“Look at the men,” Molly whispered back.
The bachelors sat in stunned silence. Sir Richard loosened his cravat. Lumley cringed as Athena swept by him, and even Lord Maxwell’s stoic expression faltered. He blinked several times and drank from his flask when she demanded:
At one point, she made a face so frightening that Hildur announced quite loudly, “She is a hound from hell!” into a void of silence. For at that exact moment, Athena ceased her performance.
She stood there, trembling, and for a few seconds, no one spoke or moved. But Lord Maxwell began a slow clapping. And all the other bachelors joined in until they were all applauding madly—with admiration and possibly a little relief, Molly surmised.
She couldn’t help being glad the performance was over herself. When a moment later, a depleted Athena rejoined the mistresses, Molly swallowed and tried to say, “Well done,” but she only got as far as “Well—” before her throat tightened.
“Yes, very—” Bunny began, but her voice trembled so much, she shut her mouth.
“Oh, it’s just me now, you ninnies,” Athena said. “Not Lady Macbeth.”
But her lips curved in a self-satisfied smile. Apparently, she was well pleased to have frightened them so.
The whole mood changed when Joan walked onto the crude stage next.
“She’s so different now, isn’t she?” Molly asked Bunny. “She’s no longer bitter and angry. She seems…at peace.”
“Tonight, especially,” Bunny replied. “And she looks glorious.”
Yes, she did, thought Molly. Joan’s gown was slit every which way, a chaotic golden backdrop in deep contrast to her stark beauty.
“I shall read ‘Lullaby of an Infant Chief,’” she said in a clear, strong voice, and smiled serenely at her audience. “Composed by Sir Walter Scott.”
Molly drew in a sharp breath of recognition. She suspected Joan had chosen the poem in honor of her own son. No wonder she wouldn’t share any information with the ladies about what she was to read! Up until a few days ago, hers had been a private pain.
Joan knelt on the ground, bowed her head, and closed her eyes, as if preparing herself. When she opened her eyes a few seconds later, she made a curve of her left arm and gazed at the empty space there, as if she were cradling a baby.
“Oh!” said Bunny, and looked at Molly, little tears in her eyes.
Molly immediately welled up, too.
Joan began to rock slowly back and forth. And from a paper held in her right hand, she read:
The men were silent, but Molly could tell by their respectful faces they enjoyed Joan’s solemn but heartfelt reading. Lumley even surreptitiously wiped at his cheek with a handkerchief.
When she was done, the men again clapped madly. She curtsied, threw them kisses, and left the stage.
“You were wonderful!” Bunny told her.
Molly hugged Joan. “We’re so proud of you.”
“Thank you both,” she said with a sniffle.
Athena came running up. “Where’s Hildur? She goes on next! We can’t have a delay.”
But she’d disappeared. Molly’s heart skittered. She’d worked so hard with Hildur on her poem! What could have happened to her? Where could she be?
Thirty seconds passed, which was an age in the theater, according to Athena. With the aplomb of a seasoned actress, she walked onto the stage area, folded her hands, and said, “We shall have a brief intermission as it seems that Hildur is missing—”
“Wait!” Hildur cried from somewhere in the shadows. “I am
And she entered stage left, a large scroll in one hand, as well as a stripped tree branch in the other.
Before Athena exited stage right, she threw a brief, concerned glance at the other mistresses.
“What’s Hildur about?” Molly said. “The scroll is her poem, but why the branch?”
“And the sly smile?” Joan added.
“I’ve no idea,” Bunny replied, “but I’m worried.”
Athena shuddered. “Up close, she had a fierce Icelandic look in her eye that almost struck fear in my bold English heart. I believe it was the same look her ancestors had when they invaded other countries.”
“Everything all right, Hildur?” Captain Arrow called out to her from the audience.
Hildur’s brow was smooth, like an ice queen’s, but then it furrowed. She stamped the butt of the tree branch on the ground and said, “No! It’s not all right!” And she threw the branch to the ground.
Chapter 37
The mistresses inhaled a collective breath.
“Oh, dear,” murmured Molly. “I believe all my tutoring has been for naught.”
Hildur gave a small roar, held up the scroll, and ripped it down the middle. And then she ripped those pieces again—and again—and stomped on the pieces until they were a pulpy mess.
Why?
Molly had carefully copied the poem in large letters on the scroll, for easier reading. “Let’s go, ladies,” she said. “I sense she’ll need many handlers.”
Onstage Hildur was holding her branch again.
“Hildur,” Molly whispered, and beckoned her offstage. “What will you do now? Do you remember the poem?”
“No,” Hildur said, a sheen of tears in her eyes. “I don’t want Byron’s poem. He’s no good. He loves too many women. So Cook tells me this very morning.”
Athena sighed. “Joan tried to tell you the same thing. Days ago!”
Hildur shrugged. “Captain Arrow is much better than Byron. Captain Arrow likes Icelandic girls.” She smiled. “I have a better plan for tonight.”
“Tell us,” said Athena.
“A story. From my country.” And before any of the mistresses could counsel her further, she approached center stage.
Molly crossed her fingers and hoped for the best as Hildur told the tale in her beautiful, exotic language.
Which no one understood.
Nevertheless, there were highlights. First, her voice carried well, especially when she shrieked. And she was adept at walking like an old woman. And sucking her thumb like a baby. And then somehow she was the old woman spanking the baby, all at the same time.
“She’s, um, quite a versatile actress,” Bunny murmured.
“Either that, or she’s crazy,” Joan said.
Hildur raised her tree branch in the air and roared.
“Crazy,” said Athena, her brow puckering. “Definitely crazy.”
Molly couldn’t help but chuckle. Hildur was her own woman, as the men were discovering.
And while no one understood her story, she certainly deserved points for trying her best.
She said something exuberant in Icelandic, beamed, and threw her arms in the air.
And the men clapped—politely at first, but then they began clapping in time, whistling, and yelling, “Brava! Brava!”
