Free Secret Lament by Roz Southey

hand gracefully. “My dear sir, do come to visit us when you have the chance. We are always glad to see friends.”
    And, immensely graceful, she gathered up her skirts, got up and swept out of the theatre.
    “Don’t come,” Mrs Baker said out of the corner of her mouth as she prepared to follow. “You won’t like it, Mr Patterson. The whole house stinks! Drink. Him, not
her.”
    And shaking her head, she hurried after the Signora.
    I didn’t know what to make of this conversation; in a way I was embarrassed to find myself in the middle of what was plainly family jealousy. But I was tempted to take up the offer of a
morning visit, to see if after all I would have a chance to quiz the Signora about the burglary. I was standing irresolute when Proctor came hurrying across. “Who’s that fellow?”
he said urgently. He gestured at the stage. “He’s making up to her!”
    “Ned? He’s supposed to. He’s the hero, she’s the heroine.”
    Oh Lord, I thought, looking at the thin nerve-ridden face. Proctor, the unworldly, ineffectual soul, was in love with Julia. He is four or five years older than me – thirty or thirty-one
– and I felt a decade older. Anyone less likely to appeal to Julia I could not imagine.
    “Ned’s like that with everyone,” I said soothingly. Which was a lie, but if it soothed Proctor, it hardly mattered.
    I was about to say something more but then I caught a flash of light in the corner of my eye. Proctor shrieked and flinched away. God, he was in a state! “It’s only a spirit,”
I said. “Look.”
    But the spirit had taken offence and darted off to a high cobwebby corner. Proctor retreated to the door, his gaze never leaving the spirit’s gleam.
    It was a tedious afternoon. Mazzanti was intent upon rehearsing the love scenes, which he said were at the heart of the comedy. They weren’t. The machinations of the villain, playing first
upon the father with false promises of wealth, then upon the daughter with visions of fine dresses and jewels – those were at the heart of the play. Julia only had to look pretty and Ned
handsome and dashing, which they could both do effortlessly.
    But Mazzanti wanted Julia to shine. She had to be at the centre of the stage at every moment and Ned was always to be behind her, obscured by her if necessary. I saw Ned gritting his teeth in an
effort to stay calm – he knew, I thought wryly, that any outburst would ruin his chances of getting Mazzanti to agree to a marriage with Julia.
    Mazzanti was seconded in all things by Philip Ord who stayed an hour or two, calling advice from a chair placed in solitary splendour in front of the stage. Mazzanti ignored him almost totally,
but Julia played to him, simpering and smiling coyly, and, at one point, bending down provocatively to consult him, showing off her immature breasts. Ord plainly enjoyed this and looked set to stay
the afternoon, until a servant came in to remind him he had a business appointment.
    Julia insisted on seeing him to the door, and they stood in private conversation for a good five minutes. She seemed to be impressing something on him, for she stood as close as she dared, and a
good deal closer than was proper. Oddly, he looked less than happy – he looked round once or twice as if embarrassed. When he met my gaze, his chin lifted defiantly; he smiled with renewed
vigour at Julia. He must have known I was thinking of poor Lizzie Saint.
    Then I saw Julia’s expression as she turned away from Ord to go back to the stage. For a moment, the demure smiling child was gone and in its place was an almost wretched young woman
– heavens, did she want Ord that much?
    I spent the afternoon with my violin in its case, fuming because Mazzanti didn’t want me to play, yet refused to let me go. I consoled young Richard as best I could – at least the
boy had the sense to pretend unconcern in public even if he could not stop talking about the matter to me. We were all bad-tempered.