Lady Lightfingers by Janet Woods Page A

Alice’s hand. It had been a long time since that had happened and memories surfaced of evenings spent in the drawing room with her family and their friends. How easily those particular worms had turned when she’d needed them.
    â€˜Mrs Laws; how nice to meet you. You look cold . . . come, take my seat by the fire.’ When she did he placed a cushion at her back and turned to Celia. ‘Miss Laws, we meet again. How are you?’
    Celia busied herself with Lottie. ‘I’m well, Mr Kent.’
    â€˜Good. My uncle tells me you’ve taken up acting. You must recite your poem for us.’
    Celia turned a rosy shade of pink. ‘I don’t think so, Mr Kent. I’m not a real poet and your uncle thinks my poem to be . . . florid, so I won’t bore him with it again.’
    â€˜I wouldn’t have thought that a young woman who performs in public would be shy of performing in the drawing room. What say you, Uncle?’
    The man was subjecting Celia to some light teasing.
    Mr Hambert beamed a smile at everyone. ‘There’s a big difference in acting a part, and in being connected to a poem for the love of it. One is performed with the head, the second with the heart.’
    Spontaneously Celia said, ‘Oh, I know exactly what you mean.’
    â€˜Do you, my dear?’
    â€˜Some poems hide inside you, and little snatches of it visit from time to time. Sometimes the scenes created by the words are so beautiful they make me sad.’ She looked from one to the other and shrugged. ‘I imagine that sounds silly.’
    Alice rescued her daughter. ‘Not at all, that’s exactly how it is. Now, you might prefer to recite another poet’s work, Celia. Keats perhaps.’
    Mr Hambert smiled at her. ‘Ah yes, John Keats. It’s a long time since I’ve heard his work recited. Do you know The Human Seasons , Celia? It starts with: Four seasons fill the measure of the year .’
    â€˜Not very well.’ Shyly, Celia picked up on it. ‘There are four seasons in the mind of man: He has his lusty spring, when fancy clear, takes in all beauty with an easy span.’
    When she hesitated Thomas prompted, ‘He has his summer . . .’
    They picked through the poem together, and Alice received a nervous glance from Celia when it came to her turn again. ‘. . . on mists of idleness – to let fair things pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.’ Celia spread her hands. ‘It’s been a long time and I forget the rest.’
    James smiled at her. ‘He has his winter too of pale misfeature . . .’
    â€˜ Or else he would forgo his mortal nature? ’ Celia finished.
    â€˜A wonderful joint effort.’ Thomas said with a smile.
    â€˜Why is the poem called The Human Seasons when it refers to men all the time? Women are human, too.’
    James laughed. ‘Answer that one, Uncle?’
    â€˜I’m afraid I can’t. Perhaps because the poet was a man, and perhaps because women are the beauty he perceives in his lustful spring and the honeyed cud of his summer.’
    James gently coughed and Thomas looked a bit flustered.
    â€˜Perhaps my daughter is too young to be expected to understand such poems yet,’ Alice told him.
    â€˜Of course she is, but she recited the lines she remembered quite beautifully, I thought.’
    When Celia beamed with pride and said, ‘It’s easier to perform to a bigger audience of strangers than to a small group,’ they exchanged smiles.
    â€˜That’s because it’s more intimate with friends present.’ Thomas asked, ‘How are you getting on with Robinson Crusoe , Celia?’
    â€˜I haven’t had time to read any of it yet. I’ve been writing my stories . . . five in all, and I’m just about to finish the sixth. And I’ve been . . . working.’
    â€˜Doing what?’ James asked her innocently.
    Celia saw no reason not to say out loud