To Wed a Rake(20)

“Do you come here often?” she asked.

“All the time,” he said. “I am a shareholder in the theater. We are just preparing for the opening of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I thought you might like to see the sets. They’re up already.”

“Oh, I should, yes,” Emma said.

The familiar smell of dust and greasepaint greeted them as Gil opened the door at the top of the stairs. At the far end of a narrow corridor, a curtain lifted slightly, disturbed by their arrival. A moment later, Gil held aside that curtain, and they emerged onto stage left.

“Just a moment,” he said. He walked over to the wall. For a second she saw a flare from a burning twist of paper, and a moment later light broke like the striking of daybreak itself.

“Oh!” Emma cried, startled. “Gaslight in the theater! I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“We’ve had it for only a few months,” Gil said. “Does that theater of yours use rollers for your drop scenes?” he enquired.

“Of course!” she said. “The rollers are much better than the flats. Before Mr. Tey installed them, I had to cut my scenes in half, which I loathed. You could always see the line down the middle.”

“This is a drop scene, of course,” Gil said, gesturing at the canvas already in place at stage back. “A man called Samuel Grieve painted this set of the woods in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

The flat depicted a dreamy, dusky forest, tall trees reaching upwards and a few leaning comfortably to one side or the other. The ground was covered with small purple flowers.

“It’s lovely,” Emma said, walking over to examine it. Mr. Grieve had painted the flowers out of proportion so that they would look like a hazy, blended mass to the audience.

“I’ll bet your theater isn’t using this yet,” Gil said.

He walked across the stage and lit a small lamp, and then pulled forth a rigid side flat. It glided forward smoothly, presumably on a groove set in the wooden floor. It seemed to be nothing more than a large wooden frame, across which was stretched an expanse of colored silk, albeit in a lovely shade of rosy pink.

“What does one do with that?” Emma asked.

“It pivots,” Gil expained. “See?”

He gave it a little push. The piece pivoted smoothly, and suddenly sandts,”she saw that looking at the woodland scene through the colored silk was entirely a different experience. The light fell on the silk first, which threw a rosy glow on the woods, picking out small flecks of gold leaf paint embedded amongst the leaves.

“Oh, Gil, how lovely!”

He grinned at her, standing in the middle of the stage with his hands on his hips.

“Is this how you got those calluses on your hands?” she asked.

“What?”

“Working with the sets?”

“No. Painting sets is not gentleman’s work, and I find it surprising that you are allowed to paint sets. Of course, you are a widow, but even so, theater folk are notoriously immoral. Do you not worry about your reputation?”

“I paint sets and scenery in the privacy of my own home, and my participation is known only by a few,” Emma said. “But I regret your rather provincial ideas of actors and actresses.”

Gil walked idly across the stage and stood between the pink transparency and the woodland scene. “You see?” he said. “The fairies will dance and play behind the transparencies.”

Emma blinked. Through the pink silk, the muscled frame of her fiancé suddenly looked mysterious and seductive, winsome as a fairy king.

“Are you Oberon, then?” she asked, laughing.

“I could be,” he said. “I wasn’t wearing a costume at the masquerade.” He reached down and snatched a wreath of flowers from a bench. “I do believe this is Titania’s wreath—tsk, tsk, left about onstage—but ‘twill do.” He struck a pose. “Tarry, rash wanton: am not I thy lord?”

Emma felt a wicked, Queen Titania smile curl her lips. She tossed her hair back and walked a turn, letting her hips take on a seductive lilt. “Then must I be your lady,” she said, throwing Gil a glance over her shoulder. She could feel her jeweled mask glittering on her face, turning her into a fairy queen indeed. She took a turn or two just so he could enjoy the swaying of her hips, shaking her hair free so that it floated in the air, the way a queen of the fairies would wear it. The back flat’s gold flecks of paint glittered in the corner of her vision, as if a small tribe of fairy servants sparkled in the trees, awaiting her every command.

She glanced over at her Oberon. He seemed to be enjoying her bosom.

“You should accuse me of adultery next,” he said huskily. “Titania accuses Oberon of having a mistress, a warrior love.”