Page 42 of The Lady Plays with Fire

What would Lady Stalbridge say if she knew that Julia had so thoroughly abandoned her good sense?

At least she had made the most of her one opportunity to gather information on The Poison Pen.

The script crinkled beneath her pillow as she pushed herself to sitting. She had read and reread as long as the daylight had held out yesterday, and though she still didn’t understand how all the pieces of the plot fit together, it was clear that the poet’s brother, one Reginald Briggs, managed to trick Miss Philpot into saying more than was wise and thus turned public opinion against her. Just as Ransom Blackadder hoped to do to Miss on Scene.

Now she had only to figure out how to turn the tables.

“Please tell Mrs. Hayes I’ll be right there, Nelly,” she said around a yawn. The girl gave a quick curtsy and left her to dress.

Not ten minutes later, Julia tapped on Mrs. Hayes’s chamber door. Not being tightly latched, it swung open to reveal a surprising commotion.

Daniel stood at the end of the bed in his straightest, most footmanlike pose, the effect of which was marred only slightly by his struggle to contain a grin as his mother remonstrated with Mrs. Hayes over her breakfast order.

“Now, ma’am, Mr. Watkins was most clear about the need to abstain from coffee. And chocolate. And I don’t think he’d approve of the kippers, either.”

“I wouldn’t need the coffee or the chocolate if he hadn’t poured half a bottle of that awful sleeping tonic down my throat yesterday.” Mrs. Hayes pulled a face as she twisted her mouth and stuck out her tongue. “Nasty stuff. The kippers are only to take away the taste of it. Not another drop of it, do you understand?”

“I do, ma’am,” Mrs. Whyte replied in a more soothing tone as she exchanged a series of gestures with her son, who chose not to understand them. “But you may feel differently later . . .”

“I will not. And as for this nonsense about a fortnight abed—”

“Mrs. Hayes,” Julia said, stepping into the fray. “How good it is to see you improving. Let’s see, Daniel—how about poached eggs, toast, and some of your mama’s wonderful gooseberry preserves. Oh, and a pot of weak tea. No one was ever harmed by a cup of tea, were they, Mrs. Whyte?” She finished with a smile for the housekeeper to quell any protest she was tempted to make.

“Certainly not, Miss Addison,” Mrs. Whyte agreed, still regarding Julia with a hint of yesterday’s wariness but slightly mollified by her remark about the jam. “But Mr. Watkins was most clear—”

“About the need for rest. Yes, absolutely. Mrs. Hayes ought to be disturbed as little as possible.”

At that, Jess, the other housemaid, who had been vigorously fluffing the pillows behind her mistress’s head and fussing over the linens, retreated a step away from the bed and dropped her hands to her sides.

“Ahh,” sighed the widow as she sank against the mountain of goose down, no longer being churned by the maid’s efforts. “That’s more like it.”

Mrs. Whyte and Jess soon left the room, and Julia returned to the chair she had occupied yesterday evening. “How do you feel, ma’am?”

Mrs. Hayes’s face was still pale, and her lips pinched with pain as she shifted slightly on the plush mattress. “Like I’d been dragged through a stony field behind a team of oxen.” She managed to squeeze out a smile. “But I’ve been worse. It’ll pass. And in less than a fortnight,” she added, another pointed reference to the apothecary’s orders. But there was a hint of worry in her voice, the knowledge that someday, the pain might not dissipate and he might be proved right.

Pity swelled in Julia’s breast, pushing aside her own concerns. “What can I do to help you pass the time more comfortably?”

“Will you read to me?”

“Of course.”

After breakfast—which Mrs. Hayes ate well, as both Julia and Mrs. Whyte were pleased to see—Julia picked up where they had left off in the French romance. Veronique’s adventures, and the frequent need to repeat or translate passages when Mrs. Hayes nodded off and missed something important, occupied her for the remainder of Saturday.

On Sunday, it was a recital of the vicar’s text and sermon, a description of the various bonnets in church, and the newspapers.

By Monday afternoon, Veronique’s tale having twisted its torturous way to a happy end, Julia was left scrambling for something amusing. Mrs. Hayes dipped in and out of sleep. With nothing else at hand, and Mrs. Hayes to all appearances indifferent to anything but the soothing sound of her companion’s voice, Julia opened the script of The Poison Pen.

Right at this very moment, rehearsal for the day was beginning. Would her absence be noted—by anyone? Would Lord Dunstane even remember he had issued another invitation?

Surely Mrs. Cole would be hampered by the missing script. Or perhaps not. With the performance just a few weeks away, she must have memorized most of her lines already. And with Lord Dunstane delivering regular changes from Blackadder, any printed version must be at least partly incorrect. Perhaps the version Julia held was already obsolete. Which would certainly render the task of extracting useful information from it more difficult, if not altogether pointless.

With a sigh, she flipped a page and continued reading in a soft monotone, the sort of voice intended to keep Mrs. Hayes asleep for as long as possible, so that Julia might think. Would theatergoers recognize Miss on Scene in the character of Perpetua Philpot? Would they agree with Blackadder’s premise that the reviewer’s identity must be exposed to put an end to her unjust power over public opinion and taste? Blackadder’s last play had been sold out every night, obviously not harmed by her review in the Magazine for Misses.

What had she said to make him hate her so?

Could she persuade Lord Dunstane to get him to give up the fight?

In Covent Garden, it had seemed almost possible. But from Mrs. Hayes’s house in Clapham . . . ?