The Roguish Miss Penn (6 page)

“I wonder how one could best achieve that same effect for scenery,” she mused. “It has such a wonderfully decayed look to it.”

“Scenery? As for a play?”

“I have agreed to the production of a play I have written,” she replied, not daring to look at him. “I expect there will be many who fail to understand the point of it, for it is a satire on the present craze for the gothic.”

“I see.” His brow cleared.

He was far too near, Katherine decided. It was unseemly for a gentleman to stand so close. Her breath seemed to be strangled and she cleared her throat. “It presents a lovely landscape.” Reflecting that she had best approach the subject her brother would wish discussed, she turned from the entrancing prospect of the folly to the owner. “You said something about a theater, sir.”

“Ah, yes,” he answered, seeming happy to reclaim the attention of the young and very lovely guest. “This way.”

Katherine accepted his arm and walked at his side. They went the opposite direction her father and Mrs. Cheney had taken. From the entrance hall they walked through what appeared to be a small sitting room.

The vaulted ceiling of the room they now entered was lavishly decorated with gold leaf and the walls painted with scenes of muses. Katherine restrained a gasp. She thought it an admirable, if somewhat extravagant, place to hold theatrical productions. But then, she had never been to London and presumably the theaters there were of great elaboration. Realizing her host expected her admiration, Katherine very prettily declared, “I do like it. May we see the stage?”

Undaunted by this faint praise, for he had seen her delight as she scrutinized the room, Philip took her hand and assisted her up a flight of steps to the broad wooden stage. The oak floor was highly polished, far better than the usual, Katherine imagined. She freed herself from his hand, then began wandering about, poking into the recesses, looking up at the ropes and pulleys that controlled the scenery. What an entrancing experience for one who loved the theater.

“You have not seen one of your efforts produced before?” He watched as she paused, her head gracefully tilted to one side in amusement as she smiled back at him. Her eyes, so very blue and sparkling, were full of mirth at the very notion.

“Hardly. Our house is not given to the likes of this grandeur.” She gestured to encompass the entire room. “And I fear I do not have access to a theater.”

“A play is not real until it has been experienced by an audience, I once heard someone say,” he said while strolling over to her side.

Katherine glanced at the plump Cupid painted on the wall at her side, then back at him. “I daresay an actress said that. I find my imagination can summon up a very good cast of characters for me when I read a play. But, then, I so rarely get to see a performance that I must rely on that rather than on reality most of the time.”

‘Pity we cannot use this stage during the fair. What do you intend to do?” He drew up a stool for her, then one for himself. They edged onto them, Katherine feeling a bit like a little girl on hers.

“Teddy—my brother Theodore, that is—wants to erect a theater off Cheese Row. Have you ever been to the fair?” When he shook his head, she explained. “The fair is laid out in a gridlike manner. All the streets have acquired names over the years. The longest one is Garlic Row, but there is Cheap Side, Soper’s Row, and Brush Row, to mention a few. The various booths and stalls range along these in much the same order each year. I fear the fair is not as important as it once was. It is said that once Sturbridge Fair was the largest and most important in all of England.”

He smiled at her earnestness, for she had the look of a little girl reciting her lessons. She resembled no schoolchild this day, nor had she yesterday when he had observed her excellent form draped in clinging, wet muslin. Today the sea-green gown she wore brought luster to her hair and made her eyes look entrancingly mysterious.

“But I prose on, sir. I vow I become the veriest prattle box when it comes to the fair. You will attend this year?”

“Naturally. If only to see your theatrical production.”

Katherine’s face fell as she considered what Teddy wanted her to ask of this man.

“Do I detect a problem?”

Katherine nodded shyly, feeling all sorts of emotions but daring as she considered how to frame her request.

“You seek a patron, perhaps? Someone to oversee and help finance the play? What sort of receipts do the plays get? Would a backer be likely to reap his investment in return?”

Grateful that Lord Ramsey had such a practical bent of mind, Katherine nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes. I investigated and found it to be a sound venture. If only my subject draws the crowds. Some will see it a mere gothic. I hope others will discern the satire concealed within. Either way, it ought to do well enough,” she concluded modestly.

