Free A Most Lamentable Comedy by Janet Mullany Page B

My words ring with false heartiness.
    At rehearsal the next morning, further humiliation awaits.
    Otterwell sweeps into the hall, clad in a long flowing garment and crowned with peacock feathers that nod above his bald head. ‘Costumes, gentlemen!’
    He ushers us into the chamber assigned as the gentlemen’s tiring room and gestures to a large chest. ‘You shall be dressed in the ancient classical style. Mr Linsley will advise you on the fitting of the costumes.’ After Otterwell has left – doubtless he intends to visit the ladies’ tiring room on some pretext – with some trepidation we pick through the garments in the chest, which emits a musty smell; I suspect mice have made their homes in it at some point.
    ‘What the devil . . .’ Linsley holds up a pink knitted item.
    ‘Tights!’ says Darrowby.
    ‘I fear so. And tunics.’
    We gaze at each other in horror.
    So this is the punishment the gods have devised for men who do not fight each other properly.
    Skirts.
    With much grumbling we pull the garments out of the chest and determine that the musty smell comes mainly from the tights; they are knitted silk, and the thought strikes us that possibly they have not been washed since Otterwell’s last theatrical extravaganza. We undress with our backs turned to each other – not from modesty, but from a reluctance to see how hideous these costumes are.
    I tie a belt, some sort of shiny gold rope, around my tunic and shove my feet into leather sandals that curl up at the toes, badly in need of cleaning. Barton would not approve.
    ‘Well, it’s not so bad.’ I take a step towards the pier glass that stands in the corner. A strange downward movement accompanies me. Another few steps and the waist of the damned tights is halfway down my thighs and I am reduced to a waddle.
    ‘You can’t do that on stage,’ Darrowby says as I hoist my skirts and heave the pink monstrosities to their original position. He too takes a turn around the room, his manly stride deteriorating to tiny mincing steps as his tights collapse in folds around his knees.
    ‘Impossible!’ Linsley declares. He leaves the room, to return brandishing a large pair of scissors. ‘Gentlemen, I have the solution. You shall retain both modesty and comfort.’
    A few minutes later, self-conscious and hampered by our skirts, which swish around our knees and get in the way of our normal stride, we make our way on to the stage. Mrs Linsley, seated and surrounded by a great length of stuff on to which she sews some trim, giggles.
    At the same time, Linsley’s mother, the formidable Mrs Riley, tall, silver-haired and imperious, strides into the hall e a warrior queen, accompanied by Otterwell and several housemaids. She comes to a halt and stares at us, eyes narrowed.
    ‘Inigo,’ she booms, ‘pray, what do your associates wear beneath their skirts?’
    He wriggles with embarrassment and mutters, ‘Linen, ma’am.’
    The housemaids, retrieving threaded needles from their apron pockets, giggle.
    ‘Speak up, Inigo.’ She frowns at the housemaids. ‘You, Susan, Kate and Meg, pay no attention to the gentlemen and get on with your sewing. I ask you again, gentlemen, what do you wear beneath your skirts?’
    Linsley wriggles like an embarrassed schoolboy and Darrowby is in an equal state of red-faced shame.
    I step forward. ‘Drawers, ma’am. Cut off above the knee.’ I grasp the hem of my tunic in demonstration, and Mrs Linsley and her assistants turn scarlet, overcome with mirth.
    ‘There is no need for that sort of thing, Congrevance. At least one of you has some sense.’ She gives her son a pointed look.
    ‘I must insist you wear the tights, sirs,’ Otterwell cries.
    The word tights sends the women into a fresh fit of laughter.
    ‘Regrettably, my lord, we cannot walk in them.’
    ‘But they were borrowed from Drury Lane. I trust you did not cut them too.’
    At this point we are joined on stage by Caroline, who arrives in a rush, bosom