“You are very kind, I’m sure,” Mrs. Jordan said smiling.
Miss Mayton dramatically staggered and cried, “Wait! I know who you are. How did I not perceive it at once?”
This was taken as a further compliment, and Mrs. Jordan nodded condescendingly.
Miss Mayton turned to Cordelia and Juliet and said, “This is the esteemed Mrs. Dorothy Jordan of the stage. The greatest comedic actress who has ever tread the boards.”
Cordelia and Juliet curtsied very low.
“Really, madam,” Mrs. Jordan said, “you are too effusive.”
“Not at all,” Miss Mayton said, shaking her head. “I am rather known for not passing about unearned flattery. If I say a thing, Imeana thing.”
“I see,” Mrs. Jordan said, appearing very pleased to hear it. “And you are?”
“Miss Eloise Mayton, and these are the Earl of Westmont’s daughters, Lady Cordelia and Lady Juliet.”
“Charmed,” Mrs. Jordan said. Cordelia could not help noticing Mrs. Jordan’s eye taking in Miss Mayton’s widow’s weeds and then hearing that she was a “miss.” People who were unacquainted with her aunt’s tragic past romances always did wonder about it.
“If I am not being too forward,” Miss Mayton said, “we would ask you to dine with us this evening. The earl will not wish to miss a chance to meet the great lady herself.”
“Oh, I…”
“Please do, Mrs. Jordan,” Cordelia said. “Papa should be heartbroken if you do not.”
“Well, Iamtraveling with just my maid…”
“Our father does admire you so,” Juliet said, “he often mentions it.”
“It cannot be comfortable to dine alone,” Miss Mayton said, “and we always do make up a very jolly party.”
Mrs. Jordan nodded her acquiescence, and the thing was settled. Cordelia Bennington was to dine with the greatest actress of the time.
Was not life marvelous?
*
Percival Granger, BaronHarveston, reread the note he’d just opened. Were someone to have viewed him as he did it, they might describe his expression as a unique combination of dubiousness and dread.
As the founding member ofThe Society for Serious Literary Examination, or theSSLEas it was called by longstanding members, he was often in receipt of odd communications.
There were those gentlemen all across England who sought to make their mark as an intellectual. They’d drum up an original idea and then closet themselves in their libraries trying to prove it by hook or by crook, no matter how tenuous or outlandish the alleged proof seemed to be. These various theories eventually wended their way to his door, hoping they might garner an invitation to become a member of theSSLE.
He had only last week received such a theory from Sir Lawrence Veld, proposing that Shakespeare was actually two people. Twins, in fact. Sir Lawrence gave as his evidence that Shakespeare wrote both comedy and tragedy and no writer could do both. He supposed that the writers were twins because their styles were similar—one preferring serious and the other preferring light. The further evidence that they were twins was there for anybody to see—all known portraits of the bard were very like.
It was preposterous.
Sadly, it was not as preposterous as the note he just read.
Lady Rawley, a lady who every year took one of Shakespeare’s plays and rewrote the ending to suit herself and then performed the ill-advised results for her friends, wished to join his society.
Her theatrical evenings had gained a following of sorts, not because there was anything worthy in them, but because so many viewed them as delightfully ludicrous.
Last season’s offering had beenMuch Ado about Nothing, in which Hero lost her mind, murdered Claudio at the altar, and seemed none the worse for wear afterward. He supposed she ought to have retitled that one toMuch Ado about Something Very Bad.
There had been others, of course. Romeo and Juliet living happily ever after and naming their firstborn Romiet had been much talked of.
He did not himself attend the evenings, his excuses getting ever more creative with each passing year. Lady Rawley was under the impression that Baron Harveston carried a heavy weight of duties upon his shoulders, all tied up with ancient traditions that must be seen to on his estate in Kent. The last had been a “spring steward’s ceremony,” whatever that was supposed to be.
