Edmund watched my reflection in the mirror above the mantel.
I nodded every now and then as if following the lines, although in truth, I no longer knew which play Mr. Brontë was reading from.
Whichever one it was, the drama was tedious and Mr. Brontë’s tone monotonous. It was as if he too had lost the import of what he was reading, as if the four of us would be stuck here forever, waiting to discover who would be the first to break.
The sound of the children’s raised and irritable voices was a relief. It was the sign I had been waiting for. I sprang to my feet and called them in from the hallway.
Miss Brontë looked tired, Lydia jubilant, Ned and Bessy ill-tempered, and Mary on the verge of tears.
“How was the play, my darlings?” I said, swooping in to kiss Ned’s rosy cheek.
“Mary took ill and insisted that we leave before the end, which is such a bore!” complained Bessy. “I wanted to see Richmond run his sword through the king.”
Ned mimed the action, invisible sword pointed at Miss Brontë’s abdomen.
“You are unwell, Mary?” I asked.
I was more surprised at Lydia’s even temper at being dragged away from an “occasion.” Her color was so high that her face matched her fuchsia dress and a smile was playing on her lips.
“I—” Mary began.
“Of course she is unwell, Lydia,” Edmund’s mother said. She, the only one who remained sitting, had lounged back even more so I could hardly see her behind her stiff, voluminous skirts. “Late nights! Theatricals! Miss Brent shouldn’t let the girls go on so, even if you are oblivious about how young ladies should be reared.”
“I am sorry, madam,” whispered Miss Brontë.
Her brother shot her a look of incredulity. “Brontë, Mrs. Robinson,” he said to Edmund’s mother, with a bow.
“I beg your pardon, sir?” she said, sitting up so that her head emerged once more.
“Our name is Brontë,” he said. “Not Brent.”
Everyone stared, waiting to see how Grandmama would react to such a challenge.
“Edmund!” she called, sticking out her hand. “Escort me to my rooms. I have had entertainment enough for this evening.”
Edmund helped her up from the chaise and offered her his arm.
Mary tried to whisper something to me, but her words were inaudible. I brushed her aside.
“And you!” my mother-in-law shot at Miss Brontë. “Get those children to bed!”
Miss Brontë inclined her head.
“Good night, Mr. Brontë,” I said, very deliberately, before Edmund and his mother were out of earshot, anxious that they hear him leave with the others, and still more scared of what I would do if he did not.
Mr. Brontë bowed and held the door for Lydia, as Ned and Bessy lined up to give me the expected kiss good night.
“Mama,” hissed Mary. “I must speak with you.”
“Mary,” I protested, the desire to be alone again overwhelming me in a sudden flood. I would take the Shakespeare to bed. Maybe Mr. Brontë and I could discuss the play in the morning.
“Please, Mama.”
The door clicked closed behind the tutor.
“Well, what is it?” I dragged Mr. Brontë’s chair back to its original position and, when I turned back, was surprised to find Mary crying. “My love?” I pinched her chin and teased her face toward mine.
“Mama, I’m frightened,” I made out between her sobs.
“Whatever is the matter?” I asked, my heart beating a little faster, thinking of Georgiana and how she’d said she was afraid to journey to heaven alone.
“I’m—I’m—” Her voice dropped even lower. “Between my legs. I’m bleeding.”
I dropped her chin, laughed, and gave her shoulder a quick (I hoped comforting) squeeze.
Mary’s expression fluctuated with confusion.
“Is that all?” I asked. “Mary, you are a goose. There is no need to be frightened. I thought the other girls would have told you? Or Miss Brontë? But no matter. I’ll have Marshall bring you rags.”
I walked over to pull the bell cord.
“I’m not dying?” Mary stuttered, clenching and unclenching her fist at her side.
“No, no,” I said, beckoning over Marshall, who was hovering at the door. “But I’m far too tired to teach you anything tonight. Marshall here will see to the soaking of your things.”
CHAPTER SIX
THE THEATRE ROYAL SMELLED of oil, tobacco, and sweat. The crowds trod on my dress as we fought our way through the foyer, and I was nearly winded climbing the stairs to the finer seats. But then we emerged into a galaxy of candles and gas lamps glinting off the gilt decorations and reflecting in each crystal of the great chandelier.
The musicians tuned their instruments, the atonal symphony making me cringe. The throng buzzed with a thousand questions and observations. Men and women of every station lived out their dramas in groups and pairs. But at the sound of a gong or flicker of the curtain, all that would no longer matter. We would enter another world, beckoned in by Mr. Samuel Roxby’s summer company, a world where the line between villain and hero was clear, where misunderstandings were always reversed by the end, and where love and beauty never aged.
In the fortnight since Mr. Brontë had read to me, there had been something in the air, a shared mania that drew us all (except for Edmund and his mother) time and again to the theater. The children were too delighted to question my change of heart, and even Miss Brontë softened in light of this new, harmonious pastime. Together we’d quaked at the murderer, Eugene Aram; laughed at Bottom, transformed into an ass; reveled in the romance of The Love Chase and in its farce.
Mr. Brontë was always at my side, making comments only he would, about the poetry of the piece, as well as its substance. Miss Brontë would find morals in the scenes, largely drawn from the curate Greenhow’s sermons, but only Mary and Ned would listen to her explanations. And Lydia, who grew more beautiful each day, would elbow her way to the front of our box and crane her neck over the side. She was oblivious to the admiring looks she drew from other patrons, her eyes were so fixed upon the stage, except when she turned to whisper a confidence to her co-conspirator, Bessy.
Tonight was the hottest night we’d had yet, and we were sweating through the fifth and final act of a history play by Mr. Bulwer-Lytton. I fanned myself so hard that my wrist ached. Ned slept, drooling into Miss Brontë’s lap.
“Should we leave early to avoid the mob?” Mr. Brontë asked softly, his breath blowing a stray hair against my cheek.
Miss Brontë coughed.
“I will soldier through to the end,” I said, seeing that Lydia showed no signs of fatigue and wishing I had her energy.
The last scenes were torturous, but I held my ground. If only I could lean against Mr. Brontë, see the rest of the show sideways from the vantage point of his shoulder, and trust him to steer me home.
At the final line, a sigh of collective relief rippled through the auditorium, followed by rapturous applause. The actors, oblivious to the true reason for this outpouring, took the cheers as their cue for an extended curtain call.
In the center was the people’s favorite: Harry Beverley. At this distance, his features were indecipherable, but I imagined his face beaming with joy at the validation, with a blush deep enough to match his red cardinal’s robe.