He gave his jaw a considering rub, mostly for her benefit. If financing this production meant he would have access to the lively young woman at his side, it would be money well spent. If he actually reaped a return, it would be more than expected. “I believe it would prove to be an interesting time. Late September, did you not say? It is early August, so we would have to step lively.”

“Oh, lovely,” breathed Katherine thankfully. “I had hoped, you know, but I never did truly expect. . .“ Her voice faded away as she met his gaze. Uncomfortable with the feelings stirring within her, she slid from the stool, giving her skirts a practical shaking. “I made the necessary copies of the script, and we have several players in mind. Teddy thinks to journey to Norwich to meet Eliza O’Neill, the actress. He hopes to persuade her to play the heroine. I misdoubt his ability to convince her, but one never knows what may happen, does one?”

“How true.” Philip also slid from his stool, took her arm to escort her back to the main part of the house, discussing along the way the various things that needed to be done. They strolled the length of the house until they reached the immense library, fully as large as the theater.

“Time to leave already?” The dismay in Julian Penn’s voice brought gentle laughter to all three, who now watched him, book in hand, as he frowned back at them.

“You have my word that you may have access to the library anytime you please.” Philip considered this offer a stroke of genius, for he could see how pleased Katherine Penn looked at his proposal. It also meant that he and Miss Penn could work on the plans for the play unhindered by proprieties, for a father is considered the best chaperon in the world, even if he is buried in a book.

They walked out to where the carriage now awaited them. Katherine dawdled a bit, turning to Lord Ramsey, her appreciation shining forth from her eyes. “How kind of you. You must know how happy he is to think he can read all those books and not miss anything in haste.”

Philip felt the veriest fraud as he disclaimed any nobility of action. He stood a few moments as the carriage disappeared from view in the direction of Cambridge, holding the copy of her play that she had slipped to him before she entered the carriage. Then he rejoined his sister in the house, reflecting that the following six weeks would provide a lively time for them both. Of course there were obstacles to overcome, but Philip felt these a mere trifle. What could possibly deflect his intention during the fair?

Chapter 4

The River Cam flowed leisurely past the copper beech where Katherine and Cousin Sophia sat taking advantage of a rather nice morning sun. Rain threatened from approaching clouds and Katherine hated to go indoors before utterly necessary.

“Actors seem a rather unsavory lot, do they not?” Cousin Sophia queried gently. She took another stitch in the complicated piece of needlework she had nearly finished. It was a collection of exquisite flowers done on linen in the finest of stitches. Cousin Sophia was as precise in her stitching as in everything else.

“Teddy declares them all to be great guns, at least the men. I suspect the actresses may be something else entirely. Although I really do not know, one does hear stories.” She gave her relative an appraising look, then continued. “You realize this places me as one of them . . . so to speak. I may well be classified as a rogue and vagabond too, if Teddy and I become associated with the theater.”

“That act was done away with in 1788, was it not?” Cousin Sophia replied vaguely, referring to the Licensing Act of 1737, which attempted to curtail theatrical productions and branded all persons associated with the theater in any manner as rogues and vagabonds, promising dire penalties upon them. The players and agents had managed well to circumvent that restriction over the years.

“No matter,” Katherine said testily, “the feeling lingers on, especially in Cambridge at the university. The notion of acting as a respectable profession seems beyond consideration. It might help if the ladies, in particular, would mend their ways,” she concluded thoughtfully.

“I suspect that gentlemen make that rather difficult. They make offers to those ladies that must be very hard to refuse,” Cousin Sophia said dryly. “After all, actresses do not earn so very much, do they?”

“The leading ones do well enough, I suspect,” Katherine said, exchanging a guarded look with Cousin Sophia. “Taverns and theaters top the university list of diversions liable to corrupt the students. As if they needed any help in that.” She held up her hand in warning, her eyes now fixed on the garden gate. “We have company. Melly joins us. She will be full of questions, I vow.” Silent looks were exchanged, but no time for words of caution from Katherine. Not that she need have worried. Cousin Sophia was more apt to listen than speak. She had once remarked she learned more that way.

