Prudence returned to the morning room after luncheon and read through the part of Constance Neville. It was a flatteringly big part, and she was excited by the fact that Jack was to be her lover, Hastings. Jack was only a second cousin, of course, but even she could see that he was a very attractive man. Even if she had not noticed, her friends in town would have apprised her of the fact. Jack was a great favorite, especially with the debutantes, with whom he loved to flirt.
Jack himself was in the garden, stretched beneath an oak tree, trying halfheartedly to keep his eyes open and on the book that was on the grass beside him. He might have known that Grandmamma would have the whole thing thoroughly organized. He had hoped for a while that morning that she would have forgotten they could not all learn their lines from one copy of the play. He had looked forward to witnessing her chagrin and disappointment. Of course, when luncheon was over, a footman had brought into the dining room a disconcertingly large pile of books, and they all had a copy, down to the one who had the part of the least maid.
Damn his luck! He leafed through the pages once more to assure himself that he had made no mistake. There were lots of lines. And not even a chance to have fun. Prudence! He had known her since she was in leading strings and found her quite unappealing, even though he was forced to admit that she was passably pretty. Now if only Grandmamma could have paired him with that little wife of Alex's. He certainly fancied her, and he might stand some chance of success, if her husband's attentions to her since their wedding were anything to go on. Jack lost his battle with sleep as he was still musing on the pleasant possibilities.
Freddie sat in the breakfast room, his book propped open on the table before him. A frown of concentration creased his brow and his lips moved as he mouthed over his part. "Damme," he muttered to himself, "if I will ever remember when to say these lines. Will probably be so nervous that I'll string them all together. Wish I had Alex's brains. Or even Jack's." His face broke into a grin suddenly and he began to giggle as he read about the joke that Mr. Hardcastle told his servants, including Freddie's own character, Diggory, with strict instructions that they were not to laugh at it when he told it again to his guests at the dinner table.
Maud Frazer, Jack's mother, sat in the conservatory, one hand playing absently with an aspidistra leaf as she read through the part of Mrs. Hardcastle. "What a widgeon!" she said aloud. "Whatever possessed Mamma to cast me in this part? This woman is downright silly." She turned back to the beginning of the play, read over her first speech, and raised her eyes to the glass roof above her head, trying to repeat the words to herself.
Martin Raine, brother of Claude, was similarly employed in trying to memorize the opening scene of the play. He wished it was his cousin Sarah rather than his cousin Maud, though, who would be playing Mrs. Hardcastle to his Mr. Hardcastle. He had fancied Sarah years ago when they were both young; he probably would have married her if they had not been first cousins. He had never told her that, of course, but he had always had a soft spot for her, even after she married dull Charles Lynwood and produced that unspeakable oaf Freddie. He had never married. Now, why would Aunt Jemima give him the part of a cosily married man with a grown-up daughter on whom he doted? Sometimes the woman had no sense at all. But who had the nerve to tell her so?
Peregrine Raine, son of Claude and brother of Prudence and Constance, was in the blue salon, lounging inelegantly in a large, comfortable chair. He was grinning and reading with obvious enjoyment. It was clear to him why Great-aunt Jemima had given him the part of Tony Lumpkin. He was the least physically attractive of all the younger members of the family, being somewhat overweight and having had the misfortune to lose most of his hair between his twentieth and his four-and-twentieth year. However, he was not offended. He had always loved the family theatrics. In fact, he was the only family member that he knew of who would have wanted to put on those Christmas plays even without the goading of the duchess. His appearance had always worked to his advantage, as a matter of fact. While the more attractive males-Jack and Alex in particular-had always got the dull leading roles, he was always given the character parts. And this was no exception. He loved the vulgar, riotous character of the childish Tony. He was already imagining in his mind what tune he could use to sing the raucous song that Tony was to sing at the Three Jolly Pigeons alehouse.
The lesser characters were dotted around the house and grounds, blessing their good fortune in being given parts with only a few lines to remember. Not for them the prospect of two weeks of hard work, incarcerated in one of the rooms of Portland House conning lines.
Anne was in the rose arbor. She had read the play through without stopping. It was thoroughly enchanting. There was the humor, of course, which would be its chief appeal to an audience, she felt sure. But the romance of it! How she admired Kate Hardcastle, who had the spirit to defy her father and fight to win the man with whom she had fallen in love, even when his behavior was puzzling and not everything she could have desired. If only she could have been that way with Alexander. Kate would never have meekly allowed him to walk out of her life and then to walk back into it as if he had never been gone. Kate would have given as good as she had received.
But she had a chance to be Kate for two weeks. And she would be playing opposite Alexander. She would be only acting, of course, but she could also fantasize, pretend that she really was Kate behaving thus to her lover. Everyone would think that she was merely acting. No one would suspect what she was really doing, playacting in earnest. Now that the shock of the duchess's announcement had had a chance to wear off, Anne found within herself a growing excitement. She was going to learn her part so thoroughly that she would not have to think about the words or when she was to say them. Then she would be able to concentrate all her energies on bringing the part alive on the stage. She would be able to concentrate on stooping to conquer Alexander, even,if it were only in her imagination.
Merrick was in his room, sitting sideways on the window seat, one leg propped on it, his forearm resting across his raised knee. The air felt delightfully cool through the open window. He would have loved to change into his riding clothes again and take his horse out for a gallop. But he had to stay here and learn this damned part. He might have guessed that Grandmamma would come up with some such harebrained notion. No one in his right mind, of course, would accept the theory that the idea and the command had originated with Grandpapa. No one was fooled by that myth, but she seemed to delight in keeping it alive.
If only she had given him a different part, or given Anne a different part. She really did have a fiendish mind. He had always thought so but had never had such glaring proof as he had now. She knew that they were estranged. She must know that he had been less than pleased to find his wife in residence when he had arrived yesterday. It was all her doing, of course. Grandpapa, left to himself, would have taken a thousand years to conceive the idea of using his position as head of the family to override the command of a man to his wife. She was trying to bring them back together, but her tactics were so obvious that she was like to make them the laughingstock.