Her voice had gone thick on those last words.
He couldn’t speak. The notion that she would need to brace for disappointment, or feel ashamed, or pour her glorious voice into a nearly empty room made the muscles across his stomach tense.
“I would like you to be there, but I do not need you to be there, James. I am happier knowing you will see your son. I will stun them with splendor. And then I shall go on to play better roles, and I will look back at this and perhaps . . . laugh.”
He knew she spoke truth. She’d endured before him. She would likely endure after him.
And she could, and would, leave him.
He wanted to be missed.
He turned his head to look at her. “So we’ve a few more days together,” he said softly.
His heart thudded, waiting for her to speak what to him, in that moment, amounted almost to a vow.
The seconds he waited felt like an eternity.
“We’ve a few more days together,” she whispered at last.
Chapter Sixteen
If not for Dot, the final, and arguably most important, part of the Night of the Nightingale stage decorations might never have been found.
Angelique and Helga were in the kitchen spiritedly debating whether they ought to be extravagant and have beef on Sunday, as they were, after all, hosting a duke and they could probably afford it, whilst at the same time slicing apples for tarts.
Suddenly Angelique realized they were missing one of their usual helpers.
“Have you seen Dot? She ought to have returned with the newspaper by now.”
Rose, who had been promoted from the scullery to proper kitchen maid, was sleepily sifting flour. “I havna seen her,” she yawned.
“She went out to get the newspaper. More than an hour ago, I’d warrant,” Helga noted.
They were accustomed to hearing the news over their tea and coffee in the kitchen. And Dot liked to read the gossip aloud.
It was very early, and neither Miss Wylde nor the Duke of Valkirk appeared to be early risers, so they weren’t yet about to ask whether they’d seen Dot. Mrs. Pariseau was an early riser, and off to tea with one of her many friends in London.
She was a singular person, Dot was, but she was unfailingly reliable.
So her absence was a little worrisome.
“Shall I look in her room, Mrs. Hardy?” Rose asked. Who was not unfailingly reliable, and often looked for excuses to wander away from her post, just for the variety. Though she had a good heart and was a quick learner.
Angelique halted her apple slicing when Delilah swept into the kitchen. “Have you seen Dot, Delilah?” she said at once.
“No. Not for a few hours, I assumed she was in here with you. I did want to have a look at the newspaper.” Delilah paused. “Is she missing?”
Angelique nodded slowly.
Now they were more than a little worried.
Angelique lowered her voice. “Do you suppose she eloped with the man who sold the handkerchiefs?”
She was jesting.
Mostly.
Nevertheless.
“Surprisingly, I think she’s sensible about men,” Delilah said.
Together they moved out of the kitchen and into the foyer, contemplating where to begin a search for her.
Mr. Delacorte was just on his way out the door with his case in his hand. He stopped abruptly when he saw them standing beneath the chandelier, wearing concerned expressions.
They explained the cause of it.
“Let’s have a good thorough look round. I’m sure she’ll turn up,” he said. “I’ll search from the attic reaches of the house on down, and why don’t the two of you have a look around the Annex.”
“She’s afraid of ghosts,” Delilah said quietly. “She wouldn’t go in the attic.”
She and Angelique were somber a moment. Each experienced a tightening clutch of worry.
“Then again, only one way to conquer a fear!” Mr. Delacorte said cheerily.
This was a good point. One couldn’t always predict Dot logic.
Mr. Delacorte dashed gamely back upstairs, and Delilah and Angelique made for the Annex, swiftly, through the passage connecting the buildings, and into the corridor.
Angelique stopped sharply and placed a hand on Delilah’s arm. “Do you hear that?”
“That” was a faint keening sound.
“It’s coming from the ballroom, I think,” Angelique surmised.
They cautiously approached it, and this theory was confirmed. The closer they got to the ballroom, the keening evolved into actual words. Terrifying ones.
“HELP! Heeeeellllllp! Heeeeeellp!”
They hiked their skirts in their hands and ran.
“HEEEELLLLP!” It was louder now.
Delilah yanked open the door, and they both burst into the room.
To discover the sky had literally fallen. The ballroom floor was a carnage of stars and nets. And in one of them something, or someone, was thrashing like a great carp.
“Heeeeelllp! It’s me, Dot!”
They ran to her side and dropped to their knees. “Oh Dot! Thank God you’re all right!”
“I’m not all right! I’m in a net!” She attempted to claw it away from her face and only succeeded in trapping her fingers in the gaps.
“You’ll be all right in a moment,” Angelique soothed. “You can stop thrashing now. How on earth did you happen to be in a net?”
“I was admiring the stars,” Dot said through the holes in the net, “and then I thought, well, I think that one would look a little better if it was a little lower. I reached up, and I suppose I tugged too hard, and down it came, and then down everything came. Cor, was I scared!” She brightened a little. “It’s a very good net, however. See how well it works!”
Attempting to free herself had diabolically only entangled her more thoroughly. Her hairpins and hair and apron strings had conspired with the net to hold her fast. Even the newspaper she’d dutifully purchased had somehow become incorporated.
“All right. Hold very still, Dot. You’re making it worse,” Delilah fussed.
It was ages undoing her, and a rather surgical process. Angelique was compelled to go and get a pair of scissors. In the end, Dot lost some blond hairs, and the net gained some blond hairs, but she deemed it a small price to pay for her freedom.
They got her up on her feet, and they both fussed over her and smoothed her skirts. “Poor Dot,” Delilah exclaimed. “How awful for you! Are you scratched or bruised?”
Upon Dot’s reflection and Delilah and Angelique’s external inspection, it was discovered she was just a little dusty.
Also: more than a little blue. Some of the dye had rubbed off on her face.
Delilah had to give Angelique a little pinch to keep her from laughing when they noticed this.
“If we don’t get a lot of paying guests, we can just drop the nets and shanghai the ones we have and make our money that way,” Angelique said.
Delilah stifled a laugh.
“Paying guests” remained a concern. They would learn today from Lucien if they’d sold any more tickets.
“Dot, why don’t you go get cleaned up. Helga needs help in the kitchen. We’ll wait for Captain Hardy and Lord Bolt to return to get the nets back up.”
Good God. Neither of them looked forward to asking their husbands to do that again.