Those Scandalous Ravenhursts Volume 3. Louise Allen

Instead, his mind had been filled with the image of Maude, her supple body, her soft, warm mouth, and he had groaned aloud, the sweat standing out on his brow. ‘Here.’ He thumbed through the pages of the play in his hand. ‘Give them all this scene.’

      ‘Right you are, Guv’nor.’ Howard turned back to take the pages. ‘Her ladyship’s here.’ The man lowered his voice and jerked his head towards the tier of boxes up on the right. ‘Been here since eight. Said not to disturb you.’ Eden allowed himself a grunt of acknowledgment. ‘I sent Millie up with some coffee and sweet rolls.’

      ‘Good.’ At least he wasn’t fantasising, Maude really was up there. Perhaps there was nothing wrong with him at all, except lust, and slender brunettes with heart-shaped faces and haughty little noses were what it took to reduce him to this state of distraction.

      His doctor had patiently examined him, peered into his eyes, listened to his heart, performed whatever mysteries medics did over a urine sample and pronounced him as fit as a racehorse. The man had offered to bleed him should the strange dizzy spells recur, advised laying off the port and drinking more Burgundy instead and recommended a few early nights. ‘Not that there’s a damn thing wrong with you, Hurst,’ he’d added. ‘Still, I expect you want some advice for your money.’

      Eden stalked off to straddle a chair set stage right, his back to Maude’s box, without acknowledging that he was aware she was there. It was ungracious, he knew. He dumped the papers on the small table set beside it, pulled a pencil out of his pocket and tried to make his mind go blank. And failed.

      And it wasn’t just the physical attraction, it was the way she looked into his eyes as though she wanted to touch his soul and asked him questions and he found he was betraying his innermost thoughts, his weaknesses, the sore areas he tried to ignore.

      Try common sense… The more you avoid thinking about her, the more obsessed you will become. There are two options—make love to her or get used to her. The first was patently impossible, which left the second.

      Eden stood up, moved centre stage and shaded his eyes to look up at the boxes. ‘Lady Maude?’

      ‘Mr Hurst.’ He could see her easily now. Maude had taken off her bonnet and she was resting her elbows on the velvet padded rim of the box, a coffee cup cradled in her hands. ‘Thank you for my breakfast.’ She could pitch her voice to reach him without shouting, he realised, professionally impressed at the clarity.

      He should, of course, acknowledge that it had been Howard’s idea to send up the refreshments. ‘My pleasure.’ He wrestled with the conscience that he had assured her he did not possess. ‘But you must thank Mr Howard, our stage manager, for that.’

      ‘Thank you, Mr Howard,’ she called, waving, and the man produced a rare smile and raised a hand in acknowledgment. Now she is going to charm the entire company, Eden thought, resigned to hearing Maude’s praises sung by all and sundry.

      ‘Right.’ He looked at his pocket watch before laying it beside the script. ‘Let’s get on with this.’

      Maude bit the end of her pencil and concentrated. Mr Howard had given her a list of the hopeful ingénues and she was making careful notes against each. Not very clear… Moves awkwardly… Over-dramatic… Too old… Moves beautifully, but couldn’t hear her…

      When Eden stood up and announced a break for luncheon, she had come to the conclusion that there were only three so far who seemed right. ‘Mr Hurst!’

      Eden turned, looking up, and she was almost tempted to launch into the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet. She repressed the urge; her acting would reduce the audience to fits of laughter. ‘Would you care to take luncheon up here?’

      She had managed, with some success during the day at least, not to think too much about those moments in Eden’s arms that night. Now he seemed to hesitate and she felt her poise slipping.

      ‘Thank you, but, no, Lady Maude. Perhaps you would join Howard, Gates and me down here?’ He must have thought her silence meant she was doubtful, for he added, ‘With your maid, of course.’

      ‘Thank you, we will be right down.’ It was not doubt, Maude thought, managing to keep the smile off her face with difficulty, it was delight. For if he was inviting her to join them, then it meant he was prepared to listen to her ideas.

      With Anna at her heels she made her way on to the stage to find hands were transforming the make-shift set into a dining room and putting chairs around the table. Millie bustled on with a tray and began to lay out plates of cold meat, a raised pie, bread and cheese.

      ‘Have you ever been on stage before?’ Eden asked her as she stopped, centre front of the fore-stage, and looked out over the ranks of seats.

      ‘Only in small private theatres in country houses. This is breathtaking. It feels so much bigger than it looks from the box.’ She glanced at him and saw he was standing, studying the view from the stage with the same look on his face as she sometimes saw on her father’s countenance when he came home to Knight’s Fee, their Hampshire estate. This was not just Eden’s work, not just a tool of his trade—this theatre belonged to him in a way that went far beyond deeds of ownership. What she could see was passion and possession and pride.

      ‘You have good projection and pitch,’ he remarked, turning back to the table and taking the jug of ale from Millie. ‘Are you sure you cannot act? Think what the appearance of Lady Maude Templeton on the stage would do for the box office.’

      ‘Empty it,’ she said, laughing, and took the chair he held for her. Anna, looking alarmed, was seated next to Tom Gates and Howard took the foot of the table.

      ‘Help yourselves.’ Eden waved at the spread before flattening his notes next to his plate and pouring ale. ‘Can you drink this, Lady Maude?’

      ‘I expect so,’ she said, cutting the pie and serving it out. ‘It is thirsty work, listening.’

      ‘Right, then. The first one.’

      It took about three minutes for the men to forget who she was and to absorb her into the discussion. Elbows appeared on the table, notes were scribbled with one hand while the other waved a slice of bread to make a point, slices of meat and cheese were heaped on her plate without ceremony and Gates clinked his mug against hers. ‘Cheers.’

      Anna sat, quiet as a mouse, eating steadily, while Maude listened. So far, everyone was agreeing with her impressions, although their analysis of faults and talents were far more detailed and technical than her own.

      ‘Number ten,’ Eden said, spearing an apple with his knife. ‘No projection. No presence.’ The others nodded. Maude looked at her notes.

      ‘I don’t agree.’

      The three men reacted as though the loaf of bread had addressed them, she thought, amused. ‘I beg your pardon, Lady Maude.’ Howard stopped gaping at her. ‘She wasn’t good technically.’

      ‘She looked charming, she is graceful and she reacted well to Mr Gates’s lead,’ Maude stated. ‘Can’t you teach her to project her voice better?’

      ‘She should know how,’ Eden said.

      ‘But she’s young, she cannot have much experience. Won’t you call her back?’

      Gates looked at Howard. Howard looked at Eden. Eden poured more ale. Maude could almost hear their thoughts. His theatre, his company, his decision—and if he let her override him, would it diminish his authority?

      ‘Why didn’t you say anything about the others?’ he asked.

      ‘Because I agreed with you about them.’

      ‘Ah. Well, Lady Maude, you are our expert in the audience. Howard, put number ten down to call back.’ Face studiously blank, the stage manager made a note. ‘Number eleven?’

      By mid-afternoon Anna had fallen asleep on the padded bench and was snoring softly, but Maude was still engrossed.