assume was meant to be the Oriental fashion—Oriental, that is, as imagined by the proprietors of the Theatre Royal.
The woman’s hair was a very vivid and familiar auburn.
Gwen shooed the boys off with her parasol, clearing them out of the way so that she could see. The poster had been slapped haphazardly over another, creating an odd effect of shadow images, half-seen through the cheap layers of paper and paste, so that the veiled lady appeared to be shadowed by a dark creature standing just behind. Despite the relative warmth of the morning, Gwen felt a cold sense of foreboding as she read the bold print below the picture.
“Artaxerxes!”
the poster proclaimed. A new production at the Theatre Royal in Sawclose. The title role was to be played by Nicolas Peretti. As for the role of Semira . . .
The role of Semira was to be played by Aurelia Fiorila.
That same Aurelia Fiorila whose famed voice Gwen had last heard not raised in song, but lowered in supplication as she pleaded with Bonaparte’s foreign minister.
It wasn’t entirely surprising to find her back in England. As far as most were concerned, she had never left it. Fiorila had, officially, been sick with the influenza and then “resting” for the past several months. This particular performance might have been prepared months or even years before. Bath was busy right before the start of the Season; it was a logical place for a singer to gravitate. Many did.
But not Fiorila. Her contract was with the Opera House in the Haymarket. She had sung for the Prince of Wales in Brighton at a command performance, but never before in Bath.
Gwen didn’t believe in coincidences, not as a rule. What was there in Bath—in Bath, of all places!—to draw Talleyrand’s agent? Somehow, she doubted Fiorila was here to take the waters.
“Miss Meadows?”
“Hmm?” She was so engrossed in the playbill that she only vaguely registered someone saying her name.
“Miss Meadows?”
She started, bumping into the man standing behind her. “Colonel Reid!” She covered her confusion with a stern, “You’re late.”
“I’m just on time,” the Colonel countered with easy good humor. “You’re early.”
Since it was true, there was very little Gwen could say to that, so she contented herself with a quelling, “Hmph. Let us hope the coach will be equally timely.”
She subjected the Colonel to a sweeping scrutiny. He bore little resemblance to the rumpled, travel-stained man of yesterday. His breeches and jacket, while still too comfortably cut for fashion, were impeccably clean, his exuberant red hair brushed to sleekness. The sun glinted silver off the white streaks in his hair, but his smile was brighter by far.
“I’ve cleaned beneath my nails, too,” he said teasingly. “And brought a clean pocket handkerchief.”
Gwen gave him a look. “I am not your governess, Colonel Reid.”
She had never been a governess. She had contemplated it once, briefly, in the miserable period after her father’s death, but the idea of being dependent on a strange family, neither guest nor servant, was even more unpalatable than being dependent on the family she knew. Better to be Aunt Gwen, with a room on the floor with the rest of the family, than Miss Meadows, relegated to the attics and sent a tray in her room for supper.
Colonel Reid gave a shout of laughter. “I should think not,” he said. “You’d have been in the nursery while I was in the schoolroom. I’ve a decade on you, I’m sure.”
Gwen frowned. “I’m older than you think.”
She’d spent so much time working on appearing older than she was, making herself properly fearsome to the young. Age was the only leverage the penniless spinster had. Age and illness, but she refused to be one of those carping maiden aunts, taking to her bed of pain with hartshorn in order to gain the simulation of affection. She had chosen to be fearsome instead.
The Colonel, however, did not seem properly
The woman’s hair was a very vivid and familiar auburn.
Gwen shooed the boys off with her parasol, clearing them out of the way so that she could see. The poster had been slapped haphazardly over another, creating an odd effect of shadow images, half-seen through the cheap layers of paper and paste, so that the veiled lady appeared to be shadowed by a dark creature standing just behind. Despite the relative warmth of the morning, Gwen felt a cold sense of foreboding as she read the bold print below the picture.
“Artaxerxes!”
the poster proclaimed. A new production at the Theatre Royal in Sawclose. The title role was to be played by Nicolas Peretti. As for the role of Semira . . .
The role of Semira was to be played by Aurelia Fiorila.
That same Aurelia Fiorila whose famed voice Gwen had last heard not raised in song, but lowered in supplication as she pleaded with Bonaparte’s foreign minister.
It wasn’t entirely surprising to find her back in England. As far as most were concerned, she had never left it. Fiorila had, officially, been sick with the influenza and then “resting” for the past several months. This particular performance might have been prepared months or even years before. Bath was busy right before the start of the Season; it was a logical place for a singer to gravitate. Many did.
But not Fiorila. Her contract was with the Opera House in the Haymarket. She had sung for the Prince of Wales in Brighton at a command performance, but never before in Bath.
Gwen didn’t believe in coincidences, not as a rule. What was there in Bath—in Bath, of all places!—to draw Talleyrand’s agent? Somehow, she doubted Fiorila was here to take the waters.
“Miss Meadows?”
“Hmm?” She was so engrossed in the playbill that she only vaguely registered someone saying her name.
“Miss Meadows?”
She started, bumping into the man standing behind her. “Colonel Reid!” She covered her confusion with a stern, “You’re late.”
“I’m just on time,” the Colonel countered with easy good humor. “You’re early.”
Since it was true, there was very little Gwen could say to that, so she contented herself with a quelling, “Hmph. Let us hope the coach will be equally timely.”
She subjected the Colonel to a sweeping scrutiny. He bore little resemblance to the rumpled, travel-stained man of yesterday. His breeches and jacket, while still too comfortably cut for fashion, were impeccably clean, his exuberant red hair brushed to sleekness. The sun glinted silver off the white streaks in his hair, but his smile was brighter by far.
“I’ve cleaned beneath my nails, too,” he said teasingly. “And brought a clean pocket handkerchief.”
Gwen gave him a look. “I am not your governess, Colonel Reid.”
She had never been a governess. She had contemplated it once, briefly, in the miserable period after her father’s death, but the idea of being dependent on a strange family, neither guest nor servant, was even more unpalatable than being dependent on the family she knew. Better to be Aunt Gwen, with a room on the floor with the rest of the family, than Miss Meadows, relegated to the attics and sent a tray in her room for supper.
Colonel Reid gave a shout of laughter. “I should think not,” he said. “You’d have been in the nursery while I was in the schoolroom. I’ve a decade on you, I’m sure.”
Gwen frowned. “I’m older than you think.”
She’d spent so much time working on appearing older than she was, making herself properly fearsome to the young. Age was the only leverage the penniless spinster had. Age and illness, but she refused to be one of those carping maiden aunts, taking to her bed of pain with hartshorn in order to gain the simulation of affection. She had chosen to be fearsome instead.
The Colonel, however, did not seem properly
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