Chapter 1

"Keep word, Lysander must starve our sight from lovers' food till morrow deep midnight!" On stage, Loralie clasped her hands to her breasts and gazed at the mostly empty theatre. Her large, brown eyes were wide with excitement, and her face pinched in anxiety.

Henry—playing Loralie's forbidden love, Lysander—grasped her arm. "I will, my Hermia!"

With a last, longing look, Loralie lifted her skirts and fled the stage.

Sitting in the wings, Lady Victoria Sinclair pressed her pencil thoughtfully against her lips. She knew this scene well. Hermia, Loralie's character, was deeply in love with Lysander. However, their desire to wed was being thwarted by Hermia's father. Because of some ancient law, Hermia was presented with an impossible choice. She could either be executed for defying her father's will, spend her life in a nunnery, or wed the man of her father's choosing. Hermia and Lysander had decided to flee together in this scene. It was all very romantic, or rather, it was supposed to be.

A Midsummer Night's Dream had never been to Victoria's taste, but Loralie was such a gifted actress that she could make even the most ill-composed play seem as though it were a masterpiece penned by the Muses themselves. Loralie delivered every expression and word with such earnestness that she left Victoria sometimes breathless.

She made for a passionate and likeable Hermia, and Victoria could read every ounce of Hermia's desperation in Loralie's voice and face.

Victoria glanced at her open book, filled with small sketches of Loralie's gestures and notes about how she delivered her lines. She wondered what costume Loralie would wear for this play; thus far, she played Shakespeare's Hermia as a passionate woman who overflowed with emotion. Victoria drew in a sharp breath of air. In the past productions she had seen of A Midsummer Night's Dream, Hermia was clad in gentle colours—white, pink, and lilac—but such delicate hues seemed to be unfitting for such a passionate rendition of the character.

On stage, Loralie had worn a white gown, clearly meant to resemble the styles of women in Classical Greek art, but given that Henry had not worn any costume at all, it was clear that there would be some changes before the show opened. It would be interesting to see Loralie's Hermia clad in a more dramatic colour. Perhaps Charles, the director, would be willing to consider ruby or Pomona green.

Victoria closed the book and stood. The next two scenes did not involve Loralie, so she would be behind the stage—either waiting for her cue or being fitted into her costume for the production's opening night. Victoria left the wings quietly so as not to disturb the soliloquy that concluded the end of the scene.

Her slippers scarcely made a sound as she walked down the flight of stairs and a long corridor leading to the area behind the stage. When she pushed open the heavy oak door, sound burst into her ears, and Victoria grinned.

Actors talked animatedly, costumers weaved around them with arms laden with heavy fabrics, and the director stood in a corner, gesturing with a copy of the play. It was unmitigated chaos, loud and lively, and Victoria loved all of it.

"Victoria!" Loralie's bell-like voice swept through the air, heralding the woman's arrival.

Victoria turned around. Loralie stood nearby, always so lovely. She was an elegant, slender woman with thick, black hair and warm, autumn-brown eyes. Those were fascinating eyes, too! Victoria did not know how Loralie did it, but in one minute, the actress could look so innocent and doe-like.

In the next heartbeat, those same warm eyes could gleam with the malevolence of a seductress who was determined to ruin all men. During their first meeting, Victoria remembered being anxious about approaching such a beautiful woman. Victoria herself was not especially beautiful. Her hair was red-brown, too light in colour to be mysterious and too dark to be fiery. Victoria's eyes were green but very ordinary.

They were a green-brown, like the colour of moss, rather than the emerald favoured by heroines in novels. She had thought that surely a woman like Loralie—so beautiful and talented—would be dismissive of someone as plain as she, but Loralie had proved that her heart was as lovely as her outward appearance.

"Did you like the performance?" Loralie asked.

"You were as amazing as always," Victoria said. "You might persuade me to feel some sympathy for Hermia."

Loralie laughed. "Do you not already feel tender towards Hermia?"

"No," Victoria replied. "I have very rarely found her to be sympathetic."

Loralie arched an eyebrow and gestured for Victoria to follow her. "Do tell. I should think that you would find her situation to be … most understandable. Ladies are often asked to marry men they do not wish to."

"That is true," Victoria conceded.

Loralie very rarely acknowledged that Victoria was a member of the ton, which was part of why Victoria liked the woman so much. She and her fellow actors gave Victoria the freedom to imagine for just a handful of fleeting hours that the course of her life had not already been largely determined for her.

