LIBERTINE in the Tudor Court. Juliet Landon

of a moment she was trying to forget. The trumpets sounded for the start of the play, the audience turned to face the stage, but Adorna was sure that, if she could hear the beating of her heart, then surely everyone else could. She would not, could not look at him.

      ‘He waved,’ Hester said as the din settled.

      ‘Did he?’ said Adorna. Indirectly, she had scrutinised every one of his companions, two other men and three young, pretty and vivacious women whose chatter was unaffected by the arrival of the first actor. But then, nor were others until at least five minutes had passed by which time the words could be heard. All the way through, there was a continuous upstaging from the rowdy group of young gallants who had paid well to sit on stools within reach of the actors, and when Seton made his entrance as a lovely young woman, their loud comments would have made a sailor blush.

      Adorna’s glance across at Sir Nicholas’s group showed that some of them thought it was hilarious while she squirmed for her brother’s predicament, having to suffer that kind of thing each day in a different role. Though his acting was not quite as bad as he had told her it was, it became clear to her, knowing him as she did, that this sensitive young man was enjoying the performance even less than she was. She applauded loudly and enthusiastically at each of his speeches, ceasing to care whether Sir Nicholas was watching her or not, determined to make Seton aware of her support.

      As the actors took their bows, Adorna shouted to Peter that she was going backstage to find her brother. ‘I know where the horses are,’ she called to him in the pandemonium. ‘You take Hester and wait for me. I’ll be all right. I can look after myself.’

      ‘No, don’t go!’ Peter yelled back. ‘You’ll be trampled to death.’

      ‘Don’t be dramatic.’ She smiled, squeezing Hester’s arm. ‘I must have a word with Seton. See you outside.’ Slipping past them, she climbed over the bench and found her way at last into the dark shaky stairway that led her in the direction of the stage, elbowing her way against the crowds. To her consternation, she came face to face with those in Sir Nicholas’s group who, although not known to her personally, had been aware of her presence in the gallery. She smiled and squeezed past, seeing Sir Nicholas’s concerned expression over their heads, fortunately too far away to make contact.

      His eyes followed her, disapproving. ‘Mistress Pickering,’ he called.

      But Adorna pressed forward, ignoring him, finding herself in a shabby wooden passageway where actors, their faces grotesque with thick sweating paint, squeezed past her on their way to curtained cubicles. She peeped into two before she found Seton.

      Beneath the pale pink face-paint, the ridiculously red cheeks and painted lips, Seton was beaded with sweat. His eyes were wide and sad, his fair lashes blackened, his head still covered by a massive blonde wig that fell in luxurious curls over his lace ruff. From a distance he had looked convincing; now, he looked absurd. His sweat had made dark stains under each arm and the two bulges on his chest had been trussed until they almost met his chin. The jug of ale in his hand shook uncontrollably.

      Miserably, he placed it on the small littered table. ‘Dorna!’ he said, croaking. ‘I saw you.’

      They fell into each other’s arms, swaying in mutual comfort, Adorna as pained to see her brother in this state as he was to be seen. He had not wanted it. His malformed shape reeked of sheep’s wool, and she could not tell whether his shaking was for relief, distress, or laughter. ‘Shh!’ she crooned. ‘You were very good.’ Then, hearing the inadequate words, she added, ‘Well done, love. Even Master Burbage didn’t know his lines as well as you.’

      ‘I should do,’ he said. ‘I wrote them.’

      ‘By far the best play I’ve ever seen. Wonderful story.’

      ‘Thank you…thank you, love.’ He turned them both to the sheet of polished brass on the wall that served as a mirror. ‘Look, Dorna. Look at us both.’

      Still clinging, they saw two sisters, identical in so many respects that they might have been twins.

      ‘Well!’ Adorna smiled at his reflection. ‘Shall I call you sister now?’

      Seton broke away, eager to be rid of the stifling disguise. ‘Not for the world,’ he said. ‘As soon as my voice breaks, I’ll do this no more. I’m counting the days.’

      ‘It won’t be long, love. It’s going already.’

      ‘You heard the squeaks?’ He gave a rasp of laughter. ‘Yes, I know. I shan’t be able to keep it up in that register much longer, thank heaven. It hurts with the strain.’ Seton’s voice had been late to change, though there had been those, Master Burbage, for instance, who hoped it never would. Such things were by no means unusual. ‘Here, help me off with this thing.’ He put a hand to his forehead to peel away the wig.

      But before Adorna could comply, the curtain rattled to one side to reveal an unknown figure who stood swaying on the threshold, his face bloated and purple with drink, his eyes swivelling from one female figure to the other. ‘Eh?’ he said, thickly. ‘Two…two of you?’ He swept a hand over his face. ‘Can’t be. I’m seeing things again.’ He kept hold of the curtain for support while he fell into the cubicle with an outstretched hand ready to grab at Adorna’s bodice.

      She lashed out, yanking at the man’s hair as he came within range while Seton, in the confined space, picked up the jug of ale to hit him over the head. The curtain and its flimsy pole came down with a splintering crash as the intruder was yanked firmly backwards by a dark green arm across his throat and, above the mesh of curtain and limbs, Adorna identified the green-and-red-paned breeches of Sir Nicholas. Standing astride the prostrate drunkard, his eyes switched from brother to sister and back again, his expression less than sympathetic.

      ‘Congratulations on your performance, Master Pickering. Are you hurt, mistress?’ he said to Adorna.

      There had not been time for any injury except to her composure, which had suffered even before her meeting with Seton. ‘No, I’m not hurt, I thank you,’ she said. Curious faces had appeared behind Sir Nicholas, and a pair of stage-hands came to drag the man away by his feet, still parcelled. The curtain rail lay smashed across the passageway. ‘Who was he, Seton?’ she asked.

      ‘The usual kind of backstage caller with his congratulations. It’s quite a common occurrence, love.’

      ‘You mean they come here to…?’

      Seton smiled and pulled off his wig, making himself look, in one swift movement, utterly bizarre. ‘Yes, all part of the business. You have to get the wig off first. That usually stops ’em.’ He took Adorna’s hand. ‘Now you must go. Let Sir Nicholas take you home. He appears to be more security-conscious than your Master Fowler. Sir…’ he turned to Sir Nicholas ‘…we were glad to have your assistance. I thank you. Could you see my sister safely home, please? She should never have been allowed to come backstage on her own.’ His voice wavered over an octave.

      ‘Your sister didn’t come here alone, Master Pickering. I was waiting at the other end of the passage for her. And you may rest assured, I intend to see that she gets home safely.’

      On that issue, there seemed no more for Adorna to say except to hug Seton once again and assure him that she would give good reports of the play to their parents. Outside, however, in the emptying space of the shadowy theatre, she began her objections, suddenly realising how impossible it would be to follow Maybelle’s advice at a time like this. ‘Sir Nicholas,’ she said, slowing down, ‘I came with Master Fowler and Cousin Hester and our servants. We shall be quite safe enough, I assure you. I thank you, but—’

      ‘No need to thank me, mistress,’ he said, coldly formal with his use of her title. ‘You will be going home with Master Fowler, as you came. But I told your brother I would give you my personal protection, and that is what you’ll get, whether you want it or not.’

      She stopped in her tracks. ‘You came here, sir, with your own friends and I came with mine. I prefer not to join you.’

      Unmoved,