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-XII-

“Next, please.” came Valentine’s voice, as she sat in the operating theatre alongside her friends. She had her special book open in her lap, with a plethora of notes begun. On the left side, she had a list of characters with space to write their eventual portrayer alongside. Only three names were listed. Her own, Blackmore’s, and Annie’s. Though Annie was apprehensive about taking the part of Puck, Valentine just knew she would be a perfect fit. So far, as Valentine had noted, five girls read for parts using bits from the lovers’ portions. Their names, and notes on their reading styles and body language, were listed in neat succession. As she finished scribbling a little something about the last reader, her new prospect took attention.

“Good day to you, lovely Miss Valentine.” The statuesque figure upon the stage, clothed elegantly in a sleek black gown, was a brunette woman of twenty-two with her hair pulled back into a thick braid. She wore round spectacles over merry brown eyes and had an upturned nose that lent a spritely air to what were otherwise somehow matronly features. “My name is Gwendolyn McFinn, Gwen for short. It is a pleasure to finally meet.” Tipping Valentine a wink, she brandished the pages given by the last potential actress, open to the proper lines. Valentine would be reading for Hermia in a quick-exchange scene near the beginning of the play.

“You as well, Miss Gwen. I daresay, after your reading, you might be interested in getting better acquainted?” The previous auditioning ladies had been plenty excited, eager to shine, but there hadn’t been such a personal undertone to their introductions.

“You guess rightly, darling. This simply seemed the quickest path toward my desired outcome.” Grinning, Gwen turned her attention to the pages.

“Allow me to begin.” Valentine cleared her throat. “Godspeed fair Helena! Whither away?”

“Call you me fair? That fair again unsay,” Gwen began, putting a little too much vigour and passion into the lines, as Valentine thought. Helena was too sad a character for this cheerful personage, but the purpose of the reading was to coax out the true talent of the potential actress. So she let Gwen continue for a spell. “Demetrius loves your fair: O happy fair! Your eyes are lode-stars; and your tongue’s sweet air more tuneable than lark to shepherd’s ear- when wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear. Sickness is catching: O, were favour so! Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go; my ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye, my tongue should catch your tongue’s sweet melody. Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated, the rest I’d give to be to you translated. O, teach me how you look, and with what art you sway the motion of Demetrius’ heart.” Instead of bitterness, heartbreak and jealousy, what struck Valentine’s ear most was the sweet lilt of seduction in Gwen’s voice, and she held up a hand.

“Miss Gwen, might I ask you to look back a scene in your script, to the note that reads ‘Exeunt all but Lysander and Hermia’? I’d like to hear you read for Lysander rather than Helena. Helena does not do you justice.” Gwendolyn grinned, and beamed her pleasure upon the audience seated below her.

“I should be happy to. I was hoping to play either Lysander or Demetrius- you have a sharp ear, don’t you darling?” The young lady Godwin returned her smile and waved a hand.

“You have a certain undeniable vim about you I cannot overlook.” A wry smirk passed from one mouth to the other. “Please, when you’re ready.” Gwen nodded.

“How now, my love! Why is your cheek so pale?” The sultry, deep tone of the speaker’s voice suited these lines so much better than Helena’s. “How chance the roses there do fade so fast?” The tall brunette on stage raised her hand as if stroking the cheek Lysander so mourned, and this was exactly the spark Valentine was looking for. She gave a swift, meaningful look at Rosamund, whose familiarity with the play was a great asset in casting. Excited, the woman read the next line, building the exchange.

“Belike for want of rain, which I could well beteem them from the tempest of my eyes.” Hermia was not yet cast, but Valentine tried to express the character’s upset to make the read more authentic.

“Ay me! For aught that I could ever read, could ever hear by tale or history, the course of true love never did run smooth.” The passion in Gwendolyn’s reading was much better suited, and the audience was stirred. “But either it was different in blood…”

“O cross! Too high to be enthralled to low.”

“Or else misgraffèd in respect of years-“

“O spite! Too old to be engaged to young.”

