to fight what seems to be a hopeless battle. The words you are about to hear belong to one of the great speeches of English theater. So if Nicola here hasn’t convinced you to beat the snot out of the French army by the end of her speech, well, it won’t be
Shakespeare’s
fault.” Isabelle bestowed a sharp smile on Nicola, then sauntered offstage—in a beeline straight for Max.

Isabelle gripped his arm, digging her nails into his bicep. “What does your girlfriend think she’s—” Isabelle’s dark eyes flicked to his face and widened with horror. “What the hell happened to your lip?” She glanced around. “Where the hell is Lachlan?”

Max shushed her and jerked his chin toward the stage. “Just watch a sec, Isabelle.”

Nicola wet her lips, staring out at the audience, looking nervous, rattled. He couldn’t tell if she was acting or not.

“Game on, Nicci,” he whispered. “You can do it.”

But Nicola still stood frozen onstage, uncomfortable, trapped.

“Oh, hell,” Isabelle muttered, starting onstage to relieve Nicola of her kingly duties.

Max held her arm. “Wait.”

“Does she even
know
the speech, Max?”

“She’s got a photographic memory. She knows it. Come on. I’ve got an idea.” He hauled Isabelle onstage with him and motioned the other actors milling about in the wings to follow. He kept his back facing the audience, and made sure the rest of the actors remained in a clump to one side, not taking any of the focus from Nicola. He turned to Isabelle and, making sure his voice would carry, said, “‘Of fighting men the French have full three score thousand.’”

Isabelle rolled her eyes at him but, in character, she said, “‘O that we now had here but one ten thousand of those men in England that do no work today!’”

Nicola cocked her head to the side, watching their exchange. All the nervous energy burned out of her, and a brilliant smile lit her face instead. “‘What’s she that wishes so?’” She crossed to their small clump and clasped Isabelle’s shoulder.

Nicola’s voice was hearty, regal, as bracing as sunshine burning through fog. “‘No, my fair cousin: If we are mark’d to die, we are enough to do our country loss. And if to live, the fewer men, the greater share of honor. God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.’” Nicola gazed at her followers and began moving among them, shaking hands, reassuring by touch and with her own overflowing steadiness.

“‘This day is called the feast of Crispian,’” Nicola went on, “‘he that shall live this day, and see old age, will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors, and say ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispian’: then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars. And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’’” She slapped Max’s arm as she said this, and held his shoulder, delivering the next lines to him only, “‘Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot, but he’ll remember with advantages what feats he did that day.’”

Max’s blood was humming as he listened to her, charged with the power in her performance.

She winked at him, then moved on, and now she was addressing the audience, including them in her imaginary army. “‘And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by, from this day to the ending of the world, but we in it shall be remember’d. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.’” Her voice was hoarse, full of emotion.

Max saw students leaning forward in their chairs, instinctively reaching toward the camaraderie onstage.

Nicola’s voice softened, and a glowing fondness started in her eyes as she stared out at the audience. “‘For he to-day that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother. Be he ne’er so vile, this day shall gentle his condition.’” She grinned at him and the others, wry and warm, a lurking sadness in her eyes and fear for the battle to come.

But then the tide turned, and her blustering heartiness from the beginning of the speech was renewed. “‘And gentlemen in England now a-bed shall think themselves
accursed
they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks that fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day!’” She punched her fist into the air.

Max and the other actors erupted in cheers.

The audience joined in.

She grinned and punched her fist in the air again, breathing fast, shinning like a new risen sun, a golden goddess, a rightful queen.

“‘Perish the man whose mind is backward now!’” Isabelle cried, in character, and raced up to Nicola, embracing her.

Nicola, as Henry, held Isabelle away from her, still grinning, giddily pumped. “‘Thou dost not wish more help from England, coz?’”

Isabelle made a violent throwing away gesture with her hand, discarding all doubt, her riot of curls quivering with the force of her movements. “‘God’s will, my liege, would you and I alone, without more help, could fight this royal battle!’”

Nicola barked out a laugh and slapped Isabelle’s arm, two old friends sharing a moment before the fighting. Then Nicola stepped away and addressed them all. “‘You know your places:
God be with you all!
’” She flung up her hands, pointing offstage, and led the charge at a run.

Max, beaming enough to split his face in two, followed his Queen Henry offstage, yelling a war cry with the other actors fit to make any enemy soldier wet himself with fear.

Isabelle let them all stream past her, beaming and breathless as she claimed center stage and caught the audience’s attention with a short, quick bow. “That’s our show, folks. We hope you liked it.”

One long breath of utter stillness passed, then the whole crowd leapt on their feet, clapping and cheering. A couple of overly enthusiastic students climbed on their chairs and were promptly pulled off by their scandalized teacher. Isabelle clapped her hands too, then turned and motioned for all the company members to join her onstage.

Max found Nicola in the crowd backstage and grabbed her hand. “My captain! My queen!”

Her cheeks were red, and her eyes were glowing like twin stars. “Oh, Maxim, I really like that speech.”

“You were wonderful.”

“It’s because of you,” she said. “I based my characterization on you from the other day when we talked.” She kissed his cheek, grinning. “Max the Director strikes again.”

She was so beautiful, flushed and breathless. Beaming like his own North Star. Max couldn’t help himself. He swung her into his arms and kissed her, long and deep and in front of everyone backstage.

Someone tugged on his arm. “Come on. They’re asking for her.” It was Tierney, hauling on his wrist, trying to usher them both out of the wings. Max set Nicola on her feet and walked onstage hand in hand with her. But then he dropped her hand and nudged her forward to center stage beside Isabelle.

The audience went nuts when Nicola appeared. The clapping redoubled, with several cheers and whoops and whistles thrown in, one of the loudest ovations Max had ever heard.

And he clapped harder than any one of them.