"But," Victoria continued, determined not to dampen the joyful magic of the theatre, "I have never felt as though Hermia had any justifiable reason for wanting to flee and elope with Lysander. It is apparent enough why she would not wish to wed Demetrius.

He wants to force her into a marriage, and he is not an especially interesting man. But she does not seem to really love Lysander either. The two are so similar that I imagine most theatre-goers have difficulty in differentiating between the two! She says that she does, but there is no real passion!"

"That depends on the actress," Loralie said. "It is no fault of poor Hermia if she is performed poorly."

They entered Loralie's dressing room. She shared it with three other actresses, but at present, they were absent.

"You play her well," Victoria said. "I just find it—why is it so difficult to perform passion? Is it William Shakespeare himself, do you think? Perhaps, we hold him in such high esteem that we are afraid that we might be disrespectful if we make his heroines too bold?"

Loralie's lips twitched into amusement as she deftly removed the white gown. "Shakespeare has bold heroines."

That was a fair point. Viola in Twelfth Night and Rosalind in As You Like It were both interesting women. They actually participated in the plot rather than being damsels who needed to be rescued.

Victoria would have liked to put Queen Titania in their number, but her actions in A Midsummer Night's Dream largely involved being enchanted to fall in love with a donkey-headed man. It was difficult, then, to consider her especially bold.

"They could be bolder," Victoria insisted. "He could have been bolder. If you ever doubted that we live in an unjust world, you need look no further than the fact that Shakespeare is so lauded, and poor Marlowe languishes in obscurity."

Victoria could not remember the last time that the theatre had shown one of Marlowe's plays. Charles had explained that Marlowe was simply not a popular playwright. He was too brazen and eccentric for the ton and most of their audience.

Loralie adjusted her blue gown, smoothing the wrinkles. "Surely, you do not think that Marlowe wrote love better than Shakespeare."

"Marlowe wrote passion," Victoria replied. "That is something I have never felt from Shakespeare."

"Do you prefer passion over love?" Loralie asked.

"I have not felt either," Victoria said, "but I like the thought of passion. Love is too—too lofty, I think. It feels unachievable, but passion is surely present in the breast of every woman. And yet, we are scarcely allowed to express such feelings. If we do, we are hysterical or loud or flawed."

"Being a lady, I am sure you feel that more acutely than many," Loralie said. "Sometimes, I envy the ladies of the ton. You have so much that women like me will never have. So much wealth, the power to make changes … and yet that comes at a high cost."

Being an actress also came at a high cost, especially in the eyes of the ton. Victoria's stepmother would be horrified to learn that Victoria snuck away to the theatre most nights and even more so to realize that she spent much of her time in the company of an actress.

"I suppose that is why I like the theatre so much. It has the potential to imagine a better world. It lets me escape my own." Victoria paused, thinking. "Is that selfish?"

Loralie hummed. She looked contemplative, and Victoria suspected some unspoken words were wandering through the woman's mind. Perhaps Loralie was thinking of her own reality, one where it was supposed that she was forever searching for a wealthy "protector." Victoria's stepmother would be furious to realize that she knew the significance of the term protector, too.

"Yes. But I am a firm believer that women should be selfish sometimes," Loralie said. "If a man wished to use the theatre to escape his own life for some time, no one would criticize him for dreaming."

"Thank you."

Loralie inclined her head, acknowledging the show of gratitude. "Would your stepmother notice if you were away for a while longer? The cast intends to meet at the usual tavern. You are welcome to join us."

Victoria bit the inside of her cheek, trying to determine the risk of her absence being discovered. Usually, she only remained long enough to watch the performances. She had only accepted Loralie's offer twice for fear of being caught.

Her stepmother, Bernadette Sinclair, the Countess of Norwood, was quick and ruthless in correcting Victoria's errors with pinches, slaps, and birching. These things did not happen often but frequently enough for Victoria to carefully consider even the most minor act of disobedience with more zeal than most likely would.

Besides, there were also chores to consider. Most of the work was completed by her stepmother's maid-of-all-work, but that still left the mending and some of the cleaning to Victoria. She did not want to remain awake too late in the night, or she would likely not have the enthusiasm for cleaning the following day.

"Henry and I will escort you to your father's townhouse afterward," Loralie said. "You will not need to worry about journeying home alone, and we will leave whenever you like. I understand if you do not wish to remain in a tavern until dawn."

