Chapter Seventeen

Silas's eyes opened while it was still dark.

He hadn't been pleased to see Clara smiling so warmly at Mr. Lutz. He'd had to beat down the aggravating jealousy that all but consumed him in those moments when he entered the parlor yesterday afternoon. Upon discovering Violet's connection to the young author, Silas had hoped to push his sister away from Mr. Lutz, but it was Clara's close proximity to the smiling young man that had affected him most. He knew Clara wasn't they type to try and make him jealous, but memories from his past had gripped him and refused to let go. Soon, he was feeling the familiar tinges of anxiety bubbling beneath the surface.

It bothered him to recognize his jealousy and anxiety seemed to be muddled together. Surely he wouldn't start having attacks every time his wife smiled at someone.

Would he?

Silas had been up with the dawn that morning to join the others for the hunt. He had been able to garner that the baron was a patron to Mr. Lutz, which was even more of a reason to stop Violet's infatuation with him. The poor man could barely afford to support himself, let alone a wife and children. Even though they would be able to live comfortably on Violet's dowry, Silas wasn't interested in his sister becoming some sort of benefactress to her own husband. He had no wish to see her settle for someone who couldn't even provide for her. No, it would be best to shift the young man's focus a bit.

Mr. Lutz had gone off the main path that cut through the forest and seemed to be struggling to get his horse back to the others. Coming up alongside him, Silas noted how uncomfortable the young man was on horseback. Finally, Mr. Lutz noticed him.

"Ah, your grace," Mr. Lutz said. "A fine day for a hunt, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes," Silas said. "Are you fond of hunting, Mr. Lutz?"

"Well, I've not had the pleasure to do so often," he said as he tried to duck beneath a branch. "But it seems to be a pleasant form of exercise." Another branch caught his cheek and he batted it away. "To be honest, I've rarely ridden on horseback."

"You don't say."

"Well, I suppose I'm not terribly clever at hiding my lack of riding skills. But there's so rarely a need to ride in London. Not when I could walk or go by hackney."

Silas wondered if the expense of keeping a horse stabled would also be an issue. Clearing his throat, he turned his horse to the left, avoiding a downed tree.

"I've heard you've written a series, for the Times. Is that so?"

"Yes, I have. Although it hasn't quite garnered the amount of attention I hoped it would. It is my own fault. I thought the people of London would be quite interested in the American wilds."

Silas reined his horse to a stop.

"I didn't know you had traveled to the Americas."

"Oh, well… I haven't. But I have read about it. That's why I believe my next piece will do quite well."

"What is your next piece about?"

Mr. Lutz smiled.

"It takes place in New Orleans. Fascinating city, or so I'm told. My antagonist, a Mr. Dubois, is a merchant. Well, not quite a merchant. He has hopes of becoming one."

"Is that so?" Silas said, completely uninterested. He had planned to steer the young man to taking a holiday and focus more on novel writing than serials, but another opportunity had presented itself. "You are aware that the baron speaks very highly of your writing."

Mr. Lutz flushed.

"Has he spoken about it with you?"

"He has. For my part, I find that what's lacking in serials is authenticity."

"Authenticity?"

"Yes. I find that I can always tell a writer who has experienced life's tribulations compared to one who hasn't." He flicked his horse, as they continued through the woods. "For instance, have you read The Solider, by E. S. Helms? About Colonel Lennox and the events leading up to the Battle of Quatre Bras?"

"I have, yes."

"And how did you find it?"

"Well, honestly, I found it rather derivative."

"I agree, and that's because E. S. Helms didn't serve in the war."

"Yes, but he did interview Colonel Lennox extensively, as well as many of the generals from that engagement."

Silas waved his hand.

"But imagine what it would have been like had Lennox written the book himself," he said, watching the young man's face. "I imagine a book written in the colonel's own hand would have been vastly more interesting and far from derivative."

"I suppose so," Mr. Lutz said, his tone unsure. "But Helms did have success with his book."

"Because it was a successful topic. Now, had he been there firsthand and written about it, I think it would have been far more successful."

"I suppose that is true. I myself find words written from firsthand experiences to be infinitely more interesting."

