soul meets soul above, as man on earth meets man,
Its deepest, worst, intensity ne’er gains its earthly ban!
“No, dash it, I won’t hush!” a male voice boomed over the buzz of the audience.
Leonie looked toward the sound. Not far from the Fairfaxes, a well-fed, middle-aged gentleman was shooing his family toward the door.
“A precious waste of time,” he continued. “For charity, indeed. If I’d known, I’d have sent in twice the tickets’ cost and stayed at home, and judged it cheap at the price.”
His wife tried to shush him, again in vain.
“Give me Tom Moore any day,” he boomed. “Or Robbie Burns. Poetry, you call this! I call it gas-bagging.”
Lord Lisburne made a choked sound.
Other men in the vicinity didn’t trouble to hide their laughter.
“It’s a joke, it surely is,” the critic went on. “I could have gone to Vauxhall, instead of wasting a Friday night listening to this lot maunder on about nothing. Bowel stoppage, I shouldn’t wonder. That’s their trouble. What they want is a good physicking.”
Gasps now, from the ladies nearby.
“I never heard anybody ask your opinion, sir,” came Lady Gladys’s musical voice. “None of us prevented your going to Vauxhall. Certainly none of us paid for a ticket to hear you . I don’t recollect seeing anything on the program about ill-educated and discourteous men supplying critiques.”
“Glad to supply it gratis, madam,” came the quick answer. “As to uneducated —at least some of us have wit enough to notice that the emperor’s wearing no clothes.”
Lord Valentine stood up. “Sir, I’ll thank you not to address the lady in that tone,” he said.
“She addressed me first, sir!”
“Blast,” Lord Lisburne said. He rose, too. “Leave it to Gladys. Valentine will be obliged to call out the fellow, thanks to her.”
Men were starting up from their seats. Lord Swanton became aware of something amiss. He attempted to go on reading his poem, but the audience’s attention was turning away from him to the dispute, and the noise level was rising, drowning him out.
Leonie became aware of movement in the galleries. She looked up. Men were leaving their seats and moving toward the doors. A duel would be bad enough, but this looked like a riot in the making.
Images flashed in her mind of the Parisian mob storming through the streets, setting fire to houses where cholera victims lived . . . her little niece Lucie so sick . . . the tramp of hundreds of feet, growing louder as they neared . . .
Panic swamped her.
She closed her eyes, opened them again, and shook her head, shaking away the past. She counted the rows in the hall and estimated the audience size, and her mind quieted.
This was London, an altogether different place. And this was a different time and circumstance. These people were dying of boredom, not a rampaging disease.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if I might have your attention,” Lord Swanton said.
“You’ve had it these three hours and more!” someone called out. “Not enough?”
Other hecklers contributed their observations.
By this time Lord Lisburne had reached his cousins and the irate gentleman, who was growing more irate by the second, if the deepening red of his face was any clue.
Meanwhile, the audience grew more boisterous.
Leonie reminded herself she was a Noirot and a DeLucey. Not nearly as many of her French ancestors had got their heads cut off as deserved it. Hardly any relatives on either side had ever been stupid or incompetent enough to get themselves hanged. Or even jailed.
Marcelline or Sophy could have handled this lot blindfolded, she told herself.
She swallowed and rose. “Thank you, my lord, for your kind invitation,” she said, pitching her voice to carry. “I should like to recite a poem by Mrs. Abdy.”
“More poetry!” someone cried. “Somebody hang me.”
“Hold your tongue, you bacon brain! It’s a girl!”
Lord Swanton cut through the commentary.
Its deepest, worst, intensity ne’er gains its earthly ban!
“No, dash it, I won’t hush!” a male voice boomed over the buzz of the audience.
Leonie looked toward the sound. Not far from the Fairfaxes, a well-fed, middle-aged gentleman was shooing his family toward the door.
“A precious waste of time,” he continued. “For charity, indeed. If I’d known, I’d have sent in twice the tickets’ cost and stayed at home, and judged it cheap at the price.”
His wife tried to shush him, again in vain.
“Give me Tom Moore any day,” he boomed. “Or Robbie Burns. Poetry, you call this! I call it gas-bagging.”
Lord Lisburne made a choked sound.
Other men in the vicinity didn’t trouble to hide their laughter.
“It’s a joke, it surely is,” the critic went on. “I could have gone to Vauxhall, instead of wasting a Friday night listening to this lot maunder on about nothing. Bowel stoppage, I shouldn’t wonder. That’s their trouble. What they want is a good physicking.”
Gasps now, from the ladies nearby.
“I never heard anybody ask your opinion, sir,” came Lady Gladys’s musical voice. “None of us prevented your going to Vauxhall. Certainly none of us paid for a ticket to hear you . I don’t recollect seeing anything on the program about ill-educated and discourteous men supplying critiques.”
“Glad to supply it gratis, madam,” came the quick answer. “As to uneducated —at least some of us have wit enough to notice that the emperor’s wearing no clothes.”
Lord Valentine stood up. “Sir, I’ll thank you not to address the lady in that tone,” he said.
“She addressed me first, sir!”
“Blast,” Lord Lisburne said. He rose, too. “Leave it to Gladys. Valentine will be obliged to call out the fellow, thanks to her.”
Men were starting up from their seats. Lord Swanton became aware of something amiss. He attempted to go on reading his poem, but the audience’s attention was turning away from him to the dispute, and the noise level was rising, drowning him out.
Leonie became aware of movement in the galleries. She looked up. Men were leaving their seats and moving toward the doors. A duel would be bad enough, but this looked like a riot in the making.
Images flashed in her mind of the Parisian mob storming through the streets, setting fire to houses where cholera victims lived . . . her little niece Lucie so sick . . . the tramp of hundreds of feet, growing louder as they neared . . .
Panic swamped her.
She closed her eyes, opened them again, and shook her head, shaking away the past. She counted the rows in the hall and estimated the audience size, and her mind quieted.
This was London, an altogether different place. And this was a different time and circumstance. These people were dying of boredom, not a rampaging disease.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if I might have your attention,” Lord Swanton said.
“You’ve had it these three hours and more!” someone called out. “Not enough?”
Other hecklers contributed their observations.
By this time Lord Lisburne had reached his cousins and the irate gentleman, who was growing more irate by the second, if the deepening red of his face was any clue.
Meanwhile, the audience grew more boisterous.
Leonie reminded herself she was a Noirot and a DeLucey. Not nearly as many of her French ancestors had got their heads cut off as deserved it. Hardly any relatives on either side had ever been stupid or incompetent enough to get themselves hanged. Or even jailed.
Marcelline or Sophy could have handled this lot blindfolded, she told herself.
She swallowed and rose. “Thank you, my lord, for your kind invitation,” she said, pitching her voice to carry. “I should like to recite a poem by Mrs. Abdy.”
“More poetry!” someone cried. “Somebody hang me.”
“Hold your tongue, you bacon brain! It’s a girl!”
Lord Swanton cut through the commentary.
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