Page 108 of A Rare Find

Her husband concurred with a nod.

“Our benefactress agreed to Thornton,” he said. “It is settled. She requests Romeo and Juliet, in its entirety. So. Double parts. You.” He pointed his pipe at Georgie. “I saw you on the boards, at the Cabinet. You can sing. But can you speak?”

Georgie sat bolt upright. “But soft! what light through yonder window breaks?”

“I am Romeo,” objected Banquo, whose name, Georgie had gleaned, was Letitia Blanchard.

“I am Romeo,” objected the fellow called Roscoe. He’d played Harlequin, and the drunk porter at Macbeth’s castle, and both the Arbuthnots were already shaking their heads at him.

“You know you’re our Balthasar,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot. “And Sampson. And one of the friars. Let’s make it both of the friars.”

“Mr. Garnet will play Mercutio and Montague,” said Mr. Arbuthnot. Macbeth—Mr. Garnet—inclined his head. Mr. Arbuthnot went on. “Miss Blanchard will play Romeo and Capulet.” Miss Blanchard tossed her head in Georgie’s direction. “Miss Campbell will play Benvolio and Paris.” Macduff—Miss Campbell—inclined her head.

Georgie stopped listening. They crawled to the dark, mossy spot where Elf sat cross-legged, watching them approach.

“I thought for a moment he wanted me for his troupe,” they whispered.

“You spoke well,” she whispered back.

“You think so? Tell me how I sigh. That’s the real test, with Romeo. He’s such a mope.” They sighed a lover’s sigh. Despite her distance from the lantern, and the thinness of the moon, Elf’s eyes illuminated her whole face as she laughed.

“It needs practice. You’re not used to sighing.”

“I’m not?”

“You’re used to getting what you want.”

“I am.” Their laugh felt bittersweet. “But then, I’m usually wrong about what I want.”

She studied them, with that sharp, intelligent, utterly concentrated look in her eyes, and they felt true longing, helpless longing. They sighed.

Her look turned wry, and then it turned into something else, something that made their heart thump hard in their chest.

“O Romeo, Romeo,” she said.

“Who?” Light wheeled as Mr. Arbuthnot lifted the lantern. “Who was that? You?” He walked forward on his knees and thrust his arm toward Elf, so the light lapped over her. “By Jove, a girl with the face of tragedienne. Go on. From O Romeo, Romeo. Speak.”

“I am Juliet,” objected Donalbain. “I am always Juliet. And you just said I am Juliet.”

“Shh.” Mr. Arbuthnot waved his pipe at her. “We are in Capulet’s orchard.” He pointed the pipe at Elf. “You have appeared at a window. Now, speak.”

“She’s not an actress.” Georgie jumped in to preempt Elf’s misery as the players arranged themselves into an audience on the grass.

“Wherefore art thou Romeo,” prompted Arbuthnot.

The expectancy thickened. Elf was blinking unnaturally, eyes darting. And then her gaze settled back on Georgie.

Their throat vibrated. Because—oh no, oh no—they were humming. Again. Like a twit. By God, they were a twit for the ages. Aghast, they cut it off, hoping she hadn’t heard, that no one had heard.

A smile ghosted her lips.

She hummed, quietly at first, and then louder. It was tuneless humming, and the players shifted, exchanging looks. Mr. Arbuthnot frowned.

She shut her eyes, humming. And then:

“Wherefore art thou Romeo!” She ran the words together in one triumphant shout and opened her eyes.

Charlotte tittered. Sally coughed.