Matthew did hisbest to keep his attention on the play, and what a play it was. Nobody in it seemed to have any sense at all. Most particularly Señor Bonamo, who appeared to believe whoever he’d spoken to last. That fellow had been better off to listen to his servant, as the lady seemed to be the only rational creature on the stage.
Though he had sternly forbidden his eyes to go anywhere but for the stage, they kept drifting to the now wilting bunches of violets the earl had laid on an empty chair.
What he had feared had begun. He was certain Mr. Cahill had no real interest in Beatrice aside from her dowry. They had met more than once, and Matthew had detected no particular regard coming from that quarter.
No, Cahill had unexpectedly met them at the posting house and then proceeded to give the matter some thought. Or rather, to give Beatrice’s dowry some thought. He’d come out of that consultation with himself deciding that he admired her dowry very well indeed.
Worse, he had been exposed to the Benningtons enough to understand how to make headway in his suit. He’d heard their ideas about romance, he understood that Beatrice would look for grand, romantic gestures.
Matthew knew that Cahill, though he might pretend at it, was absolutely not what Beatrice looked for. She thought she looked for a paragon among men, but Matthew was convinced that she’d be disabused of those ideas and settle for a gentleman steady enough to indulge her and make her feel admired.
Cahill was not the man for the job. He was a falsely gay sort and seemed very much the man about Town. He was probably the type to keep a mistress, which would destroy Beatrice.
Cahill would try to keep that liaison, or perhaps many such disgraces, a secret. But those things always became known one way or the other. His father had once told him that when it came to wives, they had senses no less keen than the wolves of old. Make a misstep, and they would somehow sniff it out.
And who was this other fellow? This Lord Dunston? He seemed very chummy with Cahill, so that was not in his favor. Dunston would not know Beatrice’s proclivities, but he seemed to be following Cahill’s lead.
In any case, how long would it be before all thetonunderstood Beatrice’s idiosyncrasies? She was not shy about advertising them, after all. When that happened, every fortune hunter in England would be sending her wilting violets.
Should he warn Darden of what was developing? The earl did not seem to perceive the danger of the situation at all.
As he mulled over what he ought to do, especially in light of the fact that he’d told Beatrice he would no longer scold, the play dragged on.
Finally, the villain, Romaldi, was dead. Though, for all the running around that was done and the archers having him in their sights several times, it was a bit of a letdown that he died by slipping on a rock. At least, he thought that was what happened. Or perhaps he was not dead at all. The curtains had been pulled closed, so they might never know.
As he did not care whether Romaldi was dead or alive, he would not feel deprived to go through life without that information. He was of the opinion that Juliet Bennington could have written something better, and that was really saying something.Ode to the Bovinehad, at least, not gone on as long.
*
Beatrice had practicallyfloated into her bedchamber after arriving home from the theater. She was not at all surprised to find her sisters there, though they should have been abed.
“Now,” she said, “before I tell you all about the play and everything that went on, how did you occupy yourselves while we were out? I see you did not burn down the house, which is a very promising start.”
“Oh no,” Cordelia said, shaking her head, “Tattleton extinguished the tipped candle on the carpet before it could really catch fire.”
“Footlights again,” Juliet said.
“Only a few charred bits, which Tattleton very helpfully covered up with a chair,” Cordelia said.
“We did not have much choice but to insist on Cordelia acting out Desdemona,” Rosalind said. “It was the only thing that could distract us from being left behind.”
“That is true,” Viola said. “We spent a terrific amount of time complaining about the injustice, and then we thought we better have Desdemona to cheer us up.”
“And then Juliet wrote a smashing ode to describe our misery, which did cheer us too.”
Juliet nodded and stood. “Ode to Missing Out.”
The carriage rolls, we are left behind
It must be done, though so unkind
When I am king, or queen, or Prime Minister
I shall pronounce the habit totally sinister
“Well done, Jules!” Beatrice said. “And of course I was sorry that we could not all go together.”
“But tell us, Bea,” Rosalind said, “did Darden’s plan begin?”
