A Mummers' Play Read Online Free PDF

on . . .”
    Suckling pig, Justina could have completed. Her bitterness, her pain, her memories, all came rushing back. No wonder his careless words had been cut off. No wonder he was staring into space as if lost in dreams.
    Or nightmares, more like.
    She’d read and reread Simon’s hilarious letter about that Christmas Eve three years ago, about the sudden abundance of food and wine, about the behavior of the demure ladies of the household, who proved not to be demure at all. One had ended up in Lucky Jack Beaufort’s bed, and Justina had always wondered if perhaps one had ended up with Simon. She was a realist about these things.
    In fact, she rather hoped one had, for that had been the last letter Simon had ever written to her. He’d died the next day, Christmas Day, in the ambush surely orchestrated by the only survivor, Lucky Jack Beaufort.
    Lucky Jack sat before her now, staring into his wine as if it reflected his soul like a crystal ball. If only she could look into that glass and see what he saw.
    She knew the official report by heart. The troop had been caught in an impossible situation without cover, and picked off by musket fire. All except Lucky Jack. She’d assailed the Horse Guards with this fact, demanding that they court-martial the villain, but nothing had ever been done.
    She stared at the wretch, graceful even in a sprawl, handsome even with disheveled black hair and drink-slack eyes, and wondered how he could bear to be alive when so surrounded by corpses. She tried to pick his secrets out of the shadowed line of his mouth, out of the shape of his strong hand around the glass, or the smudge of his shielded eyes.
    She could not decipher him at all.
    Suddenly, he looked up with a smile, but this time it was clearly an artificial one. “Most Christmases weren’t one extreme or the other. I usually spent them in dreary billets eating salt cod and dreaming.”
    He’d slid away from that memory, but she’d get him back to it. She swore it.
    “And what did you dream of?” she prompted.
    “Oh, England. Goose and plum pudding, watching mummers’ plays surrounded by friends and family . . . And now look at me.”
    “Eating goose and plum pudding, and watching mummers’ plays surrounded by friends and family.”
    It was a mistake to speak so sharply, for he focused his eyes on her. “How can they be family if I don’t know ’em? And what few friends survived the war are off with their own families, wise fellows.”
    As Simon would have been, you villain.
    He relaxed again, resting his head back against the chair and staring at the ceiling. “When I thought of home, in fact, I thought of Northham. That was where I grew up. A decent, solid, red-brick house with just enough space for a family and just enough servants to cope. Not this,”—he waved a vague hand—“this monstrous pile.”
    “Torlinghurst is considered one of the finest homes in England.”
    He slanted his eyes down to look at her. “One of the finest houses, perhaps, though to call it less than a bloody palace is ridiculous. It’s not a home.”
    Justina could tear her hair out. She was not at all interested in a discussion of English architecture. The only thing, however, was to keep him talking and hope she could steer him back to Spain and that ill-fated Christmas three years ago. “Yet people seem to be enjoying their visit here.”
    “Are they? How nice.”
    Some of her feelings escaped. “Your ennui and bitterness are absurd, your grace. You are the envy of England!”
    Her unwise words cut through the alcoholic mist. He straightened slightly, snapping to alertness. “That’s two, dear Esme,”—he placed a florin by the sixpence—“and people often envy foolishly.”
    He surged to his feet and paced the elegant room like a caged lion. “Consider, if you will, my excellent situation. Certainly I have money enough to indulge every whim, but unless I permit myself a total disregard of duty, I cannot do as I