to gain confidence from her words.
“Don’t expect me to stay by your side, laddie mine,” Boswell announced bluntly. “Too many beauties will require our attention.”
“I thought your heart was permanently broken by a certain lady of the theater,” Creech heckled his friend.
“’Twas broken, to be sure,” Boswell said with mock seriousness, “—but that was last year!”
Even Sophie laughed.
“To the lassies in our futures!” Hunter cheered, extending his velvet-cloaked arm heavenward in a high-spirited salute.
“To the lassies!” chorused Creech and Boswell.
Sophie remained silent at this, but none of her escorts appeared to notice. She could hear the sedate strains of a string orchestra playing a minuet as they entered the flow of pedestrians approaching Bells Wynd. She was acutely aware of the whispering onlookers as their small group joined the throng entering the ballroom. Handsome young women, resplendent in satin and brocades, acknowledged their entrance from behind fluttering fans, their ornately powdered wigs nearly colliding as they craned their necks to get a look at the tall stranger with dark blond hair.
Hunter’s skin-tight borrowed breeches showed off his muscular frame to seductive advantage, and Sophie could sense a palpable excitement stirring among the females in the ballroom, most of them wearing deep-cut bodices that barely restrained their rounded, opalescent flesh. Her own peach-colored gown felt grotesquely loose against the pathetically small mounds on her chest, and for the first time in her life, Sophie experienced a witch’s brew of raw envy flowing through her veins.
The room had become insufferably stuffy, the cloying scents of the dancers masking not only the sweat produced by their exertions on the ballroom floor but odors of much baser origins. Hunter, Boswell, and Creech were already surrounded by a group of chattering young people their own age, including a bevy of beauties who clustered nearby, anxious to make Hunter’s acquaintance.
As the orchestra struck up a sedate minuet, Sophie found herself all but abandoned by her three companions. Her fear that Hunter Robertson would be unable to sell tickets to his performance at the Canongate Playhouse melted into the packed ballroom, replaced by a bleakness that seemed to invade her bones. She watched as Hunter, by way of introduction, kissed the hand of one coquette who stared at him invitingly with large luminous eyes. At this flirtatious exchange, Sophie’s pleasurable anticipation of the evening drained away entirely, leaving her wretchedly bereft and utterly ignored.
Three
The Canongate Playhouse was packed to the rafters on the evening of May 15. Sophie stood backstage, trembling with apprehension. It was all very well that Edinburgh women of fashion had apparently adopted a new pet—the devilishly handsome Hunter Robertson—but would the theater patrons sitting restlessly out front tire of Scottish ditties and laments and the novelty of a blind old man playing the harp? And what if the kirk elders thundered from their pulpits on Sunday against theatergoers who indulged in such wicked amusements?
Sophie retreated from the spy hole and gazed nervously into the tiring-room. Hunter stood in front of the looking glass neatly securing his blond mane at the nape of his neck with a black ribbon. He had combined Boswell’s blue velvet coat and laced-trimmed linen shirt to excellent effect with his Clan Robertson tartan trews woven of crimson, forest green, and navy wool He glanced at her standing in the door frame and grinned.
“What think you, Sophie lass? Will the ladies swoon—or throw rubbish?”
Before she could answer the obvious, the theater manager appeared in the doorway.
“Ready, lad?” Beatt asked. “I think we should begin.”
The performers moved toward the wings. Sophie watched the old man settle painfully on the low stool placed stage right. His daughter-in-law Jean Robertson took her
“Don’t expect me to stay by your side, laddie mine,” Boswell announced bluntly. “Too many beauties will require our attention.”
“I thought your heart was permanently broken by a certain lady of the theater,” Creech heckled his friend.
“’Twas broken, to be sure,” Boswell said with mock seriousness, “—but that was last year!”
Even Sophie laughed.
“To the lassies in our futures!” Hunter cheered, extending his velvet-cloaked arm heavenward in a high-spirited salute.
“To the lassies!” chorused Creech and Boswell.
Sophie remained silent at this, but none of her escorts appeared to notice. She could hear the sedate strains of a string orchestra playing a minuet as they entered the flow of pedestrians approaching Bells Wynd. She was acutely aware of the whispering onlookers as their small group joined the throng entering the ballroom. Handsome young women, resplendent in satin and brocades, acknowledged their entrance from behind fluttering fans, their ornately powdered wigs nearly colliding as they craned their necks to get a look at the tall stranger with dark blond hair.
Hunter’s skin-tight borrowed breeches showed off his muscular frame to seductive advantage, and Sophie could sense a palpable excitement stirring among the females in the ballroom, most of them wearing deep-cut bodices that barely restrained their rounded, opalescent flesh. Her own peach-colored gown felt grotesquely loose against the pathetically small mounds on her chest, and for the first time in her life, Sophie experienced a witch’s brew of raw envy flowing through her veins.
The room had become insufferably stuffy, the cloying scents of the dancers masking not only the sweat produced by their exertions on the ballroom floor but odors of much baser origins. Hunter, Boswell, and Creech were already surrounded by a group of chattering young people their own age, including a bevy of beauties who clustered nearby, anxious to make Hunter’s acquaintance.
As the orchestra struck up a sedate minuet, Sophie found herself all but abandoned by her three companions. Her fear that Hunter Robertson would be unable to sell tickets to his performance at the Canongate Playhouse melted into the packed ballroom, replaced by a bleakness that seemed to invade her bones. She watched as Hunter, by way of introduction, kissed the hand of one coquette who stared at him invitingly with large luminous eyes. At this flirtatious exchange, Sophie’s pleasurable anticipation of the evening drained away entirely, leaving her wretchedly bereft and utterly ignored.
Three
The Canongate Playhouse was packed to the rafters on the evening of May 15. Sophie stood backstage, trembling with apprehension. It was all very well that Edinburgh women of fashion had apparently adopted a new pet—the devilishly handsome Hunter Robertson—but would the theater patrons sitting restlessly out front tire of Scottish ditties and laments and the novelty of a blind old man playing the harp? And what if the kirk elders thundered from their pulpits on Sunday against theatergoers who indulged in such wicked amusements?
Sophie retreated from the spy hole and gazed nervously into the tiring-room. Hunter stood in front of the looking glass neatly securing his blond mane at the nape of his neck with a black ribbon. He had combined Boswell’s blue velvet coat and laced-trimmed linen shirt to excellent effect with his Clan Robertson tartan trews woven of crimson, forest green, and navy wool He glanced at her standing in the door frame and grinned.
“What think you, Sophie lass? Will the ladies swoon—or throw rubbish?”
Before she could answer the obvious, the theater manager appeared in the doorway.
“Ready, lad?” Beatt asked. “I think we should begin.”
The performers moved toward the wings. Sophie watched the old man settle painfully on the low stool placed stage right. His daughter-in-law Jean Robertson took her
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