“I need you to be my foil!” she wailed. “I need someone to disagree with him, so I can agree with him and support him like a good wife should! Please, Evelyn! I cannot become a ruined spinster!”
I didn’t think fifteen-year-olds had to worry about spinsterhood. I had the urge to shake her by the shoulders and snap her out of it, but the despair in her eyes and the belief that my disapproval would only render Mr. Edwards more enticing, in a forbidden sort of way, left me with no alternative.
“Fine. We’ll do it,” I said with a sigh.
She just about exploded at those words, jumping up in a dance of silk and joy (a shame, the hair had looked quite nice) and thanking me a million times over. A woman in the corner, whom I had not noticed before, caught my eye, and her lips pinched into a look of pity.
Eventually, Laura remembered that there was a play to be watched and dragged me back out into our double box overlooking the dull, bluish theater. With people crowding every seat, there was no way to make out a certain dark-haired man, and there was no time to learn what he was doing here. Two empty seats waited for us: Laura took the space next to her mother, leaving me between her and her brother, whose other arm was caught in Miss Verinder’s clutches. If only it were Mr. Braddock she were interested in. I spent a few happy moments imagining the results of her grabbing his arm.
“My, my, it’s a surprise to see Mr. Braddock here,” Mr. Kent said, a hint of acrimony lacing his voice.
“Yes, it is.”
He leaned in confidentially. “Perhaps he’s come to apologize. Or maybe that also needs to be done in his bedroom.”
I strained to keep a whisper. “You know very well why I was in his bedroom! He was injured, and I needed to check on him.”
“No one is going to make an exception for that where your reputation is concerned.”
“I had other concerns at the time.”
He put his hand on his chest. “I’m feeling quite injured myself. Perhaps we might—”
“Mr. Kent! This is not an appropriate place for that kind of talk!”
“Very well,” he said. “If you wish to speak about it somewhere much more inappropriate, just say the word.”
At that moment, Miss Verinder rapped his arm and pouted for his attention. Fortunately for all our ears’ sake, the lights dimmed, and the crowd’s rumble of anticipation covered anything she wished to say.
Normally, this was one of my favorite Shakespeare plays, but with so many thoughts, emotions, and anxieties boiling within me, I wasn’t at all in the mood to waste my time here. While the rest of the audience was drawn into the world onstage, I couldn’t help but find the sets, costumes, and acting completely fake. There was not a single true note in Beatrice and Benedick’s witty conversations. The “love” between Claudio and Hero was based on nothing. And all the men were too foolish to see Don John’s comically obvious lies.
After the disastrous aborted-marriage scene, the curtain closed and the lights were relit. I didn’t have a chance to speak one word to anyone before Laura—treating the intermission as if it were the play—seized my hand and pulled me straight to the lobby to find Mr. Edwards.
Sneakily, she wove us through the shifting crowd and arced us behind him rather than charging him head-on. She seemed to have a lot of practice in the clandestine maneuver, and against my will, I was half impressed and half amused. When we were close, Laura turned her back to her target, leaned, and gracefully bumped into the tall, thin-mustached man, feigning astonishment.
“Oh! Mr. Edwards. Ever so sorry. What a pleasant surprise to see you here!” she simpered. “May I introduce my good friend, Miss Wyndham?”
“Ah, yes, a pleasure, indeed,” he replied, bowing and looking as if he’d just discovered the hard way that there was a fly in his soup. “How do you do, Miss Wyndham?”
“Excellent,” Laura replied, somehow mistaking my name for her own. “And you?”
“Quite . . . well,” he said, regaining himself after a momentary befuddlement. “The play is very good, is it not? A true example of drama at its best.”
“If this play is the best drama that can be mustered up, Mr. Edwards, I’m afraid it’s fighting a losing battle,” I said.
“Evelyn, don’t be so critical,” Laura scolded theatrically. “I think this show exceedingly good so far.”
“I wholeheartedly agree and applaud your taste, Miss Kent. I especially like the blend of this production’s dreamlike opulence with the truthful, human performances,” he said superciliously.
“Yes! Just the words I was about to say! A striking compromise between the real and . . . a lavish dream!”
Mr. Edwards raised his thick eyebrows and seemed to find Laura more attractive as she repeated his opinion back to him. “Mr. Irving always does a wonderful job, doesn’t he?”
“I don’t find him particularly unique,” I cheerfully lied.
He waved his folded program as if it contained his proof, and he almost hit a passing couple. “I doubt you’ll find anyone in London who is better.”
“I especially liked his Hamlet,” Laura proclaimed. “And last year’s King Lear.”