Free A Private Performance by Helen Halstead

replenished their trays to serve the gentlemen. Elizabeth noted how many eyes at the table watched the gentlemen pick through their sweet, in hope, or fear, of finding the coin.
    Lord Misrule paced fiercely about the room until a shout of “The King!” alerted everyone to the whereabouts of the coin. Three hundred heads turned in the direction of the shout. There was a long drum roll. Nobody claimed the throne, although smothered giggles were heard from the centre table. The drums continued to rattle, rattle, rattle. Elizabeth found she was caught between laughter and a pitch of excitement.
    Then, taking his time, Mr. Whittaker raised his hand and clicked his fingers to summon a footman, who pulled back his chair and dusted his lap. He rose, to loud applause.
    â€œWhittaker will give us the best theatre of them all,” said Darcy.
    Lord Misrule ran about the room, banging the floor with his staff, drawing attention back to himself. By some trick, he transformed his staff into a banner, and Elizabeth found she was one of many who gasped. Only then did he lead Mr. Whittaker to the dais. Elizabeth laughed at the solemnity with which the ‘king’ allowed the cloak to fall about his shoulders. He seemed almost to groan with the weight of the cardboard crown and braced his arm to receive the orb, made of gilded paste. Elizabeth could not but admire Whittaker’s imperial transformation, as he responded to the salutes of his fellow guests with a flourish of pure arrogance.
    â€œI must say,” said Lord Reerdon, “he is very good.”
    Lord Misrule bellowed, “Behold your king!” and the whole assembly rose to bow low.
    The King seated himself on the throne, and there was a scraping of chairs as the guests all sat down. The pipers piped up and a little page boy entered. On a massive cushion he carried a ring, the diamonds of which would have been worth a king’s ransom were they real.
    Then Lord Misrule spoke again:
    â€œHere is the ring,
    The page boy doth bring.
    Let the King choose his bride
    To rule by his side.”
    The king was only expected to name the queen, but Mr. Whittaker had a reputation to keep up. Leaning back in his throne, he produced expectant laughter with a slight gesture of his hand. Then he drawled:
    â€œToo fair to find fit compliment,
    Shines a new star in our firmament.”
    Several young ladies newly launched upon society were the object of speculative looks, in particular, a young lady with whom Mr. Whittaker had danced twice. He raised one limp hand to his forehead in grief:
    â€œTho’ first beheld this eventide,
    Alas, another’s took her for his bride.”
    Elizabeth looked at Darcy, her dark eyes alight with laughter, but she felt that the smile Darcy gave her at that moment was somehow forced, and he was not the only person who looked her way.
    â€œAs the colour of her gems, you see,
    So glows my heart with jealousy.”
    With a true actor’s gift, Mr. Whittaker paused again. Those lacking wit enough to solve the riddle needed only follow his eyes.
    â€œNow I exert my kingly power
    And take her from him for an hour.”
    Lord Misrule paced across and bowed deeply before Elizabeth.
    Before she had a chance to react, an objection was raised from another table. “Unfair! It is too long a parting for newlyweds.”
    There were shouts of laughter, buried in coughs as Lady Reerdon frowned, always disapproving of jokes which threatened embarrassment to her guests.
    With a shout, Lord Misrule declared:
    â€œChoose again, O Lord my King.
    This lady does not want your ring.
    Have mercy; they were wed this day,
    Another year I think she may.”
    Over the top of hoots of laughter, another ‘courtier’ called out, from the dais:
    â€œâ€™Tis a man in haste, or sure of his sway,
    Would wed on Topsy-Turvy Day.”
    Lady Reerdon moved to rise, and the room fell silent. Elizabeth’s wit rose too quickly to check