Heart of Gold

The song of praise went on. All Aubrey had to do was smile and doff his bicorn hat. It left him plenty of time to brood.

As continental holidays went, he supposed it had been an interesting one. The Gallian government appeared as if it was going to last for a while longer. Life in the capital was getting back to normal. The rampaging dinosaur had eventually been tracked down, but drowned in the Garonne marshes before it could be captured. The other ancient beasts had managed to find their way into the forests that still kept secrets in this new century.

He'd spent some time with Commander Paul, setting up a program to restore the souls of the dispossessed ones. Scores of photographic plates had been found in Farentino's home, along with extensive journals. Most of the writing was doom-laden ravings, but Aubrey found enough to instruct a squad of Gallian magicians from the Bureau of Exceptional Investigations in the best way to bring the souls back to the vacant bodies.

While all of this had been happening, he'd been holding on to his soul through tenacity and some makeshift spell work. He was prone to fatigue, and a headache was never far away, but he refused to let it stop him from doing anything.

A dispassionate part of him had been counting down, and as the chorus wound up with a thunderous 'He is (he is) he is (he is) he is from Albion!' he bowed low and strutted off the stage, head held high, to rousing applause.

George was waiting in the wings. He handed him a glass of water. 'You're doing a fine job, old man. A bit stiff, here and there, but the audience is loving it.'

'Thank Ivey and Wetherall,' Aubrey muttered. On stage, the comic baritone and the comic tenor were engaged in a trippingly fast song which confused calendars and colanders, with puns on Holy Months and sifting dates. He watched gloomily, not really caring if they messed up or not.

'What was in the telegram?' George whispered.

'Telegram? Oh. Craddock sent his congratulations on bringing matters to a satisfactory conclusion.'

The comic tenor launched into the difficult tongue twister verse, with alliterative descriptions for each month of the year, all at breakneck speed. 'Jaded, jaundiced, January, jejune, jocund January, jolly, joyful January, judicious, jumped-up January. Friendly, faithful February . . .'

Aubrey held his breath as the tenor teetered for a moment, on the edge of disaster, but then rallied and raced to a red-faced and breathless climax.

The audience erupted, and Aubrey joined in, mechanically. George made up for his lack of feeling, stamping his feet and whistling. The curtain came down for interval. 'Well done, Charles.' George pounded the tenor on the back as he hurried off stage. 'Costume change, Aubrey?'

'Hmm? Oh, right.'

Aubrey followed George through the crowded backstage area, weaving through old backdrops and props left over from grand costume dramas. The changing room he shared with the male cast members was large enough to accommodate all of them, but only if they didn't move at all. Changing, as a consequence, became a form of polite hand-to-hand combat, with elbows and knees finding sensitive spots more often than not.

George waited outside while Aubrey twisted in the corner, removing the Albion naval uniform and donning his buccaneer garb. The dressing room was full of good cheer and excited Gallian chat, but after a few attempts to congratulate Aubrey, the others left him alone.

When Aubrey eased out of the dressing room, he saw that George had wandered over and was chatting with Sophie Delroy, who was writing an article about the play. Claude Duval took Aubrey's elbow as he eased out of the dressing room. 'It is going well, I think?'

'Splendidly, Duval. You've done a fine job.'

'Still, we are only halfway through.' Duvall studied Aubrey. 'You sing well enough, Fitzwilliam, and you haven't missed a cue, but your heart is somewhere else, is it not?'

Aubrey shrugged. 'I want to put on a good show.'

'You are, and I'm sure you will.' Duvall paused. 'Miss Fitzwilliam. She sent me a telegram to say she couldn't help with the play.'

'She's left for Albion.'

'Ah. I see. That explains much. You would rather she were here.'

'Yes.' So I could talk to her, explain, apologise, do something instead of moping about.

George came over. 'Hello, Duval. Splendid stuff you're putting on.'

'Thank you, Doyle. I must get back to the musicians.'

'Where's Sophie?' Aubrey asked George.

'She's gone out into the foyer to see if she can ask your father some questions for her article.'

'Bright, isn't she?'

'As the noonday sun.' George put his hands in his pockets. 'You know, old man, I think I'll take up a place at university, if it's offered.'

'Which place?'

'Prince's College. Reading history.'

'History? I didn't know you'd applied to read history.'

'I'm sure I can organise it. All that genealogy stuff started me thinking about the past and the people who lived there. Intriguing, and just perfect for a Renaissance man.' George rubbed his chin. 'Are you going to study magic?'

Aubrey shrugged. 'I haven't made up my mind.'

'You have to do something, you know.'

'Why?'

'Because you wouldn't be Aubrey Fitzwilliam if you weren't hurtling about everywhere dazzling everyone.'

'Perhaps I don't want to be Aubrey Fitzwilliam any more. I'm tired of being him.'

George nodded. 'Your mother's taking Caroline on an expedition. The Arctic.'

'I know.'

'She said she never wanted to see you again.'

'Mother or Caroline or both?'

'Caroline.'

'How can I blame her?'

George scratched his ear. 'There's one thing, old man. At least you've learned what remorse feels like, now.'

'I'd rather not have to.'

'That would mean never making a mistake.'

'An admirable goal, I would have thought.'

'Achievable?'

'Perhaps.' Aubrey sighed. 'What am I going to do, George?'

'The same as usual. Kick yourself roundly. Swear never to do whatever you've done again. Then you'll throw yourself into some adventure or other to take your mind off things. And most of all you'll ask me what you should do, then promptly ignore whatever I say.'

A smile struggled onto Aubrey's face. 'Why do you put up with me?'

'I can't abide dullness.'

The stage manager waved at Aubrey. Together, he and George hurried to the wings. George slapped Aubrey on the back. 'Go and dazzle them, old man.'

Aubrey stepped out on the stage, alone, with the spotlight firmly on him. The small orchestra threw themselves into 'The Lament of the Buccaneer' and Aubrey was away.

The second half rollicked along. Plots were foiled. Mistaken identities were resolved. True love triumphed and along the way, Aubrey was swept up in the mystery that was theatre.