enough—'
'But we know he does love her by the end of the comedy,' objected Derby.
Mrs Damer shrugged. 'I don't believe it.' 'But that's what happens, my dear Mrs D.,' chipped in Major Arabin, 'and your douces charmes offer motive enough!'
Mrs Damer had two red spots on her cheekbones. 'I know that's what Mr Murphy wrote, but it rings false to me. How could a sensitive woman ever be happy with a husband like that?'
Several of the Players were looking at Eliza as if they expected her to intervene, but she didn't understand. At Drury Lane it was never like this, there wasn't enough time in the day. The very idea of arguing over whether a play was true or false to the human heart!
Derby broke the strained silence. 'That's enough toing and froing over this scene, surely,' he said. 'Should we have another go at the business in Act Three?'
Mrs Hobart sidled up to Mrs Damer. 'If something's amiss, if you're unhappy with your part, I could be prevailed upon—for your sake—to exchange it with the Widow Bellmour's—'
'Nonsense,' said Eliza, too sharply, 'Mrs Damer plays our heroine very well. Nothing's wrong. Is there?'
Mrs Damer put her hand over her mouth. Then she said, 'Do please be good enough to excuse me' and ran from the room.
Eliza's heart was thudding. What kind of manager was she, to make her leading actress flee the scene? She put her hand against her mouth, instinctively learning Mrs Darner's gesture: the pressure on her upper lip, the hot breath on her fingers. 'Well,' she said in as light a voice as she could manage, 'she must have remembered another engagement.'
'Remembered her past, you mean,' said Mrs Hobart with dark relish, flopping down in a pink-and-gilt chair.
In the silence Eliza felt a hammer knocking against her temples. She looked over at her mother, whose needle was motionless in the air.
'You could have had no idea, of course, Miss Farren,' said Derby, pulling up a chair for Eliza, 'as it was all over before you came to town.' His small eyes were dark with apology.
'What was?' she asked, too shrill. 'I know Mrs Darner's husband died young—'
Mrs Hobart let out a snort. 'They were unhappy from the start. It'd seemed a good match at the time—'
'Well, yes,' contributed Mrs Blouse, 'since she was the Countess of Ailesbury's daughter, and John Damer had £30,000 a year and the Earl of Dorchester for a father.'
Sir Harry Englefield shook his head. 'He was a wild young buck, though. After the first few years they lived apart.'
'Like in our play!' said Mrs Blouse with a squeal of insight. 'Poor Mrs D. couldn't seem to win his love back, no matter what she did.'
'I'm not sure it was ever a question of love in the first place,' put in Dick Edgcumbe.
'Or that she tried very hard to win him back,' added Mrs Hobart with a sniff.
Eliza's cheeks were scalding. What a disaster. How had she got herself tangled up in the secrets of these people? They were a little School for Scandal of their own. What did they think of her peculiar relation to Lord Derby; did they consider her a flirt with her eye on a countess's coronet? What did they say about her as soon as she went home?
'The fact of the matter is,' Derby told Eliza grimly, 'that the fellow got into such deep debt, together with his brothers, the Damers were going to have to flee to France—but instead he shot himself in a tavern.'
'No!' Eliza looked round at the lit faces; they seemed to her like pedigree hawks. She was reminded once again of how long they'd all known each other and how little she knew them.
'It was the Bedford Arms in Covent Garden,' put in Major Arabin. 'But oh, dear, now you'll shudder whenever you have to pass it, a woman of sensibility like yourself.' He laid a sympathetic paw on her shoulder.
'People were most unkind to Mrs Damer afterwards,' murmured Mrs Hobart. 'Really, it was quite extraordinary, the things that were said!'
'No need to repeat them,' said Derby.
'I've no intention of doing so,' she
'But we know he does love her by the end of the comedy,' objected Derby.
Mrs Damer shrugged. 'I don't believe it.' 'But that's what happens, my dear Mrs D.,' chipped in Major Arabin, 'and your douces charmes offer motive enough!'
Mrs Damer had two red spots on her cheekbones. 'I know that's what Mr Murphy wrote, but it rings false to me. How could a sensitive woman ever be happy with a husband like that?'
Several of the Players were looking at Eliza as if they expected her to intervene, but she didn't understand. At Drury Lane it was never like this, there wasn't enough time in the day. The very idea of arguing over whether a play was true or false to the human heart!
Derby broke the strained silence. 'That's enough toing and froing over this scene, surely,' he said. 'Should we have another go at the business in Act Three?'
Mrs Hobart sidled up to Mrs Damer. 'If something's amiss, if you're unhappy with your part, I could be prevailed upon—for your sake—to exchange it with the Widow Bellmour's—'
'Nonsense,' said Eliza, too sharply, 'Mrs Damer plays our heroine very well. Nothing's wrong. Is there?'
Mrs Damer put her hand over her mouth. Then she said, 'Do please be good enough to excuse me' and ran from the room.
Eliza's heart was thudding. What kind of manager was she, to make her leading actress flee the scene? She put her hand against her mouth, instinctively learning Mrs Darner's gesture: the pressure on her upper lip, the hot breath on her fingers. 'Well,' she said in as light a voice as she could manage, 'she must have remembered another engagement.'
'Remembered her past, you mean,' said Mrs Hobart with dark relish, flopping down in a pink-and-gilt chair.
In the silence Eliza felt a hammer knocking against her temples. She looked over at her mother, whose needle was motionless in the air.
'You could have had no idea, of course, Miss Farren,' said Derby, pulling up a chair for Eliza, 'as it was all over before you came to town.' His small eyes were dark with apology.
'What was?' she asked, too shrill. 'I know Mrs Darner's husband died young—'
Mrs Hobart let out a snort. 'They were unhappy from the start. It'd seemed a good match at the time—'
'Well, yes,' contributed Mrs Blouse, 'since she was the Countess of Ailesbury's daughter, and John Damer had £30,000 a year and the Earl of Dorchester for a father.'
Sir Harry Englefield shook his head. 'He was a wild young buck, though. After the first few years they lived apart.'
'Like in our play!' said Mrs Blouse with a squeal of insight. 'Poor Mrs D. couldn't seem to win his love back, no matter what she did.'
'I'm not sure it was ever a question of love in the first place,' put in Dick Edgcumbe.
'Or that she tried very hard to win him back,' added Mrs Hobart with a sniff.
Eliza's cheeks were scalding. What a disaster. How had she got herself tangled up in the secrets of these people? They were a little School for Scandal of their own. What did they think of her peculiar relation to Lord Derby; did they consider her a flirt with her eye on a countess's coronet? What did they say about her as soon as she went home?
'The fact of the matter is,' Derby told Eliza grimly, 'that the fellow got into such deep debt, together with his brothers, the Damers were going to have to flee to France—but instead he shot himself in a tavern.'
'No!' Eliza looked round at the lit faces; they seemed to her like pedigree hawks. She was reminded once again of how long they'd all known each other and how little she knew them.
'It was the Bedford Arms in Covent Garden,' put in Major Arabin. 'But oh, dear, now you'll shudder whenever you have to pass it, a woman of sensibility like yourself.' He laid a sympathetic paw on her shoulder.
'People were most unkind to Mrs Damer afterwards,' murmured Mrs Hobart. 'Really, it was quite extraordinary, the things that were said!'
'No need to repeat them,' said Derby.
'I've no intention of doing so,' she
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