Lady Rosalind was everything charming and lovely and he would sit through no end of hours ofCymbelineor any other ridiculous thing Lady Rawley thought to bring forth. Who cared, when he had Lady Rosalind by his side?
He had supposed he would be working hard all evening to keep his expression neutral, or approving even, in the face of the farce that was to be shortly before his eyes. Now though, it seemed it was to become even more ridiculous than he could have foreseen.
Lady Agatha had been struck down with an illness and Miss Mayton had courageously stepped forward.
And courageously thrown her cake in his lap while she was at it. Henri would have a collapse over it, as this time the icing had spattered both his coatandhis trousers.
Lady Rawley was giving direction to Miss Mayton, while Mrs. Robinson helped her into Lady Agatha’s gold doublet.
“My dear Miss Mayton,” Lady Rawley said, “you are a treasure to exert yourself on my behalf. Now, it is the simplest thing in the world—I, as the god Jupiter, will appear later in the play than would be usual. It will be I, Jupiter, that will reveal all of the real facts of the case to Cymbeline! All you need do is look surprised at each new revelation. Dear Mrs. Robinson here will unmask herself as Imogen one skirt at a time. First as Romero, then Astra, then Fidele, then finally Imogen.”
“Goodness that is a lot of people,” Miss Mayton said. “I do not recall Romero and Astra from the play.”
“No, you would not,” Lady Rawley said, nodding. “We’ve added them for excitement.”
Mrs. Robinson nodded. “Indeed, there are quite a lot of people in my outfit, but I do not have any lines. I just must follow along with Jupiter’s revelations and reveal my new identities as we go.”
“And you, dear Miss Mayton,” Lady Rawley said, “remember you only need look surprised at every turn of events.”
“Well, I suppose I will be, in any case,” Miss Mayton said.
Conbatten bit his lip. It seemed wherever Miss Mayton would go, absurdity would follow. How predictable that she would just now be poised to play King Cymbeline.
“Cordelia will be stunned to hear what is transpiring this night,” Lady Rosalind said. “She is so well versed in her Desdemona, but to imagine our aunt on the stage as one of Shakespeare’s kings!”
“A very surprised sort of king,” Conbatten said drily, “if I understood Lady Rawley’s stage directions.”
“Oh she will do it marvelously, I think,” Lady Rosalind said. “Our Miss Mayton has such steady nerves, you know. I have always thought she got them from all her romantic heartbreaks. It must toughen a person up, I imagine.”
“Do you anticipate any of your own heartbreaks, Lady Rosalind?”
She seemed to become very pensive over the question and sighed. “I dearly hope not,” she said softly. “I would not hold up to it as my aunt has been able to. I should become a spinster and be very bitter.”
Spinster, indeed. Not if he had anything to do with it.
“My wonderfully patient guests,” Lady Rawley said from atop the stage. “We are ready to begin, and I as Jupiter will reveal all to Cymbeline!”
So proceeded one of the most bizarre hours of Balthazar’s life. Lady Rawley had composed herself a never-ending speech full of drama and pathos and waving her staff this way and that and occasionally marching across the stage as if she would be off to somewhere else, only to turn round again and keep talking.
Mrs. Robinson did her duty by ripping off a skirt, only to reveal another skirt. Some of them had the pattern of trousers sewn on to indicate that Imogen was now pretending to be a boy again.
Miss Mayton was…well, what was she? He could not find the precise word for it, though whatever it should be called, it was taking all his self-control not to collapse with laughter.
For one, with all the handwaving and clutching at her heart she did, her crown slipped off and clattered to the floor, taking her veil with it. This revealed what looked to be the remnants of some very badly composed sideburns. Lord Ravensby helpfully fetched it for her amongst pitying glances. Balthazar presumed everybody else in the room would think Miss Mayton had some sort of unfortunate condition.
He had a great urge to stand and say, ‘Just to clear things up—whatever is on Miss Mayton’s face, it was put there purposefully for her moment as Archibald, the rash baron’s brother, and now she cannot get it off.’
Getting her crown back on and her veil securely tied again, Miss Mayton took to staggering at each new surprise Jupiter dramatically revealed.
Toward the end, it seemed Miss Mayton must have come upon the idea that each new surprise must be more shocking to her than the last. Cymbeline had just fallen onto the floor upon being informed by Jupiter that the boy-girl-boy-girl-again was in fact his daughter Imogen.
If Shakespeare had been allowed to rise from his grave to view this concoction, he would have jumped back in it again and slammed the coffin shut.
Balthazar pressed his lips together to retain some composure. When had his life got this absurd?
He glanced at Lady Rosalind and her rapt expression. She leaned forward, her slender neck exposed.Shewas when absurdity and improbability had marched into his sphere.
He could not be sorry over it. He had once imagined a very staid sort of life with whatever duchess he ended up with. He’d imagined polite courtesy and formal manners. He’d imagined a lady quietly playing an instrument or sewing or having somber meetings with his doleful housekeeper to discuss the practicalities of the house.