“Or else it stood upon the choice of friends-“

“O hell, to choose love by another’s eyes!” The conversation between the lovers reflected their distress at the harsh choice imposed upon Hermia (death or a nunnery), should she not wed Lysander’s rival Demetrius. The laments on the obstacles of true love they exchanged were foreshadowing for the crux of the play- beylikdüzü escort soon Lysander would propose they elope and begin their comedic foray into the wood. Valentine was already fairly certain Gwen would be a good fit for this part, but wanted to let her take the next short monologue. In the meantime, she listed Gwendolyn’s name in her book and underlined it, bringing it closer to Rosamund and silently entreating her companion for her opinion. Looking briefly over, her eyes sparkling, Rosamund read the notation and nodded, wonder on her face. She squeezed Valentine’s hand, and both continued to watch. Annie was rapt on her friend’s right side, distracted from sketches of costumes. Gwen delivered her next lines with power.

“Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, war, death, or sickness did lay siege to it, making it momentary as a sound, swift as a shadow, short as any dream, brief as the lightning in the collied night; that, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and Earth, and, ere a man hath power to say ‘Behold!’ the jaws of darkness do devour it up. So quick bright things come to confusion.”

The line of ladies burst into applause, bringing a blush to the speaker’s visage, and she laughed, giving a bow.

“Excellent, Miss Gwen! Thank you for the wonderful read. Would you care to join us while the auditions progress? We can all become better acquainted afterward.” Snatching her skirts up to descend the stage, the freckled miss graciously took the invitation and brought herself to the front row.

“I’d be delighted! Who might I have the pleasure of meeting this fine afternoon?”

“Rosamund Mariner,” the lass answered first, extending her hand. Gwen took it in a cordial shake, smiling gaily. “You have excellent poise and diction,” the shipwright praised glowingly.

“Annie Tailor,” said the waif, also presenting a hand. “Tha’ was lovely,” she gushed. “It’s already so much fun, and we’ve barely started!”

“Annie will be acting as our costume-mistress, and Rosamund will be in charge of set design and a few delightful effects to make our performance more magical.”

“How delightful!” Gwen purred, adjusting her spectacles. “Will either of you be auditioning for roles?” At the question, Annie pinkened slightly.

“They want me to read for Robin Goodfellow,” the young one said hesitantly. “I don’t know if I’ll be any good… I can barely understand some of the lines.”

“Don’t worry, my sweet,” Valentine soothed. “Rosamund and I will help you. Puck’s role is the most fun in the whole play, I promise. If you truly don’t wish to do it, we won’t make you. You’ll be quite busy with the costumes.”

“I see why you would cast her as Robin,” Gwen said with a soft chuckle. “She has a spritely air, does she not?” Sweeping grandly into the seat next to Rosamund’s, the young Scottish woman leaned toward her new companions to continue conversation. “And you, Rosamund, what role would you like?”

“I’m going to read for Hermia or Helena, and perhaps Bottom,” the beauty replied. “I enjoy the Mechanicals’ silliness, but the lovers have got some of the best scenes in the whole play.” She sighed, placing her chin in her hand. “I can’t decide whom I’d rather portray.” Valentine gave a soft hum behind next to her.

“I rather think we should read you for Helena first,” the devious one said. “I’d love to see you as Bottom, but I’d rather not cast you as a figure of mockery, as he is. I believe you could capture the essence of Helena’s plight quite well, and then the entire asylum would see you turn her misery to joy.” Rosamund sat up, considering this.

“I think I take your meaning,” she returned, playing with the braids that fell down her shoulder. “Helena endures the scorn of her lover, and later interprets the magic of the love-juice for a cruel trick played on her. Not unlike the way I’ve been treated here.”

“Exactly. If we cast you in the role of the woman scorned and then blessed, it would show everyone that you are not a figure to be tormented.” Valentine’s chief goal, after all, was to unify these women.

“That I am worthy of friendship and love,” Rosamund declared, warming much to the idea. “Because of course I am.” Her friends, new-minted and slightly less so, smiled.

“Damned right,” the minx hummed.

“Seems like an excellent choice!” Gwen put in, to be encouraging.

“Tha’ does sound like a perfect fit,” Annie added. Before them, the next reader emerged onto the stage, and Valentine stood to pass her the script collected from Gwendolyn, flipping back to the initial scene she was having everyone read.

“Excellent! This is going well,” Valentine declared before seating herself once more. “Rosamund, we’ll read you at the end and try to find ourselves a Hermia and Demetrius first. Let’s continue!”

