Today's Reading
Every indication gave her hope that they had not missed the start of the performance, though it must surely be nearing a quarter of seven. Heavy crimson velvet draperies guarded the entrances to the individual boxes, giving the occupants some degree of privacy and muffling the incessant noise from the saloon. A good number of them still stood open, awaiting the occupants' arrival. As no usher stood nearby to assist, Julia stepped ahead to sweep aside the curtain to their box for Mrs. Hayes.
Curious. The cord that fastened the curtain shut during the play had been secured from the inside. She supposed it had accidentally fallen into place, somehow. She would have to slip her hand around the corner of the door frame to release it.
As her gloved fingertips found the curved metal hook and fumbled to slide the silken loop over it, the curtain was wrenched open by someone unseen, and a strong, warm hand encircled her wrist.
"And just what do you think you're doing?" demanded a man's voice in an unmistakable, though not unpleasant, Scottish accent.
Against the glare of light from the theater beyond, she could make out little of the man's appearance beyond the fact that he was tall, with brownish-red hair the color of burnished copper. She was still trying to blink him into focus, and to rein in her clattering pulse, when Mrs. Hayes spoke.
"We are trying to enter our box, good sir," she said in a firm voice, accompanied by a sharp rap of her cane against the floor. "And I will thank you to unhand my niece."
Mildred Hayes was not Julia's aunt. At best, she was Julia's aunt-in-law, if such a relationship could even be said to exist. Not quite two years ago, Mrs. Hayes's actual niece, Laura, had married Julia's brother, Jeremy, Viscount Sterling, and moved with him to Wiltshire. Mrs. Hayes, however, had been determined to remain in London. Not wishing to abandon her elderly aunt, Laura had suggested her new sister-in-law might take her place as Aunt Mildred's companion.
Relatively few young ladies of seventeen would have jumped at the chance to serve at the whim of a widow who, in spite of her professed Town habits, actually lived quite retired in Clapham. But Julia, faced with the prospect of returning to quiet country life at her brother's estate, had readily accepted Mrs. Hayes's offer. Mrs. Hayes had a reputation for being liberal-minded and good-natured.
Most important of all, she loved the theater almost as much as Julia herself.
Julia's brother had taken her to plays now and again, when he could spare the time and the coin. She had treasured the memories of those evenings in Haymarket and Drury Lane: straining for a view of the lavish costumes and fancying she could still catch a whiff of greasepaint, even from the cheapest seats in the house. Then, she had never dared to dream of what Mrs. Hayes had since provided: tickets for the Season, every performance within her grasp.
And speaking of grasps...
The unknown gentleman released her reluctantly, as if she were a thief he had fully intended to turn over to the authorities.
Once freed, she longed to rub her wrist, not because it hurtóhe had been neither rough nor careless, despite the quickness of his movement but to rid herself of the sensation of his unwelcome touch.
The impatient tap of Mrs. Hayes's cane had given way to a sniff of derision as the widow snapped open her lorgnette and eyed the gentleman suspiciously through it. "Who the devil are you? And what are you doing in my box?"
"Your box, madam?" The words were punctuated with a mocking laugh. "I think you'll find you're mistaken."
All of Julia's blinking had managed to bring the man into better focus, though his features were still cast in shadow by the glare of light behind. He was not quite thirty, she guessed, impeccably but not ostentatiously dressed, with surprisingly broad shoulders that seemed somehow in contradiction to his aristocratic bearing.
Julia turned and began to murmur to Mrs. Hayes. But before she could request to be allowed to fetch an usher, Mr. Pope, the box manager, appeared beside them as if summoned by the imperious snap of someone's fingers. Someone's strong, warm fingers.
Despite her earlier resolve, she wrapped her other hand around the wrist he had held, however briefly, in his implacable grip, hoping her movement was disguised by the folds of her skirt.
Mr. Pope bowed to the gentleman, as if Mrs. Hayes were suddenly beneath his notice, however respectable she might be. "May I be of some assistance, my lord?"
My lord.
This excerpt is from the ebook edition.
Monday we begin the book EFFIE OLSEN'S SUMMER SPECIAL Rochelle Bilow.
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