Heart of Gold

No, he told himself, don't open another can of worms until you've eaten the last one.

So it was without great surprise that Aubrey found his feet directing themselves toward the university just in time for Professor Lavoisier's lecture on taxonomy. In front of the lecture theatre, while George inspected the gothic grandeur of the cloisters, they happened to bump into Caroline Hepworth.

'Caroline,' Aubrey exclaimed with his best attempt at astonishment, 'whatever are you doing here?'

She was wearing a small, stylish hat trimmed with navy blue ribbon. Her blouse was white linen while her skirt was a shade of soft lavender. Shifting her large notebook from one arm to another, she studied him with an expression that was not the outright delight he'd been hoping for.

'Aubrey. How long did it take you to find out Professor Lavoisier's lecture schedule?' She favoured George with a smile. 'Hello, George. How's the cornet?'

'I'm making sure I don't over-practise. It's a nasty problem for any brass player.'

Aubrey felt like putting up his hand to attract Caroline's attention. 'What are the chances, eh? Our bumping into each other like this?'

'I refuse to believe in chance where you're concerned, Aubrey Fitzwilliam. I believe you'd try to manipulate the Laws of Probability if you could.'

'I couldn't . . . I mean, wouldn't. I –'

'Exactly. Now, I have a lecture to attend.'

Aubrey desperately wanted not to appear a complete idiot in front of Caroline. It was difficult, considering the effect she had on him. Sometimes it felt as if his brain were turning to soup whenever he saw her.

'Of course.' He fumbled for and found his pocket watch. 'Good Lord, is that the time?'

Caroline rolled her eyes, but the transparent ploy gave Aubrey a moment to think. Then his eye fell on a noticeboard on the wall outside the lecture theatre. 'George, we must go. We'll be late for the audition.'

George blinked, then rallied well. 'Can't be late. Sorry to rush, Caroline. Best of luck with the taxation lecture.'

'Taxonomy. The science of classification.' She pursed her lips and then smiled, briefly. 'You know, this lecture is going to be repeated this afternoon. I'd rather attend then, I think. Perhaps I'll spend the morning with you two instead, it being such a lovely day. If you don't mind.'

'Mind?' Aubrey said. 'We'd be delighted.'

'Good. I haven't been to an audition for an age.'

Aubrey felt as if he'd dug a very deep hole and then dived head first into it. 'Audition. Yes.'

'Where is Tontine Hall?' George asked, scratching his head at the audition poster. It had been roughly and boldly printed, black on red. 'I'm guessing that's where the audition's being held. I mean, I remember that's where we're going.'

'It's not far,' Caroline said. 'I'll show you the way.'

She strode off along the cloistered walkway, leaving them to follow in her wake.

Aubrey thought frantically. An audition. Of all the foolish things . . . At least it was an Albion-language production – a gesture of solidarity with Gallia's allies, organised by the university's Albion Friendship Society, according to the poster. Ivey and Wetherall's The Buccaneers. A musical comedy from the finest Albionish playmakers of the age. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, remembering the school production of The Buccaneers. It could be worse, he supposed. He could be starring in the first all-crocodile production of Hrolf, King of Scandia, for instance.

Aubrey loved the stage, but he knew his singing voice was not first rate. Third rate, at a pinch. He could manage Ivey and Wetherall patter songs, but heaven help him if he had to attempt any of the romantic duets.

Of course, if Caroline could be persuaded to take a part, he'd show he was a quick learner.

Tontine Hall was a red-brick monstrosity that looked as if it had been built on the remains of a medieval chapel or two. Caroline stood at the entrance. If Aubrey didn't know better, he would have thought she were grinning.

'After you,' she said.

When faced with potential embarrassment, Aubrey had one tactic: head up, march straight into the thick of battle and rely on his wits to cope with what came.

'Thank you.' With George at his shoulder, Aubrey opened the heavy wooden door and strode inside.

He walked into a haze of cigarette smoke. On a stage at the end of the hall, a piano plinked away gamely. The tall arched windows were covered by black curtains and the room smelt of cloves and dry rot.

Surrounding the piano, a score or so of people were trying their best to sing the chorus of 'Jolly Jack Tars Are We'. Their Albionish was good, but with a distinct Gallian accent that sat oddly with lyrics professing undying loyalty to King and Country.

Aubrey made his way to the stage. The few spectators in the seats regarded him with enough curiosity to stop smoking.

He waited until the song finished. Fell apart rather than finished was Aubrey's summation, but he didn't want to be critical. He'd been involved in enough haphazard performances at Stonelea School to realise that any dramatic performance was a little miracle in itself.

'Hello?' he ventured, and all eyes on the stage turned toward him. The pianist actually rose from his seat to get a better look. He took the cigarette from his mouth and threw it to the floor. 'You are an Albionite!' he said with evident delight. 'Welcome!'

Immediately, Aubrey was surrounded by the Gallians. Most seemed to want to embrace him or kiss him on the cheeks, men and women both. The members of the Friendship Society belied the Gallian reputation for aloofness. Their regard for Albion did seem genuine, to the extent that Aubrey almost found it overwhelming. Finally, the pianist dragged Aubrey onto the stage.

'The Albion Friendship Society welcomes you,' he declared in Albionish. 'What can we do for you?'

Aubrey peered over the heads of the adoring Gallians. Caroline and George stood just inside the entrance, covering their laughter. 'Er. Who's in charge here?'

The pianist raised an eyebrow. 'I am the director of this production. Claude Duval is my name.'

'Do you have any non-singing parts?'

This set Duval into paroxysms of glee. 'You want a part? In our humble play to honour the alliance between our two nations? But of course! To have a true Albionite in our production will be an honour!'

A cheer went up at this announcement, but it was an oddly staggered one as the pianist's words were translated and passed among the spectators, crew and prospective players. 'This will be a triumph!' a short, dark woman cried.

Aubrey pointed to his friends. 'And I'm not alone. Two more Albionites are here to join you.'

As one, the spectators and players rushed at Caroline and George. Surrounded by Gallians, they were shepherded to the stage.

'George is an excellent cornet player,' Aubrey announced. 'While Miss Hepworth is . . .' Competent in just about any area, he thought, but Duval interrupted.