Page 9 of The Lady Plays with Fire

“Really, ma’am, I hadn’t given him a moment’s thought.”

Julia didn’t like to lie to Mrs. Hayes. Not least because it was so easy to do that it was impossible not to feel guilty afterward. She was such a trusting, oblivious soul. Why, her niece Laura—now Julia’s sister-in-law—had got up to no end of antics while living under this very roof, and Mrs. Hayes had never been the wiser.

Though occasionally, there was a moment, like last night in the carriage, or when the older woman would lift her lorgnette halfway to her eyes and fix Julia with a look, that made her wonder whether she knew more than she let on.

Thankfully, this morning was not one of those times.

Mrs. Hayes was fully absorbed in her letters. Later, Julia would be expected to go through that same stack of correspondence, answering the invitations as directed. But for now, for another half hour at most, she was at leisure to finish writing her own.

She could not afford to be frittering that time away, mulling over the contrast between icy eyes and fiery hair, between cool words and the peat-smoke-and-whisky warmth of the voice in which those words had been spoken.

Dipping her pen, she began again.

When one is tasked with reviewing a performance of Othello, one is not permitted to fault the playwright. When the stage is graced by such luminaries as Mrs. Siddons, one is not expected to fault the acting. How, then, to explain a staging of the Moor of Venice so dull as to have made Miss on Scene wish she might find some way of hurrying the action along to its inevitable ending—its tragic ending, I had almost written.

But is it a tragedy to put a thing out of its misery?

With all due respect to both Mr. Shakespeare and Mrs. Siddons, Desdemona ought to be angry. Emilia too. How are such vapid playthings as I saw last night, women who can respond only by whispering and whimpering at their betrayal, meant to have attracted men of such vigor and supposed valor?

Julia paused to reread what she had written so far and gave a self-satisfied smile. Lord Dunstane could have his insipid. She had done him one better.

Perhaps Mr. Shakespeare’s genius was hampered by the knowledge that the impassioned words of his great tragic heroines would be—could only be, in those dark days—mouthed by mere boys. Perhaps Mrs. Shakespeare was the forgiving, accommodating sort, willing to overlook her husband’s misdeeds, and so he had no true notion of how a woman in Desdemona’s situation might feel.

If my readers attend the theater to have their passions stirred, I fear they will leave this performance unmoved.

If a young lady attends with other motives, she may feel secure in regarding the scenes passing before her as a harmless backdrop to the various amusements which an evening at Covent Garden may afford.

The farce—perennial favorite “A Scandalous Marriage”—was at least tolerably amusing,

“Something’s got into you,” Mrs. Hayes remarked, with a pointed glance.

“Ma’am?”

She nodded toward the half-filled sheet. “You seem to have found some words.”

A laugh eased from Julia. “Oh, yes. I did. I was trying to be delicate at first, you see. Rather than honest.”

“I thought perhaps you had moved on to pleasanter subjects than the play.” The hand holding her letter dropped into her lap, and a sharp sigh burst from her. “I’m still quite vexed about the box. How could Mr. Pope—? And Lord Dunstane . . . such a lonely-looking gentleman, didn’t you think? I felt certain he would offer—”

“Now, Mrs. Hayes,” Julia soothed. She wanted nothing from haughty Lord Scottish.

After transforming her last comma into a point, she waved the sheet back and forth a few times before folding it. Lady Stalbridge abhorred smudged ink. Julia had had every intention of writing more, but the clock on the mantel warned her that she was already past her time.

Rising, she stepped toward Mrs. Hayes. “If I may, ma’am, I’ll post my letter and then go to the bookshop and find something interesting to help us pass the next few evenings.”

Surely, once the rush of opening night was over and the excitement at seeing Mrs. Siddons had abated, there would be seats to be had. They had managed well enough last year without a reserved box.

“A new novel, dear?” Mrs. Hayes sounded intrigued. “But rest assured, I haven’t given up on the theater. When you return, I intend to write to Mr. Pope and give him a piece of my mind.”

Which meant, of course, that Julia was to write and find the words to convey Mrs. Hayes’s displeasure.

She donned her pelisse, tucked her review into her reticule, and was tying the ribbons on her bonnet when Mrs. Hayes added, “And then a note of thanks to Lord Dunstane, of course.”

Julia’s fingers fumbled. It was one thing to chastise Mr. Pope. Or even Shakespeare.

Words of gratitude would be far more difficult to come by.

In her mind’s eye, she saw Lord Scottish clutching two glasses of wine. For your aunt, he had said, and then kept the other for himself.