"And a talent like yours, Mr. Lutz, shouldn't be squandered on secondhand knowledge."

He turned to Silas.

"Do you mean I should go visit New Orleans if I'm set on writing about it?"

Silas shrugged, hoping to appear disinterested.

"I cannot say, but for your craft, I think it would be worth it."

Mr. Lutz frowned.

"But I've never been away from England. I don't even have the means to travel," he said, before realization dawned on his face. Tipping his chin up, he continued. "Besides, I have too many people I care for who I could not abandon."

Silas fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"I'm sure you do," he said stiffly. "Well, good luck to you then, Mr. Lutz. I look forward to reading your next piece based on the experiences of others."

Tucking his heel into the side of his horse, Silas galloped ahead of the young man, confident that his words had affected him.

Silas and the rest of the men spent the remainder of the morning moving across the baron's forests and fields. By noon, they had decided to return to the house. Silas had observed Mr. Lutz speaking with the baron and two other gentlemen on their way back to the stables and wondered if his plan was working.

Upon his return to the manse, Silas had learned that his wife and sister were in the library, researching the play they hoped to put on. Reaching the library, he saw that the Trembley brothers had been recruited as well as Holly. Two other young ladies, who were giggling while reading their respective parts, were tucked away in the corner, eyeing the Trembley men with interest.

Clara was directing the entire thing, seemingly happy to be out of the spotlight. When she saw Silas approach she went to stand, but he shook his head to dissuade her from making a fuss on his account. He wanted to watch her and so she continued reading at his unspoken command.

"This is a bit flowery, is it not?" the youngest Trembley, Alfred, said. "People don't talk like this at all."

"How would you know?" the other Trembley, Fredrick spoke, wincing slightly. His arm was drawn up in a sling around his neck. "You never could woo a lady."

The two cloistered ladies laughed gently behind their hands, but Violet seemed determined.

"Great men throughout history have always commanded the English language to their advantage," she said, her shoulders pulled back as if to demonstrate said command. "Besides, I'll have you know that their greatest treasure is a fair lady's attention."

"God forbid I ever receive the attention of a lady who thinks this piece is any good," Fredrick mumbled, causing his brother Alfred to snicker and earning a piercing glare from Violet.

"Are you refusing to play your part?"

"It's trite. Listen to this." Fredrick held the book up and cleared his throat. When he spoke, he changed his voice dramatically. "Tell me dearest, what is love? 'Tis a lightning from above, 'Tis an arrow, 'tis a fire, 'Tis a boy they call desire. 'Tis a smile Doth beguile." Fredrick sneered with disgust. "It's awful."

"It's beautiful," Violet challenged, glaring at him. "Beaumont was a genius."

"No, he wasn't. Everyone only assumes he was because no one wants to think for themselves."

"I quite like Beaumont," Holly chimed in, flipping through her book.

"See?" Violet said, as if Holly's taste confirmed something.

"Well, I don't," Alfred stated.

Fredrick tilted his head towards his brother, though his gaze never left Violet. She let out a half sigh, half growl.

"I don't see why you insist on being here then," she snapped. "If only Mr. Lutz was available…"

Silas was curious as to why Mr. Lutz hadn't joined them, but then he had overheard the baron say something about wanting him to make the acquaintance of a gentleman who had recently returned from New York. For Mr. Lutz, the request of his patron would have to come before everything else. He paid the young man's bills after all.

"Believe me, I'd trade places with Mr. Lutz in a heartbeat, if I hadn't dislocated my shoulder," Fredrick said, painfully lifting his arm that sat in a sling. "Although compared to this play, I think I'd rather have my other arm broken."

"One wonders if your shoulder's dislocation also dislocated your good taste."

"Well, I've always found plays at house parties a bore, especially when Beaumont is involved, so I don't think my tastes have shifted."

Violet glared at him.

"You arrogant—"

"Now, now, let's not fall into an argument," Clara said, motioning with her hands to settle those around her. "Some people enjoy Beaumont, some do not. There is no right or wrong answer."

By the expressions on Fredrick and Violet's faces, it seemed there was very much a right and wrong answer. After a long moment, Violet squared her shoulders and turned away from Fredrick.

