nodded and asked Father if he had collected any more noteworthy research on the book he was writing about the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381. Bethia gave her brother-in-law a grateful smile. The subject of Kentish rebels was far more agreeable than that of the Pearce family.
****
She was quite relieved as still more weeks went by without sight of letter or flowers from Douglas. When he did not appear out of nowhere at London’s King’s Cross Station on the tenth of December, the end of Michaelmas Term, she breathed another prayer of gratitude. Without the fear of him lurking behind every pillar or post, she would be able to enjoy the Christmas season.
Her optimism was dented a bit the following afternoon when Mr. Whitmore and Mr. Birch stepped out from behind the dressing screen in the Royal Court’s wardrobe room.
“Oh dear,” she said, fingertips up to her chin.
The actor, clad in brocade shirt, velvet cloak, padded short breeches and tights, turned to look in the cheval glass. “What is it, Miss Rayborn?”
Bethia glanced at the seamstresses. Miss Lidstone sent her a perplexed nod. Mrs. Hamby, sewing a sash at a machine, ceased pumping the treadle to gape at Mr. Whitmore. Mr. Birch, on hand to help the male actors into their costumes, merely shrugged and said, “He looks fine to me.”
But he looked anything but fine, for Mr. Whitmore had gained some weight during the two months Bethia had been away at school. In fact, his shirt strained at its buttons. And four other completed Romeo costumes lay on the table, waiting to be fitted.
The actor cleared his throat. “Well?”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to let out some seams, Mr. Whitmore.”
Not only that, but she’d need to find some way to alter all five costumes to conceal the problem. The critics would have apoplexy over a Romeo with a paunch. This isn’t a disaster, Bethia thought with more wishfulness than sincerity. Fittings had to be completed by the eighteenth, when full dress rehearsal was scheduled, and after which the theatre would shut down for eight days. With Danny arriving home this evening and Guy on the twenty-first, Bethia wanted morethan anything to conclude her work on the Romeo and Juliet costumes as soon as possible.
“That hardly seems necessary,” Mr. Whitmore said, raising arms to peer down at his bulging shirt. “And by the way, this purple suits my complexion. Do you agree, Mr. Birch?”
“Suits you very well, sir,” the head attendant replied, but with an odd glint in his gray eyes.
A corner of Richard Whitmore’s mouth twitched.
Folding her arms, Bethia said, “Mr. Whitmore . . .”
The actor unbuttoned his straining shirt enough to reach in and pull out a cushion of gold velvet. “Well now, how did this get here?”
Bethia laughed with the others, too relieved to be angry, and besides, the humor of it was a welcome relief to the strain of the day. Actors were not the most patient lot when it came to standing still for fittings.
“You should be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Whitmore,” scolded Miss Lidstone, who at fifty-three was more than twice Bethia’s age. Her face had sharp features, especially a long pointed nose, and she wore a gown of torturous pink that clashed with her ginger-colored hair. She stepped up to plop a flatcap upon the actor’s soon-to-be-dyed locks. “Worrying us that way.”
“Oh, but I am, Miss Lidstone,” he said, and sent an unrepentant wink at Bethia.
****
“Mrs. Steel is late, ha-ha,” Mrs. Hamby said with a glance at the wall clock at half-past two. She was an attractive woman, tall and broad shouldered, aged twenty-nine with thick brown hair. But the nervous laugh trailing the end of almost every sentence made her company a bit taxing in close quarters. Bethia thought it would be a kindness if someone would take her in hand and draw her attention to the habit she probably was unaware that she had. Someone with morefortitude than herself, she thought wryly, which was probably
****
She was quite relieved as still more weeks went by without sight of letter or flowers from Douglas. When he did not appear out of nowhere at London’s King’s Cross Station on the tenth of December, the end of Michaelmas Term, she breathed another prayer of gratitude. Without the fear of him lurking behind every pillar or post, she would be able to enjoy the Christmas season.
Her optimism was dented a bit the following afternoon when Mr. Whitmore and Mr. Birch stepped out from behind the dressing screen in the Royal Court’s wardrobe room.
“Oh dear,” she said, fingertips up to her chin.
The actor, clad in brocade shirt, velvet cloak, padded short breeches and tights, turned to look in the cheval glass. “What is it, Miss Rayborn?”
Bethia glanced at the seamstresses. Miss Lidstone sent her a perplexed nod. Mrs. Hamby, sewing a sash at a machine, ceased pumping the treadle to gape at Mr. Whitmore. Mr. Birch, on hand to help the male actors into their costumes, merely shrugged and said, “He looks fine to me.”
But he looked anything but fine, for Mr. Whitmore had gained some weight during the two months Bethia had been away at school. In fact, his shirt strained at its buttons. And four other completed Romeo costumes lay on the table, waiting to be fitted.
The actor cleared his throat. “Well?”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to let out some seams, Mr. Whitmore.”
Not only that, but she’d need to find some way to alter all five costumes to conceal the problem. The critics would have apoplexy over a Romeo with a paunch. This isn’t a disaster, Bethia thought with more wishfulness than sincerity. Fittings had to be completed by the eighteenth, when full dress rehearsal was scheduled, and after which the theatre would shut down for eight days. With Danny arriving home this evening and Guy on the twenty-first, Bethia wanted morethan anything to conclude her work on the Romeo and Juliet costumes as soon as possible.
“That hardly seems necessary,” Mr. Whitmore said, raising arms to peer down at his bulging shirt. “And by the way, this purple suits my complexion. Do you agree, Mr. Birch?”
“Suits you very well, sir,” the head attendant replied, but with an odd glint in his gray eyes.
A corner of Richard Whitmore’s mouth twitched.
Folding her arms, Bethia said, “Mr. Whitmore . . .”
The actor unbuttoned his straining shirt enough to reach in and pull out a cushion of gold velvet. “Well now, how did this get here?”
Bethia laughed with the others, too relieved to be angry, and besides, the humor of it was a welcome relief to the strain of the day. Actors were not the most patient lot when it came to standing still for fittings.
“You should be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Whitmore,” scolded Miss Lidstone, who at fifty-three was more than twice Bethia’s age. Her face had sharp features, especially a long pointed nose, and she wore a gown of torturous pink that clashed with her ginger-colored hair. She stepped up to plop a flatcap upon the actor’s soon-to-be-dyed locks. “Worrying us that way.”
“Oh, but I am, Miss Lidstone,” he said, and sent an unrepentant wink at Bethia.
****
“Mrs. Steel is late, ha-ha,” Mrs. Hamby said with a glance at the wall clock at half-past two. She was an attractive woman, tall and broad shouldered, aged twenty-nine with thick brown hair. But the nervous laugh trailing the end of almost every sentence made her company a bit taxing in close quarters. Bethia thought it would be a kindness if someone would take her in hand and draw her attention to the habit she probably was unaware that she had. Someone with morefortitude than herself, she thought wryly, which was probably
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