Auditions commenced with much gusto, and Valentine was pleased to see many different women come to try their skills. She was able to determine who had the best chance of learning beylikdüzü escort larger parts and who might be more comfortable in a smaller role. Several bit players were cast easily, and eventually she had some strong contenders for the main roles. Final choices would be made as a group effort later.

While all that was going on, August sat at the back of the theatre, monitoring the proceedings and attending to some business of his own. Since the arrival of Lady Godwin’s letter (and subsequent arrival of a letter from Edith to his woman), the doctor had decided that he should write the esteemed aunt himself. If Edith Whitlock were the only relation that actually cared for Valentine, it seemed right that he pass information about her care to the woman. His letter held much of the same information as the one he’d sent to her parents, with a slightly different start.

To Madame Edith Whitlock,

My name is Doctor August Blackmore, of Mistress Halifax’s Home for Stricken Ladies. I’m writing, Madame, because you seem to be the only family member of one Miss Valentine Godwin that I can contact that has concern for her. It seems only right to me that I make every attempt to reach someone who cares for the young lady. My efforts to establish contact with the Lord and Lady Godwin have been… unsuccessful, to say the least. Therefore, I turn to you.

He described Valentine’s condition and repeated the invitation to write him before finishing the letter with one final sentiment:

Thank you, Madame, for loving this young woman and for your continued support of her. I wholeheartedly believe your presence in her life has kept her as well as she is.

I would be grateful for your response.

August dated and signed his letter to Edith and placed it aside for the next day’s mail. He had, then, personal letters of his own, and smiled seeing the name and address listed on the first. Home. His beloved family had written him.

Och, Auggie, the letter began.

Maun ye talk in riddles, ye infuriating man? Come hame! ‘Tis been an age since we, yer own flesh-and-blood, have set eyes on ye. I ken ye were hurt, but tae leave Edinburgh for sae long out of shame? Damn it, Auggie! Whit’s this nou, about niver being ‘the same man’ agin? Ye werna the same man when ye left. If ye dinna come hame as ye were, can ye even say ye are me brither?

In spite of the letter’s vigourous annoyance at his absence, August had to smile. The love of his very youngest sibling shone through even though the words were rough. The Blackmores were a large family; seven children altogether, of which the doctor himself was the second son. Second child, as a matter of fact… The Blackmores were a rowdy crew of strapping young Scots all down the line, right up to the youngest, his dearest ‘wee ane’. August had been nine or ten years of age when his mother gave birth to the last bairn, but the two children had nevertheless bonded fiercely as soon as the little one began to talk.

The doctor smiled fondly all the way through the writ. His parents had also posted, but August always sent two letters back home: one for the family, and one for the wee one.

Me lief, A’ll tell ye a secret. Dinna yet tell the rest. They willna understand hou much things hae changed for me, and why A maun dae whit A will dae. In time, A’ll tell them mysel.

A’v found my wumman, wee ane. She came tae me here, whaur A niver dreamt A’d find her. She’s sae bonnie, quite glegsome- and sae wild. Completely my match, in every way. A haena told her, and willna tell her awhile yet, but A luve her, me lief. The lassie holds my heart, and she belangs tae me. Aye, she’s given me hope agin- A feel renewed.

A’ll come hame as soon as A can, but A’ll na come withoot me lassie.

The letter continued on a new tack, asking after the family and the presses back home, and all other usual queries August would normally make. It was always his favourite time of the week or so, when he received his letters from home. How he missed it so.

Born and raised in Edinburgh, August’s parents had raised their entire family in the printers’ trade. As a result, they’d all developed into healthy readers and seekers of knowledge, and all of them could work the presses well. The ‘wee ane’ was most enamoured of the work, and out of all the Blackmore children, would likely be the one to take over the shop when their father could not see to it any longer. None of the others begrudged the loss of it; printing was hard, painstaking and time-consuming work, and all but the youngest of his clan had felt the urge to seek their own path in life. Why, August’s only elder brother had gone into the trade of tattooing! A most unusual choice for the first-born son of a printer, but his work was unutterably beautiful, and his passion for the craft was plain as day.

