“She’s mad as a March hare, so what does she know?” Otis muttered, shaking water from his hand.
“When will the theater troupe arrive?” the Duchess of Lindow asked.
“In three days,” Joan said, excitement shining from her eyes.
Lady Knowe rose, so all the men did as well. She skirted the table and stopped at Thaddeus’s shoulder. “I trust you know what you’re doing,” she said in a low voice.
He bowed.
In the old days, he probably would have met her eyes and said, “Always.”
Not true any longer.
Thaddeus had lost his unshakable understanding of the world, rooted in his birth and his title. He’d never understood how much he leaned on his birthright before the prospect of it being torn away was presented to him in no uncertain terms by his own father.
He had no idea why he was supporting Joan’s mad adventure either. He wouldn’t have done it two years ago. He had considered himself a lion in his den, or an eagle in his aerie: solitary due to birth rather than choice.
Condemned to solitude by his title. Virtuous to the bone.
But now?
Chapter Eight
Three days later, they were running through the scene in which Ophelia, in the grip of madness, strews flowers around the throne room. Thaddeus was reading the extra male roles, and Aunt Knowe the queen’s.
“Why does Ophelia have to pass out flowers?” Otis complained, dropping his book. “I feel like an oyster woman at Billingsgate handing out samples. And what’s more, I don’t even believe Ophelia is mad.”
“I do,” Thaddeus said. “The person she loved had no honor, and it broke her spirit. We don’t have words for that betrayal in English, so she’s talking with flowers instead.”
“You really think Hamlet betrayed her?” Joan asked uncertainly. Her vision of Hamlet was more heroic, using his rapier to conquer pirates and avenge his father.
“The man was obsessed by revenge and ruling the kingdom,” Thaddeus said. “He threw Ophelia to the side, because she was secondary to his ambitions. He didn’t care what happened to her.”
Looking at Thaddeus’s hard jaw and flinty eyes, Joan had the distinct feeling that she had misunderstood the man. He wasn’t cold, but rather explosive. Not uncaring, but caring too much.
He wasn’t a stick.
“Nasty,” Otis said, twirling the flower he was holding. “I still think she should have had more backbone and just kicked him in—” He caught himself. “Sorry, Joan. You’re dressed in breeches, and it’s inspiring me to ignore the niceties.”
“I am here, and wearing a gown,” Aunt Knowe observed.
Otis hopped to his feet and bowed, ignoring his skirts. “How could I possibly ignore the sparkling, sinful queen, Hamlet’s mother?”
“You are no Shakespeare,” Aunt Knowe laughed. “Shall we continue?”
“I think I know enough of my lines,” Otis said, plopping down again. “For God’s sake, no one needs me to be letter perfect. Joan, we want your little siblings to understand what’s going on, right?”
“You’re skipping almost everything Ophelia says,” Joan protested.
“You can’t want me to repeat, By cock, they are to blame, in front of your little sister. We can give the nursery a heads-up: When I begin throwing flowers around and bleating about true love, I’m heartbroken. If I go on about it too much, they’ll want to throw me in the brook themselves.”
Thaddeus cleared his throat, but the family butler, Prism, appeared at the door of the sitting room before he could speak.
“The baby!” Aunt Knowe cried, jumping up and throwing her copy of the play to the side.
“No, my lady,” Prism said, bowing. “Not the child, but the theater troupe. Their wagons are drawing up in the usual place behind the stables. I have informed them that the west ballroom is theirs for rehearsal.”
Aunt Knowe dropped back into her seat with a thud. “Thank goodness! You can rehearse with them from now on. I am worn out, having to read through this wretched play so many times.”
Joan gave her a beaming smile. “You are free, oh best of aunts. Otis and I will rehearse with the actors.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Thaddeus’s eyelashes flicker. Never mind the fact that she had haunted the ballroom during the troupe’s visit every year since she turned fourteen. He wouldn’t—
“I shall join you,” he stated, his voice as uncompromising as his expression.
“I don’t need a chaperone,” Joan said, impatience leaking into her voice.
“I do,” Otis said, grinning. “What if one of the actors is overcome by lust for my flowery self and can’t restrain himself? Thaddeus can put a rapier through his gizzard.”
“Do not even think of it,” Aunt Knowe advised Thaddeus. “If you stab an actor, the cast would be short a body, and I, for one, refuse to spend more than another hour or two with this wretched play.”
“Presumably two actors normally play Hamlet and Ophelia,” Thaddeus pointed out.
“They’ll have to remain in the audience, overcome with envy when they see my dashing performance of the mad miss,” Otis said.
Joan got to her feet. “Let’s go meet the troupe. Thaddeus, if you’re certain you want to join us, come along.”
He rose without a word and paced after them. The ballroom was filled with a crowd of familiar faces, since the theater troupe came every year. Stagehands were briskly stringing a green velvet curtain to the rear of the low stage, creating a dressing area.
Mr. Wooty, the head of the troupe, bustled toward Joan, a welcoming smile on his face. He was well over six feet, with a tapering shape, like a bass viol turned upside down. His shoulders were broad, and everything from there dwindled down to his feet. For all the oddity of his physical appearance, he managed to play a majestic king or a loathsome thief, whichever was required.
“My lady!” He stopped and gave her a sweeping bow, the sort that befitted a queen.
She laughed and swept him a curtsy, even though she was in breeches. “How are you, Mr. Wooty? And the rest of the troupe?”
“We’re in the pink, my lady, in the pink.”
“May I introduce our Ophelia, Mr. Murgatroyd?” Joan asked. “Otis, this is Mr. Wooty, who has visited the castle once a year since I was a girl. He taught me everything I know about acting.”
Otis began to bow, caught himself, and managed to sink into a curtsy only to have to catch his hat before it toppled to the ground.
Mr. Wooty’s mouth opened and shut, before he said, “That is a most remarkable headpiece, Mr. Murgatroyd.”
“Very Ophelia,” Otis told him proudly. “The girl liked flowers, after all.”
“When it’s not on your head, it can double for a fairy hill,” Mr. Wooty said. “You’re not beautiful, sir, but you’ll do, especially if the family squints. Lady Joan, you are looking quite royal.”
Joan grinned. “I also brought a friend along to enjoy our rehearsals, Mr. Wooty. Lord Greywick, may I introduce Mr. Wooty, the amazing and talented impresario of the Theatre Royal?”
“So you play the part of Shakespeare, running the company?” Thaddeus asked, nodding to the director.