Page 9 of Hit Me With Your Best Scot
As far as landlords went, Jacob Praster was a rather tolerant one. After all, it wasn’t just an assortment of hired hacks who avoided actresses and other people of questionable repute. Landlords, she’d discovered several years ago, before she’d added a spouse to her list of qualifications, could be even more pompous. “I’m quite satisfied with Gus,” she said aloud, heading for the narrow staircase along the right wall of the foyer. “And wherever it is he stables his horses.”
“It was only a suggestion. I happened to see today that one of those fine houses along Chesterfield Hill is for sale. Wouldn’t that make the blue-blooded set blush, to see you living right there among them?”
It might make them blush, but it made Persephone shudder. “Oh, yes. I can just imagine myself walking through Mayfair while all the good people throw rotten fruit at me. I have no desire to be anywhere other than where I am, Flora. Do leave off.”
The maid clucked her tongue, but subsided. They had this conversation at least once a month, but Persephone had long had a hunch that it had more to do with Flora and her dream of living in a castle than it did the location of their current residence. But they all had dreams, and Persephone wasn’t about to tell anyone not to pursue them.
“Heavens, I forgot! How was closing night?” the maid blurted. “Did you tell Lord Claremont you’ve been giving his posies to the church at Charing Cross for their pauper funerals?”
That made Persephone smile. “I didn’t have to, as it turns out,” she said, nodding as Gregory Norman, her footman and a former stagehand at the Saint Genesius, emerged from her bed chamber. “Gregory.”
“Miss Persie. I’ve put the coal warmer beneath the sheets. Rain’s no way to end the run of a play, dash it all.”
“If I had an aversion to rain, I would be performing in the Sahara Desert.”
“Gregory, don’t interrupt,” Flora put in. “Persie was telling me she didn’t send Claremont packing.”
“What? I thought we was tired of his high-handedness.”
“We were,” Persephone edged into the conversation. “As I was attempting to turn him away—and without any success, I might add—a very large Scotsman happened by and overheard Claremont pawing at me, and the next thing I knew, his lordship had made a close acquaintance with a Scottish boot and the floor of my dressing room—though not necessarily in that order.”
“No! Oh, you must tell me all about it! Who was the Scotsman?”
“Do I need to load my blunderbuss and put it by the front door again?” Gregory asked.
With a snort, Persephone strolled into her bedchamber to put her shawl over the back of the chair set before the fireplace. “Not yet. He was actually quite polite for a barbarian Highlander. He’s interested, but intends to wait to be invited.” She shot a glance over her shoulder at her maid’s rapt expression. “Which means, of course, that he expects to be invited.”
“Oh, lud, theyallexpect you to swoon at their feet, don’t they?” Flora dumped the portmanteau in the seat ofthe overstuffed chair and began putting the bits and bobs away. “I’ve yet to meet a man who didn’t think he was too handsome and charming to be resisted.”
“Excluding me.” With a nod at the two of them, Gregory left the room, helpfully pulling her door closed behind him.
As he did so, a small black figure emerged from beneath the stack of pillows on the large green and blue bed and stretched, then lazily picked its way to the edge of the mattress and bowed its head in a clear invitation for her to bestow scratches. “And how are you this evening, Hades?” Persephone murmured, bending to plant a kiss on top of the cat’s sleek head.
“That demon jumped at me out of the larder and nearly scared me to death.” Flora gave an exaggerated shiver. “Black cats are witchcraft, you know.”
“So you keep telling me. The two of you would get along much better if you would only keep in mind that this ishishouse, and he is kindly allowing us in for an extended visit.” Offering the cat a quick scratch behind the ears, she sat beside him to pull off her shoes.Ah, that felt nice. Gleefully, she scrunched up her toes and straightened them again. Who would have expected that acting would be so hard on her feet? Not her, certainly.
“Well, I think he’d be happy to have you as his only guest. I’m fairly certain he wants to see me dead of fright, and Gregory’s told me Hades keeps trying to trip him on the stairs.” Wrapping the hem of her skirt around her hand, Flora removed the steaming kettle from where it hung in the small fireplace and toted it behind the screen that sectioned off the far corner of the room. “I’ve made your bath as hot as I can, but with the chill in the air tonight, that won’t last for long.”
“Thank you. Off with you then, Flora. I can see myself to bed. But please remember to wake me early; I have tobe back at the Saint Genesius at the ungodly hour of nine o’clock.”
“Saints preserve us. I’ll do my utmost.” With that, Flora returned the empty kettle to the hearth, moved the empty portmanteau to the floor to await tomorrow’s wardrobe change, picked up Persephone’s shoes for brushing off, and shut the door firmly behind her as she left the room.
Persephone shed her plain gown and shift, pinned up her hair in a loose, twisted bun, and, shivering, hurried behind the curtain to the steaming bathtub. She dipped in one toe to find the water pleasantly warm and climbed in to sink down to her chin.Glorious.Then she shut her eyes for a moment, just listening to the quiet and feeling the warmth soak into her bones.
Considering that she’d expected to still be fighting off Lord Claremont this evening, and doing so with enough delicacy that he wouldn’t attempt to ruin her career, simply being able to sit in the warm water was reward enough for a packed theater every night of the three-week run ofAs You Like It. It wasn’t her favorite play, and the entire thing became a bit silly toward the end, but she did enjoy wearing trousers and hearing the corresponding gasps from the wig-wearing set in the audience when she first appeared as a boy onstage. And Rosalind was not only quick-witted, but she had the most lines of any female in Shakespeare’s repertoire. Persephone knew that, because she’d counted.
Shocked, those gray-haired, regimented ladies were—shocked that a young lady of any background should wear men’s clothes in public. Shocked that she should be upfront with her wits. Shocked that she should kiss a man right up there onstage, inviting people to look.
And while their shock might be genuine, she’d also noted that they all stayed through the final curtain. And on occasion, they came to see a second performance.
The younger set applauded wildly and sent letters addressed both to Rosalind and to her, wanting her—or Rosalind’s—friendship, or her—or Rosalind’s—love. And Rosalind didn’t receive the same quantity of heated correspondence as did Juliet Montague. The number of men—and a few women—who addressed her only as Juliet, who wanted to be her true-life Romeo or her dearest friend, continued to astound her even now.
Lady Macbeth would be a new experience. She imagined there would be those in the audience who would hate her for bringing down Macbeth, for leading him down a thorny path, but hopefully the number of love letters would subside. For heaven’s sake, she wasn’t certainshewanted to make the acquaintance of Lady Macbeth, much less that of a man who would want the horrid woman’s love or desire.
Of course, she’d teased the handsome Scotsman about being Macbeth, but that had only been because he was Scottish. Admittedly, at first glance he didn’t seem the sort of man to be led about by a woman’s ambitions or sexual favors, as had happened with Macbeth the character, but then again, she didn’t know if MacTaggert the man had come backstage to meether—or to become acquainted with Rosalind.
Coll MacTaggert, Viscount Glendarril. She read the newspaper’s Society page every morning, and she’d seen him mentioned more than once—something about three handsome Scottish brothers coming down to London to find English wives. If that were so, then he was wasting his time hanging about backstage at the Saint Genesius. Titled men did not marry actresses.