“What a charming scene, my dears. ‘Tis a pretty picture you present to the eye.” Amelia Bonner found a small wood bench and tugged it close to where Katherine sat seemingly absorbed in mending a torn flounce on her favorite yellow muslin.

“Rain before long,” Cousin Sophia muttered to no one in particular.

“I trust you had a simply charming day at Fairfax Hall yesterday? I could not come over before because Mama would have me assist in entertaining. We have so many parties it grows tedious.” Amelia patted her pretty curls and smiled complacently at the two women. “But, then, you are fortunately spared all that bother. So thoughtful of your father.”

“True,” Katherine replied quietly. “Some men think nothing of burdening their households with political parties to advance their positions. Not that I believe your father guilty of such, mind you.” But he was, in Katherine’s opinion. Mr. Bonner continually ingratiated himself with his superiors. He was a toad-eater of the first degree.

Amelia’s smile grew a bit thin as she studied Katherine as though to see if that bland smile concealed malice heretofore unnoticed. Brightening, she continued. “Tell me everything.”

“He sent a lovely carriage,” Cousin Sophia offered in her dry, papery voice. “Teddy quite envied them as he had no chance to drive behind those grays.”

“And?” Amelia begged, her eyes as round as buttons.

“Mrs. Cheney served a delicious tea, with those tiny sandwiches Papa loves so much and a divine apple tart,” Katherine added.

“And?” Amelia prodded.

Katherine exchanged a quick glance with Cousin Sophia, then continued. “Papa perused the library to his heart’s content— or at least as time permitted. In fact, Lord Ramsey has given him free run of the place.”

“Oh,” Amelia breathed in an envious sigh. “What about you? Surely you did not sit admiring the view all that while, although I am sure the view is all that is admirable, for it must be, must it not?”

‘Lord Ramsey took me to see his theater,” Katherine replied in a tranquil voice that belied the sudden tumult in her pulse at the very memory. She omitted their discussion of the view of the Gothic Tower and her play.

“You must tell me every detail. I think it is vastly unfair that you alone should see the place, Katherine. You do nothing to warrant such attention.”

“She breathes, does she not?” inquired Cousin Sophia mildly.

Amelia paid no heed to Cousin Sophia. She rarely did, seeming to believe the older woman all about in her head. “I await your description, Katherine.”

‘Tis a large room with a high ceiling touched with gold. Murals of the muses decorate three of the walls. Across the far end of the room is a very good stage with all the things one needs, I suspect, for a production.”

“And what would you know about that, pray tell?” Amelia inquired pertly. She gave Katherine another one of her envious, almost sullen looks. “I declare it is most unfair.”

“One must be prepared to make the best of any situation,” Cousin Sophia inserted sternly. “For all you know, Katherine petitioned him for a change in the university rules pertaining to the fellows. You are aware, are you not, that Lord Ramsey is a high member of the governing body of the university?” Cousin Sophia’s voice flowed as mild as milk, but nevertheless contained a thread of something that stopped Amelia from answering back as she must have wished.

“I had forgotten that you are quite taken with a certain fellow. How is Mr. Weekes, Katherine? Did he not dine here recently?”

Wondering how Mrs. Bonner had gleaned that bit of information—for Katherine had said nothing to anyone—she said, with as much calm as possible, given the provocation, “Indeed, he was here the evening before last. He finds it desirable to consult with my father frequently, it seems.”  Katherine gave Melly a coy smile, implying that there could well be another reason Mr. Weekes would visit the Penn household. It was against her nature to do this, but of a sudden Melly’s presumptions annoyed her. In addition, Mr. Weekes had irked Katherine with his lack of appreciation of her careful preparations for his visit.

“Do you not fear that Mr. Weekes will take it most unseemly that you involve yourself with the theater, Katherine? You write those little plays and quite dote on the performances. After all, there is something of an odor about actors and actresses, I believe. Not that I have ever known any,” Amelia decried in modest accents, “but I have heard tales, you know.”