“Dearest cousin,” said Juliet, unable to resist a bit of teasing, “you knowallthe lines in the play. End of. You could perform it yourself in its entirety.”
Delilah tapped forefinger to mouth, appearing to give the idea serious thought, before shaking her head. “No, I think not. It would be better with a larger cast. Now where was I? Oh, yes, I’ll play Rosalind, and Juliet will play Celia, of course.”
Juliet nearly choked on the wine she’d been sipping. “I?I think not.”
Delilah was the one who considered all the world her stage and Juliet the one who wanted nothing more than to write the lines.
“Well, I think you shall,” said Delilah, firm. “And Miss Dalhousie can play Phoebe.”
Miss Dalhousie gave her head a rueful shake. “I’m afraid I shall have to disappoint you, Lady Delilah.”
“Oh?” Delilah wasn’t accustomed to disappointment. She usually found a way around it. “Why is that?”
“A dear friend of mine has recently been delivered of her first child,” said Miss Dalhousie, unperturbed, “and I shall be leaving tomorrow to pay her a visit.”
Delilah flicked a dismissive wrist. “You’d only miss one day of rehearsal.”
Again, that rueful, obstinate shake of Miss Dalhousie’s head. “I shall be gone the week.”
“But you’ll return for the performance, dearest?” asked Mrs. Dalhousie.
Her daughter smiled her perfectly lovely smile. “I wouldn’t miss it, Mama.”
That seemed to satisfy all but Delilah, whose gaze was now casting about, taking in potential actors. “I suppose we can do it like in Shakespeare’s day.”
“And what way is that?” asked Mrs. Robertson.
“Use boys for the female roles.”
That got a lift from more than a few sets of eyebrows. The numerous Dalhousie sons seated around the table didn’t exactly accept the news with jubilation.
“Not I,” said James, the eldest Dalhousie lad at around sixteen years of age. “I shall be Orlando.”
Oliver Quincy, who had been—blessedly—quiet at his end of the table, laughed in his particular patronizing way. “You’re a bit young for the role, don’t you suppose?”
“I suppose no such thing,” said James with no small amount of umbrage.
But Quincy appeared not to have heard him. “I shall be most pleased to offer my services for the role.”
Of course, Quincy would want the part of Orlando. It would put him in close proximity to Delilah, who he’d been attempting to woo these last three years—to no avail.
It wasn’t too difficult to see what was happening. Delilah was the prize for these two love rivals: Oliver Quincy, supercilious popinjay extraordinaire, and James Dalhousie, a besotted youth of sixteen years.
It should be an interesting week.
“I believe there is an ass in this play,” said James, a mean glint in his eye. “There’s a role that should suit you, Quincy.”
Adults gasped; children snickered.
“Actually,” said Quincy, undeterred. It was a known fact the man was impossible to insult. “I believe the character you’re referring to is Bottom fromA Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
“One thing is for certain,” began James.
Quincy lifted a condescending eyebrow. “And what is that, young master?”
“He’ll be Ass if you’re playing him.”
“James,” interjected Mrs. Dalhousie, “I believe that’s quite enough from you.”