“Of course I do.”
She’d never given it much thought. Winsome was just one of those things that lasses were.
“How is, ah, Thea winsome?”
“Um. Because she win some, lose some.”
“I’m sorry I asked.” He briefly closed his eyes. “Very, very sorry.”
Drunk on his interest, Thea laughed. “Anyway,” she continued, using her hands for dramatic emphasis. “This winsome lass is attending a picnic, and—”
And she waved her arms, slamming her knuckles into the wall. Ouch. She could not tell her story like this, hemmed in as she was. She pushed back her chair and stood.
“What are you doing?” Luxborough snapped. “Sit down.”
“I need space to tell the story.”
“No, you don’t. You sit in your chair and talk. It’s really quite simple.”
“But I can’t…” The chair dug into the back of her knees and she pushed it back further. “I need—”
“’Ere you,” came a male voice from behind her. “Wotcha think yer doin’ then, eh?”
Thea spun around, mortified to realize she had jostled the man at the next table.
“I do beg your pardon, sir,” she said. “But I am telling a story and I need space.”
“Oh, I like a good story,” said the man. “What’s this story about then?”
“No story,” Luxborough called sternly. “You, man, turn around. You, wife, sit down.”
Thea and the man ignored him. “It’s about a winsome lass,” Thea said.
“Oh, I like a winsome lass. And the theatre. I saw Miss Sarah Holloway perform in London once, years ago. Splendid actress. Shame she disappeared. But I do like a nice spot of theatre after a day on the road.”
“This isn’t theatre,” Thea hastened to correct him. “I’m just telling a story to my, um, to him.”
But the man was already shuffling back his chair so he could hear her story too. In doing so, he upset his whole table.
“Oi, Joe,” cried the people at the table. “Watch what you’re doing.”
“Make some space,” said the man named Joe. “This lady here is telling us a story. There’ll be some theatre tonight.”
The people at the table welcomed this news loudly, for they, too, liked a spot of theatre after a day on the road.
“What’s this story about, then?” one of them asked.
“It’s about a winsome lass,” said the man named Joe. “Who—” He turned back to Thea. “What happens to this winsome lass?”
A dozen keen faces turned to her. People stuck in a coaching inn, after a long day of tiresome travel, desperate to be entertained. Thea risked a glance at the earl, who was looking murderous. Everything was fine there, then.
“She is cruelly wronged by a pair of dastardly knaves,” she told her new audience.
“Boo, poor thing,” said the people. “Let’s hear this story, then.”
They shoved back their table, its feet scraping on the floor, to rearrange their chairs. This upset other patrons, but they were soon mollified by the news that they were about to get a story, and everyone liked a spot of theatre after a day on the road.
“What are you all doing?” asked the innkeeper, bustling in. “Messing up my room. It’s not good for my economics.”
Several patrons informed him that this fine lady was going to tell them a story.
“This is the taproom, not a theatre.” The innkeeper jerked his chin at Luxborough. “If people are watching theatre, they’re not talking. And if they’re not talking, they’re not drinking. It’s the economics of it, m’lord, I mean, Mr. Cross. A man’s got to think of his economics.”
With more dark muttering about hell, Luxborough offered another handful of coins. “Get them all drinks.”
It didn’t take long to refresh everyone’s drinks and clear a space for Thea. Luxborough lounged against the wall, apparently resigned to this hellish development, and Thea considered how to proceed. Her family, like many households, enjoyed performing plays at home to while away the evenings, but it was another matter to perform alone.
She was still considering how to begin when the man named Joe, who had started all of this, bounded onto a chair and hushed the crowd.
“Friends and fellow travelers, listen well,” he said in a rich voice, waving his arms with pleasing dramatic effect. “For tonight’s theatre performance, this fine young lady will tell us the story of a winsome lass—”
“Ooooh,” everyone said.
“Who is cruelly wronged—”
“Awwwwww,” everyone said.
“By a pair of dastardly knaves.”
“Booooooo,” everyone said.
“I present to you ‘The Tale Of—’” He paused, arms in the air, and frowned at Thea. “What’s her name, then, this winsome lass?”
“Rosamund,” said Thea.
“Can I be Rosamund?” called out a serving woman, a plump fair-haired woman in her thirties. “I’ve always wanted to be an actress. And you can’t do it all on your own, miss.”
Before Thea could agree, the woman was at the front of the room, curtsying to the crowd.
“I am Rosamund,” she called out. “I’m a winsome lass”—she pressed one hand to her forehead—“who was cruelly wronged”—she clasped both hands over her heart—“by two dastardly knaves.”
Again, the crowd cheered. Thea’s confidence grew. They were apparently very easy to entertain.
“I want to be a dastardly knave!” called a young man, leaping to his feet, followed by another man saying, “Me too!”
“Of course,” Thea said, because what else could she do? “You are Percy,” she told the thin, sandy-haired one, who did bear a passing resemblance to Percy Russell. “And you are Francis,” she told the stout, balding one. “And remember, you are arrogant, dastardly, and very, very knavish.”
While the two men got into character, which meant puffing up their chests and strutting around to the cheers of the crowd, Thea darted back to Lord Luxborough and his baleful glare.
“The knaves in question are Percy Russell—that’s Lord Ventnor’s youngest son; I suppose you know him as you married his sister—and Francis Upton, heir to the Baron Bairstow.”
“Those are the two whom, ah, Thea reportedly tried to trap into marriage,” he said.
She waved an admonishing finger at him. “Just listen.”
The man named Joe put his chair to one side and then helped Thea climb onto it. She looked out over the faces turned to her in eager anticipation.
Waiting to hear her story.
The last time a roomful of people had stared at Thea, it was in Lord Ventnor’s ballroom. Now, after three years of her being silenced, spoken over, sent away, people wanted to hear her story.
She cleared her throat and smiled. “Now listen, all, to the tale of Rosamund, a winsome lass—”
“What’s that mean, anyway?” interrupted the woman playing Rosamund. “Winsome.”
“Why,” Thea said, “it means you win some, lose some.”