The First Snowdrop

Chapter 7

The whole family gathered in the morning room the next morning except the duke, who was reported to be nursing his gout in his private apartments. Those who assembled displayed a variety of moods, from enthusiastic (Freddie) to downright belligerent (Jack), but it was a tribute to the power the duchess exerted over her family that all were there and none was openly arguing against the projected dramatic presentation.

"Who knows this play, anyway?" the duchess's nephew, Martin Raine, asked of the room at large, while the duchess sat at a desk and perused a sheaf of notes through her lorgnette. "Is it a comedy or a melodrama or a tragedy or what?"

"We saw it performed last year," Celia offered. "A very comical play. But I fail to see how we are to produce it in just two weeks. We shall doubtless make cakes of ourselves."

"Balderdash!" said the duchess, not raising her eyes from her task.

"Oliver Goldsmith wrote it," Stanley said. "I wonder you have not heard of it, Martin."

"I don't get to town often," Martin replied. "The last thing I saw performed was The Beggar's Opera. And glad I am that Aunt Jemima did not choose that one."

"Yes, I have it all organized now," the duchess said, raising her head and commanding silence with one glance. "Claude," she looked at her sister's second son, "you always took charge of the Christmas theatrics years ago. I am putting you in charge of directing this play. All the rest of you must accept his authority without question." She stared around the group, daring anyone to contradict.

Claude clasped his hands across a somewhat rotund middle and blew a mock sigh of relief. "Well, Aunt Jemima," he said, "I cannot pretend to be wholly thrilled, but at least I can now relax and not be afraid that I will be called upon to act."

The duchess held up her hand for silence. "Let us not waste time," she said. "The sooner you all know the parts you are to play, the sooner you can get busy on learning your lines. And remember that you do not have a great deal of time in which to do so. Now. There are two pairs of lovers in the play, and several character parts, which may not be as large, but which require a deal of good acting. First of all, to set your mind at rest, Freddie, dear boy, I do indeed have a part for you. There are not many lines involved, but you are required to laugh in a few places and to behave in a very confused manner throughout. The character's name is Diggory."

"Diggory," Freddie said. "I'll do it, Grandmamma. Learn my lines night and day. I can laugh, y' know."

"Yes, I do know, dear boy," she said. "The main pair of lovers are Kate Hardcastle and Charles Marlow, who falls in love with her thinking she is the maid of the house when she is really the daughter. A highly unlikely plot, of course, but it is meant to be a comedy. I want Anne to be Kate and Alex to be Marlow."

"No," Merrick said, rising to his feet and then sitting again when he realized that there was nowhere to go. "I know the play, Grandmamma, and Marlow's is a big part. You know I am far too lazy to learn the half of it."

"Balderdash," she said, raising her lorgnette to her eye and surveying him through it.

"Grandmamma," Anne said timidly from her place on a sofa between the duchess's two young grand-nieces, Prudence and Constance Raine, "I have never acted in my life or seen a play, in fact. I beg that you will give the part to someone else and let me observe for this occasion. Perhaps some other time."

"If you are to be a member of this family, my dear," the duchess said kindly but firmly, "you must learn to act. We all do, you know. And there is no time like the present."

Anne sat very still, completely caught up in her own dismay. She heard none of the other announcements or the comments and protests of the other would-be actors. It was not enough, it seemed, that she had mastered her own terrible shyness and come to this house party, where she would meet all her husband's family. And she had been so proud of herself. She had not cringed from any of the introductions and had made an effort to converse with all of them with whom she had come into close contact. But now she was being called upon to act in a play, and the major role, at that. And they were to perform the play before a crowd of the duke's neighbors and several friends who were coming out from London for the anniversary ball. The very thought made her feel faint.

The worst of it was, though, that she would have to act with Alexander. Their characters were lovers, the duchess had said. That would mean that they would be together a great deal on stage and be forced to speak words of love. Perhaps they would even have to touch. Perhaps kiss? Anne did not know what was permitted to happen during a play. She had never seen one. The only time a traveling company of actors had come within visiting distance of their home, Bruce had refused to allow her to go. To him, acting was a creation of the devil.