"It doesn't matter," she said. "A good actor could make the worst lines poetry. I doubt Mr. Trembley could summon enough emotion to display any ability even to his own mother."

"Now see here," Fredrick started, his tone agitated.

"Please," Clara started again, standing up now. "There's no need to argue."

"Silas never questioned the material when we did plays. Did you, Silas?" Violet said, turning to her brother.

Everyone in the room turned to look at Silas.

Bloody. Hell.

"Keep me out of this, Violet," he said, batting down the abrupt feelings of discomfort that came when he was the center of attention.

"But you were always the epitome of perfection when it came to our plays."

"Plays?" Clara repeated, turning to fully face him. A slow smile crept over her visage. "You wrote plays?"

"Violet wrote plays," Silas corrected, giving his sister a withering glance. "I only performed in them."

"Please, Silas, will you read the part of Jasper? Just to show these other gentlemen how to do it properly," Violet said. "The way it should be done."

Silas was very close to saying no when Clara spoke up.

"Oh, yes, please do," she said, mirth in her eyes. "I'd very much like to hear it."

Silas silently swore to make Violet pay for this. But in the meantime, he wouldn't let Clara push him out on stage alone.

He grinned wickedly at her.

"Of course," he said, coming forward. "If my wife will play Luce."

Clara's eyes went wide.

"Oh no—"

"Oh yes, please do, Clara," Holly said, beaming at her friend. "It will be a pleasure to see."

Clara glared at her friend then at Silas, who was glad to have caught her. She seemed rather uncomfortable with the idea, but then stood up, determination on her face. Silas hadn't fully appreciated the gown she wore that day and was pleasantly surprised to see the seafoam dress. Though they hadn't been to London since their wedding, Silas had recognized that Clara's gowns had changed. He'd learned from his mother that the maids at Greystone had taken it upon themselves to remove the excess beading on her apparel, and the results had been fantastic. The one she wore now, for example, appeared much simpler, allowing Clara's beauty to be highlighted instead of lost in competition. He also appreciated that its cut was generous to her curves, and he liked the way the color of the material seemed to light up her eyes.

She walked towards him, stopping when she reached him. Holly handed them a book and winked at Clara.

"Good luck," she said with a grin.

"You'll read from the same page," Violet said, pointing to the passage.

"Very well," Silas said. "Shall I begin where you left off, Mr. Trembley?"

"By all means," he said, smirking.

Silas took a deep breath and read.

"The poor hearts of men that prove. Tell me more, are women true?"

Clara leaned over the book they shared, held open in Silas's hand. He inhaled the sweet, familiar scent of her hair.

"Some love change, and so do you," she said.

"Are they fair, and never kind?" he asked, feeling oddly connected to these words.

"Yes, when men turn with the wind."

"Are they froward?"

"Ever toward, those that love, to love anew," Clara said, her cheeks turning a sweet shade of pink.

Silas was very aware how close they were standing to one another. While they were married, it felt slightly illicit. These ridiculous words seemed rather familiar, even if they had never spoken them before, and they seemed to be having some sort of effect on them.

"Dissemble it no more, I see the God of heavy sleep, lay on his heavy mace upon your eyelids."

"I am very heavy."

"Sleep, sleep, and quiet rest crown thy sweet thoughts: Keep from her fair blood, distempers, startings, Horrors. and fearful shapes: let all her dreams Be joys, and chaste delights, embraces, wishes, and such new pleasures, as the ravished soul Gives to the senses. So, my charms have taken. Keep her you power divine, whilst I contemplate Upon the wealth and beauty of her mind. She is only fair, and constant: only kind, And only to thee."

When his gaze lifted, the warmth in Clara's eyes set his heart on edge. What a bizarre feeling to have. He had been aware of Clara in every way for months, but he felt in that moment as if another layer of her had been revealed. It was quite like witnessing a rose bloom before his eyes. Caught up in it, he hardly registered the sudden shift in the air that happened around them.

But then a cold snap shot down his spine, and he frowned.

"Well, how sweet," an eerily emotionless, familiar female voice echoed into the room.