.â His voice rose, and he stared off into the distance. Camille exchanged glances with her sister. âThe dream of speaking the words of Shakespeare as they were meant to be spoken or performing the works of Mr. Gilbert and Mr. Sullivan as they intend them to be performed.â He reached his hand out, palm up, as if to catch something just out of reach. âThe dream of taking an audience away from their dull existence and bringing them, however briefly, to another place, another time, to a story they will long remember. And thatââhe closed his hand and pulled it back to rest over his heartââis the dream and, yes, the magic of the theater.â He bowed his head.
Beryl choked back a laugh. Camille wasnât sure if she wished to laugh or cry.
âQuite,â she said in a weak voice, then cleared her throat. âWell, then, Mr. Fortesqueââ
âSimply Fortesque, my lady,â the actor said. âIf I am to play the role of your butler, you should address me as such.â
âYes, of course.â Camille nodded. âThank you, Fortesque.â
âNow, then, if there is nothing else at the moment, I shall make certain your mother, sister and uncle are preparing themselves for their first appearance, as well as oversee the preparation of tea.â He nodded at the sisters and took his leave.
âThat went well.â Camille forced a cheery note to her voice.
â âWellâ?â Beryl stared in disbelief. â âWellâ?â
âYes,â Camille said firmly. âWell.â
âIt doesnât concern you that you have a house filled with actors who need to hone their skills because they are lacking in extensive experience?â
âBut what they lack in acting experience, they hopefully make up for in the positions of servants.â
âThank God for that,â Beryl said sharply. âHave you also considered that you have a drunkard playing your uncleââ
âFormer drunkard, if you please.â Camille sniffed. âHe has given up overindulgence and we should give him the benefit of the doubt.â
âWhat we should do is inventory the brandy. And probably the silverware as well,â Beryl added darkly. âAdd to that, a tart for a sisterââ
âWith a natural giftââ
âNo doubt.â Beryl sniffed. âOne suspects that gift is not for acting.â
âYou havenât mentioned Mrs. Montgomery-Wells,â Camille said. âShe apparently has a great deal of experience at playing the role of a mother.â
âShe forgets her lines!â
âSo does Mother.â Camille shrugged. âYet another way in which this role was made for her.â
âGood Lord, Camilleââ
âWe just have to get through Christmas, Beryl.â Camille paced the room. âJust Christmas. A traditional, Mr. Dickensâs Christmas, with a proper English family. Thatâs all. Certainly, I had planned to stay here through Twelfth Night, but I can see now that might be a mistake. Of course one never knows.â She cast her sister an optimistic look. âThis might go much better than anticipated.â
âIt would have to.â
Camille paused in midstep and glared. âThank you for your support.â
âIâm here, arenât I?â
âYes, and I am indeed grateful for that. And Lionel is still coming as well?â
Beryl nodded. âYes, but probably not until Christmas Eve. He is a very busy man, you know. And he does hate to be away from London for any length of time. But once I explained the circumstances . . .â She chuckled. âHe has a better sense of the absurd than I give him credit for. He said he wouldnât miss it.â
âWonderful. Very well, then.â Camille resumed pacing. âI shall come up with some reason why we must return to London at once. You can help me with that. You can