She could not do it. She really could not, even to please the duchess. How could she look at Alexander and speak words of love to him when she knew that he hated her so much? He had promised her the day before that he would think of a suitable way of punishing her for disobeying his command to stay away. She did not know if he had yet punished her enough. She really did not know if the night before had been the punishment or not.

He had come to her room when she was still brushing her hair before her mirror, clad in her usual linen nightgown, trimmed at neck and wrists with lace. He had not knocked, and she had gaped at his reflection in the mirror, the brush stilled against her hair.

"Alexander," she had said foolishly, "what do you want?"

He had raised his eyebrows and gazed back at her reflection, his expression cynical. "I wonder you ask," he had replied. "You came here of your own free will, madam. I assume that you came here to perform again your wifely duties."

"No," she had said, putting down the brush with a clatter onto the dresser and spinning around to face him, "no, Alexander, please don't. Please."

His cynical look had deepened. "1 am devastated, madam," he had said. "Am I to believe that my person is not desirable enough to you? I do not remember any words in the marriage service that said you owed me obedience only as long as you found me attractive."

She had shaken her head and pressed against the hard edge of the dresser. How could she explain to him that her reluctance had nothing to with her feelings for him or her attraction to him. She could not bear to be taken out of contempt and even hatred. That had happened to her once before, and the experience had scarred her for a lifetime, she felt. Certainly she had never quite recovered from the feeling of degradation that had followed upon that night of ecstasy. Not again. Please, not again.

His ringers had threaded their way through her hair until her head was his prisoner. "No," she had said, tears springing to her eyes. "Please, Alexander. Please. Oh, please."

The trouble was, she admitted to herself now, that those pleadings had taken on a double meaning. He had kissed her throat as his hand opened her nightgown down the front, and she had become lost in her own desire for the man she had loved almost from the moment when she had first set eyes on him. Passion had flared in her with shockingly little resistance, and finally she had urged him on, pleading against his hair, against his cheek, and against his mouth.

It had not been a shared experience. She had abandoned herself to the passion that his expertise aroused with such ease. She had clung to him, opened to him, arched herself to his invasion, cried out to him, and shuddered against him at the end of it all. And then she had slept deeply with her cheek against his damp shoulder. But she had not known what had motivated him. He had not been tender, she knew that, but then neither had she. Their lovemaking had been too charged with emotion to allow for that. He had said nothing, not looked into her eyes once while he took her or afterward, and had not held her or touched her when it was over. But neither had he moved away from her touch when she had laid her cheek against his shoulder. And he had slept beside her all through the night, rising and leaving her room only when she awoke and moved her head to look at him. He had looked back, unsmiling, got out of the bed, pulled on his nightshirt and dressing gown without any appearance of embarrassment, and left the room without a word or a backward glance.

"It still seems funny to me that Great-aunt Jemima has given me the part of Constance Neville," Prudence Raine was confiding to Anne, "when I have a sister Constance. It is going to be most confusing. But so exciting. I was secretly hoping that I would have one of the main parts, weren't you, Anne?"

"I am paralyzed by terror," Anne replied. "I shall rely on you to help me learn how to act, Prudence."

She looked across the room to Alexander, who was indulgently listening to an excited monologue by Freddie. Her insides performed a curious somersault. He looked so formal and impersonal dressed still in the riding clothes that he had worn for an early ride. And very, very handsome. Yet this was the man who had used her so intimately just a few hours before. Was the punishment over? Would he come to her again? How could she live if he did not? Her face suffused with color as he raised his head and looked full at her, the smile that had been donned for Freddie's benefit fading completely. He held her look until she turned away jerkily and smiled for no reason at all at Constance Raine, who sat quietly beside her.