Victoria smiled a little sheepishly. "I think I will join you if it is no inconvenience to you and Henry."

"None at all," Loralie said, waving dismissively. "But I should warn you—Charles may well interrogate you about this new play you are writing. He keeps hoping that one of our performances will attract a wealthy patron, and he suspects that a play written by an anonymous lady may be just what we need."

Victoria laughed. "I regret to inform Charles that my play is nowhere near completion."

Loralie smiled. "Someday, it will be. It and many others, I have no doubt."

***

The Raven and the Dove was a tavern just a few streets away from the Jonson Theatre. Victoria's stepmother would be most displeased if she learned Victoria went to such a place. The tavern was not disreputable per se, but it was a place where the poor of London often went to celebrate, socialize, and forget their woes in the pints of watery ale.

The theatre troupe had taken an entire corner to themselves. Loralie sat to Victoria's left. On her right was Henry—dark-haired, dashing, and already regaling the new, young actress Abigail with some tale about a disastrous pantomime.

Charles, the director, was engaged in retrieving a few additional chairs along with James, who managed costuming. Margaret and Jonathan sat together; those two were nearly inseparable. It sounded as though Jonathan was recounting his experience working in the Theatre Royal, which had only recently reopened after being destroyed in a fire.

Rhys placed a tankard of ale before Victoria and grinned. "How is the playwriting, My Lady?"

Rhys was an uncommonly handsome man who loved theatre. Unfortunately, he had little talent for acting, or so he had told Victoria. His contribution to the troupe was managing their financial records and occasionally corresponding with potential patrons. Despite being a clerk, he never missed any practice or performance.

"Oh! Yes!" Charles exclaimed. The man dropped into a seat, his face reddened from bringing the chairs over and grinned at her. "How is our aspiring Shakespeare?"

"She would prefer to be compared to Marlowe," Loralie said.

"Marlowe?" James asked. "That is a highly inappropriate aspiration for a young lady to have!"

This remark produced a roar of laughter from the troupe.

"Yes," Mary said, glancing at Victoria. "Otherwise, this situation is quite appropriate. Respectable lords' daughters frequently spend their evenings hidden away in taverns with theatre troupes."

This drew another round of laughter, which Victoria herself joined in, albeit not without a small pang of guilt. "My stepmother means well," she said. "It is not her fault that she was born into the ton and taught to be a proper lady from a young age. She only performs as she was taught. If she had not been born into the ton, I am certain that she would not be so dismayed by my company."

"You were also born into the ton," Jonathan said. "You do not feel as she does."

"I was fortunate enough to have a father who encouraged me to follow my heart, regardless of whether society might approve of my behaviour or not," Victoria said. "He was a rather unique man. Soft, some might say."

Fair-minded, Victoria had always called him. Unlike many men of the ton, her father had not cared for the usual customs of aristocrats. He had devoted his life to helping the commoner, to providing the means for the poor to be educated, and to ending the slave trade in Britain.

"God rest his soul," Loralie said.

"Indeed," Henry agreed.

"Would that the world had more men like him," Charles said, sombrely raising his tankard. "To the late Lord Norwood."

Tankards clinked, and Victoria took a large drink of the ale. She tried not to let her feelings about her father overwhelm her. Sometimes, she felt his loss just a little too strongly. "Thank you," she murmured.

It had been seven years since her father died, but she still felt his absence so acutely. Even though her stepmother and all her father's relations seemed to have ended their grieving, Victoria found herself still trapped in the past. Her father's absence was like a physical weight pressing on her.

She would have given anything just to have one more day with him, to tell him how much she loved him, and to ask what she was supposed to do. Her father had been such a good man, and Victoria felt as though she were not nearly as noble as he. She wanted to do good and to make him proud, but she had no notion of how.

"He would be proud that you still embody everything he believed in," Charles said. "You will have to show us pages of your play soon, My Lady. I am certain that it is a true work of art."

"Perhaps, some day," Victoria said. "If it is, will you perform it?"

"Without a doubt!"

Victoria smiled and took another sip of ale. She let herself bask in the goodwill of the theatre troupe, always so encouraging and lively. Oh, it would be so wonderful to join them and be a part of the troupe, not their devoted observer! The theatre was where she belonged, the only place she belonged, and someday, she hoped it would be her home.