upon. Her Grace was occupied with Miss Charlotte Palmer, the pretty little Columbine who, with her brother, had gathered up St. Lysâs roses after the play. As Celia moved toward them, the dowager looked up, her green eyes widening in astonishment. âGood heavens, Miss St. Lys!â she exclaimed involuntarily. âYou are even more beautiful than I thought.â
The famous and beautiful St. Lys seemed not to hear the compliment.
âCome, Charlotte,â she said to the little girl, stopping halfway across the room and stretching out her hand.
âOh, do please let her stay with me, Miss St. Lys,â the duchess said quickly. âShe is not bothering me in the least. Sheâs so adorable! Iâd like to take her home with me,â she added, pinching the childâs cheeks. âIsnât she adorable, Dorian?â
The Duke of Berkshire, caught staring at St. Lys as if she were a painting or, perhaps, a statue in a museum, gave a start, and said yes. Yes, she was.
âCome here to me, Charlotte,â Celia repeated clearly, still holding out her hand. âI will show you the proper way to curtsy to a duchess. One must be taught these things, after all.â
The child ran to Celia eagerly. Celia demonstrated the proper form, sinking into a very deep curtsy, her head bowed in tranquil reverence. The child copied the graceful movement as best she could, to the duchessâs delight. Her Grace applauded, saying, âI wish you would take some of our debutantes in hand, Miss St. Lys. The last drawing room at St. Jamesâs Palace was the most shocking display of gaucherie I have ever had the misfortune to see.â
âGo and tell your papa that I will play in his benefit tomorrow night,â Celia whispered to Charlotte Palmer, sending her from the room with a kiss.
âBring her closer, Fitzclarence,â the duchess commanded Celiaâs escort. âDonât be afraid, Miss St. Lys,â she added kindly. âI shanât bite you.â
Celia laughed. Even her laugh was famous; no one who ever heard that delightful low, throaty purr ever forgot it. âI am very glad to hear that , Your Grace,â she drawled, coming forward. âOne can never be too careful these days.â
The duchess smiled indulgently. In her opinion, beautiful actresses ought to be at least somewhat impudent. Certainly they should not behave like prim young ladies straight out of the schoolroom. That would be intolerable. âMay I present my son, the Duke of Berkshire? Oh, andâerâMiss Tinsley,â she added rather vaguely.
Dorian bowed again, but Miss Tinsley did not curtsy.
St. Lys merely inclined her head. âHow nice. I do hope you all enjoyed the play?â
âVery much,â said the duchess. âDid we not, Dorian?â
âYes; very much,â Dorian murmured.
âYou are very kind to say so,â said Celia. âPraise, you know, is the lifeblood of the theatre. âThe dramaâs laws the dramaâs patrons give, for we that live to please, must please to live.ââ
âIs that Shakespeare?â Dorian asked eagerly. âIâm awfully fond of Shakespeare. I did a little amateur acting when I was at Eton.â
St. Lys glanced at him. âIâm afraid that was Dr. Johnson, Your Grace.â
âWell, you certainly pleased us tonight, my dear,â the duchess told her warmly. âYou were charming, from first to last! Absolutely charming! We were in raptures.â
âI was not in raptures,â Lucasta declared. âYou were very good as the barmaid, Miss St. Lys. I grant you that much. But, I suppose, it is a part that comes naturally to a person like yourself.â
Dorian stiffened with anger, but St. Lys merely laughed. âAll my parts come naturally to me, Miss Tilney,â she said.
âTinsley!â snapped Lucasta. âMy father is Sir Lucas Tinsley,â she added proudly.
Mina Carter, J.William Mitchell