Until the middle of the afternoon, one would not have been able to find any privacy in any of the public rooms of Portland House. Claude Raine had taken possession of the drawing room and was reading through the whole play, trying to imagine what he wished it all to look like at the end of the two weeks. He very much feared that reality would in no way match the ideal. How could he bully them all into spending the next two weeks learning lines and practicing scenes, when most of them had come with the idea that they were about to have a holiday? He sighed. Why did none of them have the courage to stand up against Aunt Jemima and tell her they just would not do it? For the same reason that they had never stood up to her within living memory, he supposed. She was just plain overpowering. It was really amusing how she kept alive the myth that it was Uncle Roderick who was really the originator of all her mad ideas.

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.

Merrick did not have to read the play that lay open before him to the first page. He had seen it performed several times. He had always enjoyed it and would normally have fallen in with the duchess's plans-if not with enthusiasm, at least with willingness. But he would have to flirt with Anne, even to the extent of stealing a kiss, before an audience. He wondered if his grandmother had chosen the play with the fact in mind that the situation between the two main characters resembled to an uncomfortable degree his own first meeting with his wife. In the play, Charles Marlow mistook the daughter of the house for the maid because she was dressedin countrystyle. He attempted to seduce her and discovered the truth only when her father and his own intervened. Merrick ground his teeth. He certainly did not need the play to remind him of how he had acted the fool.

If he leaned slightly forward toward the window, he could see Anne below him, sitting in the rose arbor, reading. Was she, too, realizing the parallels between the play and her own experience? He was going to find it impossible to act with her. All the others would be watching them, wondering about the true state of their marriage. Sometimes he could contemplate horrible tortures for his dear, interferinggrandmother.

What was the state of his marriage, anyway? He was still shaken by the change in her. He hated to admit it, but she was quite beautiful now. Had he recognized her immediately the afternoon before, perhaps he could have protected himself from that feeling of powerful attraction that had swept over him. But yet again she had unwittingly put him into the position of feeling very foolish. How could a man speak to his own wife for a whole minute or two without knowing her? His embarrassment had very quickly converted into anger. Perhaps he had been unfair, but she should have revealed herself sooner. Was he always to appear at a disadvantage before her?

Merrick put his head back against the wall behind him. Why had he gone to her last night? It was really a foolish thing to have done. He had resumed the marriage and perhaps given her the argument she needed to be taken back with him when he returned to London after the anniversary ball. It would have been far better to have stayed angry, to have concentrated his mind on that punishment he had promised her. But punishment for what? She had only obeyed a command from an old woman whom even the strongest man had never been able to withstand for as far back as Merrick could remember.

He could not understand his own feelings. He had almost always felt in command of himself where women were concerned. Even when he had been about to betroth himself to Lorraine, he had made a conscious decision, weighing all the advantages of such a match. He always chose his mistresses with care, considering their beauty, social position, tact, and intelligence. He had never allowed himself to be swayed by emotion alone. With Anne he could be sure of nothing. For a long time he had felt guilty, pitying her alone on his run-down estate. He had felt that he should return to her, if only to make her a decent settlement and set her free to choose a more congenial place to live.

Now his mind was totally confused. He had had no willpower the night before to stay away from her. He had hidden his own perplexity behind a mask of cold cynicism, but he had wanted her with an ache that was not to be denied. And as soon as he had touched her, he had been back in their wedding chamber, where he had surprised himself with the strength of his own desire for her. He had blocked that memory from his mind, as it was totally inconsistent with his general feeling of distaste for a bride whom he had seen as dull and almost ugly. But there had been no holding back the memory the night before. She had smelled of the same wholesome soap as she had before, and her body had responded with the same heat and eager surrender. She was undoubtedly, and surprisingly, a woman of great passion. He had completely lost control of his own reactions. He had not been able to make love to her as if he despised her, but had taken her as if she were his very life.

Would he go to her again tonight? And tomorrow night? If he wished to retain any control over his own life, he must stay away. He could not allow himself to be ruled by a little mouse of a woman who somehow always seemed able to make him look foolish.

Damn Grandmamma! Merrick picked up his copy of the play, slammed it closed, and hurled it onto a table that stood a short distance from the window. He felt better for a moment.