burning people at the stake because they worship different gods from us—or even the same God—but in different words.” She lifted her shoulders exaggeratedly. “We’ll be back to the dark ages and the Inquisition.”
“There has to be some censorship, darling,” Warriner said, speaking for the first time. “Shouldn’t shout ‘Fire’ in a crowded theatre— especially if there isn’t one. And even if there is, panic doesn’t help. Gets more people crushed in the stampede than burned by the flames.” He looked slightly amused as he said it, but the smile did not go as far as his eyes.
Cecily’s mood changed abruptly. “Of course!” she said with a laugh. “Shout ‘Fire’ in church if you must, but never, never in the theatre—at least not while there’s a performance on.”
Everyone else laughed as well.
Caroline was looking at Joshua.
It was Pitt who spoke.
“And perhaps we should be careful about libel? Unless, of course, one is a theatre critic. . . .”
“Oh!” Cecily drew in her breath sharply and swung around to face him. “My goodness! I didn’t realize you had been listening so carefully. I should have paid you more attention. You’re not a critic, are you?”
He smiled. “No ma’am, I’m a policeman.”
Her eyes widened. “Good God! Are you really?”
Pitt nodded.
“How perfectly grim. Do you arrest people for picking pockets or causing an affray?” She tossed the idea away.
“I’m afraid more often it is something as serious as murder,” he replied, the light gone from his voice.
Orlando stood up. “Which is probably exactly what Mrs. Fielding meant about questions we shouldn’t ask because we don’t want the answers,” he said in the silence which had followed. “Freedom of speech has to include the freedom not to listen. I never thought of that until these last few days.” He walked to the door. “I’m fearfully hungry. I’m going to find something to eat. Good night everyone.”
“A good idea,” Cecily said quickly. It was the first time she seemed in the slightest out of composure. “Champagne supper, everyone?”
Joshua declined politely, excusing them, and after repeating their congratulations, they withdrew.
Pitt offered his thanks again and wished them good night. Caroline and Joshua rode home making polite and rather stiff conversation about the play, speaking of the characters, not once mentioning Cecily Antrim herself. Caroline was filled with an increasing sense of being an outsider.
The following morning Joshua left early to see a playwright, and Caroline took a late breakfast alone. She was sitting staring at her second cup of tea, which she had allowed to go cold, when Mariah Ellison came in, leaning heavily on her stick. She had been handsome in her youth, but age and ill-temper had marked her features now, and her sharp eyes were almost black as she stared at Caroline with disfavor.
“Well, you look as if you lost sixpence and found nothing,” she said tartly. “Face like a jar of vinegar.” She glanced at the teapot. “Is that fresh? I don’t suppose it is.”
“You are quite right,” Caroline replied, looking up.
“Not much use admitting I’m right,” the old lady said, pulling out a chair and sitting down opposite her. “Do something about it! No man likes a wife with a sour expression, particularly if she’s older than he is in the first place. Ill-temper is displeasing enough in the young and pretty. In those past their best it is intolerable.”
Caroline had spent her adult life curbing her tongue in order to be civil to her mother-in-law. This latest rudeness was beyond bearing, because it was so close to the truth. Her self-control snapped.
“Thank you for giving me the benefit of your experience,” she retorted. “I am sure you are in a position to know.”
The old lady was surprised. Caroline had never been so blunt before.
“I presume it was a bad play,” she said deliberately.
“It was a very good
“There has to be some censorship, darling,” Warriner said, speaking for the first time. “Shouldn’t shout ‘Fire’ in a crowded theatre— especially if there isn’t one. And even if there is, panic doesn’t help. Gets more people crushed in the stampede than burned by the flames.” He looked slightly amused as he said it, but the smile did not go as far as his eyes.
Cecily’s mood changed abruptly. “Of course!” she said with a laugh. “Shout ‘Fire’ in church if you must, but never, never in the theatre—at least not while there’s a performance on.”
Everyone else laughed as well.
Caroline was looking at Joshua.
It was Pitt who spoke.
“And perhaps we should be careful about libel? Unless, of course, one is a theatre critic. . . .”
“Oh!” Cecily drew in her breath sharply and swung around to face him. “My goodness! I didn’t realize you had been listening so carefully. I should have paid you more attention. You’re not a critic, are you?”
He smiled. “No ma’am, I’m a policeman.”
Her eyes widened. “Good God! Are you really?”
Pitt nodded.
“How perfectly grim. Do you arrest people for picking pockets or causing an affray?” She tossed the idea away.
“I’m afraid more often it is something as serious as murder,” he replied, the light gone from his voice.
Orlando stood up. “Which is probably exactly what Mrs. Fielding meant about questions we shouldn’t ask because we don’t want the answers,” he said in the silence which had followed. “Freedom of speech has to include the freedom not to listen. I never thought of that until these last few days.” He walked to the door. “I’m fearfully hungry. I’m going to find something to eat. Good night everyone.”
“A good idea,” Cecily said quickly. It was the first time she seemed in the slightest out of composure. “Champagne supper, everyone?”
Joshua declined politely, excusing them, and after repeating their congratulations, they withdrew.
Pitt offered his thanks again and wished them good night. Caroline and Joshua rode home making polite and rather stiff conversation about the play, speaking of the characters, not once mentioning Cecily Antrim herself. Caroline was filled with an increasing sense of being an outsider.
The following morning Joshua left early to see a playwright, and Caroline took a late breakfast alone. She was sitting staring at her second cup of tea, which she had allowed to go cold, when Mariah Ellison came in, leaning heavily on her stick. She had been handsome in her youth, but age and ill-temper had marked her features now, and her sharp eyes were almost black as she stared at Caroline with disfavor.
“Well, you look as if you lost sixpence and found nothing,” she said tartly. “Face like a jar of vinegar.” She glanced at the teapot. “Is that fresh? I don’t suppose it is.”
“You are quite right,” Caroline replied, looking up.
“Not much use admitting I’m right,” the old lady said, pulling out a chair and sitting down opposite her. “Do something about it! No man likes a wife with a sour expression, particularly if she’s older than he is in the first place. Ill-temper is displeasing enough in the young and pretty. In those past their best it is intolerable.”
Caroline had spent her adult life curbing her tongue in order to be civil to her mother-in-law. This latest rudeness was beyond bearing, because it was so close to the truth. Her self-control snapped.
“Thank you for giving me the benefit of your experience,” she retorted. “I am sure you are in a position to know.”
The old lady was surprised. Caroline had never been so blunt before.
“I presume it was a bad play,” she said deliberately.
“It was a very good
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