August smiled. His woman’s body was a perfect canvas for pieces of living art, and he desired very much to place a mark upon her skin beylikdüzü escort that would outlast every lash and every touch of rope, but only when she was his for all time. Valentine had surrendered her physical desires and her lust to the doctor, but she did not even understand her own heart. In regard to that, his courtship would be careful and patient, because for August Blackmore there was only one path he wished to take regarding the lovely and ferocious woman he’d chanced to discover.

Marriage.

Oh, certainly, his sense of honour was at play. He’d deflowered her, unwed, and he intended to debauch her quite thoroughly before he was through, but the moment she surrendered to his arms… that was it for him. Nothing but a life-long bond would satisfy his need for Valentine, and marriage would also be the neatest way to ensure that the two of them could remain bonded as ‘Master’ and ‘slave’ for the rest of their lives.

He smiled impertinently to himself. The hard part might be in convincing her to accept his suit.

The afternoon continued briskly, and August checked in on his patient every so often while the auditions were happening, but the efforts largely went on unabated. He was able to complete his letter-writing as well as more notes, until his pocket chimed. Reaching toward his vest, he withdrew his watch and glanced at it. The supper hour was nigh. Blackmore gathered his papers and stood. He walked toward the front of the theatre.

“Miss Godwin, I hate to interrupt, but we must be leaving soon. Might I trust you to gather these ladies and prepare to depart while I stop by my office? Wait here for me to return and I shall escort you all to your repast.”

“Of course, Doctor,” his woman replied. “We’ll begin finishing up for the afternoon and be ready when you return.” He gave a short bow and departed, to set his things on his desk and gather whatever he might need to meet the men later.

Once he was gone, Valentine prepared to read Rosamund for the part of Helena, but rather than having her perform the scene everyone had been working with, she flipped her pages to something further in the play. A scene between Demetrius and Helena.

“Rosamund, turn to act two, scene one, and skip over all the fairies to where it says ‘enter Demetrius and Helena, following’. I’ll prompt you.”

Standing at the last upon the stage, ignoring the unsavoury looks from the rest of the company, Rosamund straightened and put pride in her bearing. No one would be allowed to cow her ever again. It was strange to think that it took merely one rebel to turn against the tide of public opinion and ‘allow’ her to attain her rightful status as equal to the other patients, but Rosamund remembered too well the crushing, suffocating weight of their contempt. By herself, she’d been overwhelmed, voiceless. When one was rendered to nothing by a sea of faces that did not match yours, how could one stay afloat?

A lone buoy appearing on the waves meant the difference between life and death. Now, someone had run into the fray to lend her strength, and that was the world to her. If only a few thus far, Rosamund had gained allies, enough to continue the battle. It was time for her to demand her rights, and not to be swallowed up. She would show them what mettle she held. What character, what beauty, what pride!

The pages turned in her hands, and she nodded. Valentine smiled, and read.

“I love thee not, therefore pursue me not.” Doubtless, the fetching, intelligent Rosamund had heard many variations of those harsh words in her time, and Valentine put a snarl of condescension in them to mimic it. “Where is Lysander and fair Hermia? The one I’ll slay, the other slayeth me. Thou told’st me they were stolen unto this wood; and here am I, and wode within this wood, because I cannot meet my Hermia. Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no more.” The lass onstage took a deep breath, and summoned all her years of pain, humiliation, isolation and yearning, and poured them all back out into the words of a long-dead poet.

“You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant!” The society she had long been excluded from, metaphorically represented by Demetrius. “But yet you draw not iron, for my heart is true as steel. Leave you your power to draw, and I shall have no power to follow you.” The desperation and longing in the lines, Helena to her scorning lover and Rosamund to the company she only wished to join, was clear. The room fell to a hush, surprised and captivated by the power of that voice in such need.

“Do I entice you? Do I speak you fair? Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth tell you, I do not, nor I cannot love you?” What else had anyone ever said to her? Save her family, Valentine was sure.

“And even for that do I love you the more. I am your spaniel and, Demetrius, the more you beat me, I will fawn on you. Use me but as your spaniel- spurn me, strike me, neglect me, lose me; only give me leave, unworthy as I am, to follow you.” Though the mischievous Godwin doubted very much that Rosamund would ever beg her detractors to beat or neglect her, the young lady nevertheless poured all of her frustrations into the lines. The power of her emotion struck Valentine breathless. “What worser place can I beg in your love- and yet a place of high respect with me- than to be used as you use your dog?”

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