“I fear the public’s enthusiasm for the present drama, though necessarily large, has found an increase in the players’ notoriety,” Lord Harold observed. “So great has been the sensation at poor Richard Portal’s death, that many who should never venture into Orchard Street in the course of their usual pursuits, are present this evening.”

“It puts me in mind of a Siddons night in Drury Lane, when first she played at Isabella,” I observed. “I have had to suffer such indignities on that lady’s behalf, in my attempts to gain a respectable seat, as might occur at a Tyburn hanging.”[47]

Lord Harold turned, one eyebrow lifted. “You are a hardened devotee, then, of the Dramatic Muse? I should have suspected it, Miss Austen. You possess a decided flair for role-playing.”

“It was my family’s custom to stage an amateur theatrical at Christmas, throughout my tender years in Steventon; on certain occasions we employed our barn for stage, and at others, our neighbours the Lefroys were wont to offer their double parlours for proscenium and pit. I cannot, in truth, consider drama as divisible from Christmastide.” I forbore to mention, however, that I had attempted the composition of a play or two, and had determined it was not my particular art — for of my writing I never spoke with Lord Harold.

“What think you of the divine Siddons?” the gentleman enquired, his attention divided between myself and the turbulent street.

“She is possessed of a decided majesty, that none who attempt to play at tragedy may approach. There is nothing, I believe, to equal her Lady Macbeth. But I wonder if I should enjoy her company on a less exalted plane — the drawing-room, for example, rather than the stage? She seems a chilly creature. And her brother Kemble is worse! How he prates and turns about the boards, as emotive as a block of marble! Until I had seen him play at Pizarro, I could never like him; but there his figure gained in animation.”

“Perhaps tragedy is not your predilection. For there can be few performances to equal Kemble’s Hamlet.”

“I do confess, Lord Harold, that with so much of sorrow to be found in the everyday — tragedies, perhaps, of a smaller scale — I can but wonder that we pay so often for the privilege of enduring it. When I exert my energies towards the theatre, I hope to be transported — to leave such griefs and disappointments behind. I do incline to a preference for Mrs. Jordan.”

“Ah, the cheeky sprite,” my companion rejoined. “She is no friend to Kemble either — but, being happy in the protection of still greater men, she cannot have cause to repine. Perhaps our own Miss Conyngham may rise so high in the world’s estimation.”[48]

We had achieved the entrance; Lord Harold leapt down, and handed the reins to a waiting footman. He managed the several duties of attending his family and myself with competent grace; and our introductions having been made in all the bustle of the foyer, we had very soon left both snowy street and cloakroom behind, for the relative quiet of the box.

Lord Harold ensured that my place should be at his niece’s side; himself he seated by the Dowager; and Miss Wren was forced to suffer in isolation, at the farthest remove from the stage. She is the sort of poor relation that I shudder to think I shall become — dependent, decaying, and despondent in her aspect. An unfortunate creature in her middle years, without strong affection or security to protect her, and necessitous to the point of enduring the Duchess’s caprice in exchange for daily bread. Her sunken cheeks, sharp nose, and respectable grey muslin proclaim Miss Wren the soul of abject decency; and I averted my eyes from the pitiable sight, lest her circumstance destroy my brief happiness in my new gown.

“You are very fine this evening, Miss Austen,” Lord Harold observed, as he cast an eye over his niece and myself. “You must always go about in exactly that shade, regardless of weather or season. It becomes your dark hair and eyes extremely.”

I blushed, and expected every moment the weight of the Dowager’s stare, and some unease regarding her son’s attentions to a mere nobody — but in a moment, all discomfiture was at an end. Eugenie had so far ignored Lord Harold’s remark, being absorbed in a perusal of the program, that it might never have fallen. She was this evening a confection of diamonds and ebony lace, her carriage erect and her sharp-featured face held high; and as she leant towards the rail, an ebony cane grasped firmly in one hand, her brilliant eyes narrowed in a manner that was strikingly familiar.

“Harry,” she declared in a peremptory tone, “I cannot find Miss Conyngham listed in the program. Can it be that she is indisposed?”

“Perhaps the death of her colleague has affected her too deeply.”

“Then I shall be greatly amazed. I confess I detected no affection in the case.”

“Indeed?” Lord Harold’s interest quickened. “Then I have been labouring under a misapprehension. I had understood them to be lovers.”

“Lord Harold!” squeaked Miss Wren. “How can you speak so! And in front of the young ladies!”

“Most of Bath has thought the same,” his mother replied crisply, as though Miss Wren had never spoken, “but I persist in denying the attachment. It seemed, to my mind, but an affair of convenience. We must descend upon the wings, Harry, when the play is at an end, and make Hugh Conyngham tell us how she does.”

Miss Wren let out another squeak, and jumped slightly from agitation. “Would that be entirely proper, Your Grace? I cannot think that it should, particularly for Lady Desdemona—”

“I am at your service, madam,” Lord Harold replied to his mother. “I confess to an active interest in Miss Conyngham’s condition myself.”

In an apparent effort to turn the conversation, Lady Desdemona said, “You are privileged, Miss Austen, in calling Bath your home?”

I stifled a barbed retort — Bath being the very last place I should honour with that sentiment — and took refuge in the notion that there was nothing like a pleasure place for diverting one’s attention from one’s cares. Did Lady Desdemona claim a broad acquaintance in Bath? She did not; and confessed herself quite lonely.

“Then the addition of your uncle to Her Grace’s party must be a happy one,” I observed. “With such a gentleman to escort you to the theatre and the Rooms, your enjoyment of Bath may only increase.”

“Oh, yes,” the lady replied, with a grateful look for Lord Harold, who seemed engrossed in observing the crowd through his quizzing glass. “I do so esteem my uncle! He pays the least mind to what is tedious in social convention — quite unlike Papa, who is forever preaching about a lady’s proper place — that I am entirely easy in his company.”

“He is an excellent man.”

“Do you think so?” She laughed in delight. “How relieved I am. I hear such scandalous reports of Uncle’s conduct, as to suspect that he is very little admired in the world.”

“Then we may assume he is but little known. For those who comprehend the depth of his character, cannot but honour it.” I spoke from the heart, and too late regretted the force of my words.

“But of course!” Lady Desdemona cried. “I had quite forgot. You are Uncles acquaintance, not Grandmère’s.” Her grey eyes, so like Lord Harold’s, took on an aspect of calculation; and I knew her to be wondering at my friendship with the man, and all that it might imply. At nearly thirty, and never entirely able to consider myself handsome — lacking birth or fortune to distinguish me — I cannot have seemed at all in the Trowbridge line.

I hastened to disabuse her.

“Our acquaintance is quite recent. It is my brother Mr. Henry Austen, who claims a nearer friendship with his lordship. I only met your uncle a few weeks ago”—(though this was hardly true, I had no wish to detail the tragic events at Scargrave)—“at Henry’s London residence. I can only suppose that Lord Harold has learned I am a great enthusiast for Kotzebue — and so extended his very kind invitation to make another of your party.”