Her thoughts were interrupted by Kendra’s impatient hands drawing the turquoise gown down and off. She touched the bandage on Cait’s arm. “What happened here?”
“I was cut. And then I failed to care for it properly, so it festered and had to be stitched.”
“Ouch.” Kendra’s face scrunched up in sympathy, then turned speculative. “And I’ve a feeling there’s more to the story. But it will have to wait for tomorrow. You won’t want to be late.”
Jane came to help, and together they lifted the rose gown and dropped it over Cait’s head, settling it carefully to avoid damaging the artfully applied cosmetics. The top was a wee bit loose, but the cloth-of-gold stomacher took care of that, pushing her bosom up to fill it. She could only wonder what Kendra’s more generous bosom looked like in the low, square neckline. Scandalous, she imagined.
The back of the dress had a low neckline as well, exposing more skin than she was used to. The gown was stiff and heavy. Very English.
By the time Jane was done with the curling tongs, Caithren’s hair looked English, too. Long curls draped to her shoulders in front and gathered in back, entwined with rose-colored ribbons.
With Kendra standing behind her, she stared at herself in the pier glass. “I look English,” she whispered, watching her glossed lips form the words.
“Is that bad?” In the mirror, Kendra looked worried.
“I don’t know,” Caithren said. “Last month I would have thought so, but now…I’m only confused.”
Kendra stepped around to face her. Familiar eyes, the same shape as Jason’s, but lighter, searched Cait’s. “We’re not evil,” she said. “The English.”
“Not all of you, anyway.” Cait looked down and straightened her overskirt until Kendra, with one strong finger, lifted her chin.
A gesture that smacked of Jason.
“Not most of us,” she said. “And certainly not my brother.” She pulled Cait into a heartfelt embrace that took her by surprise. “Give him a chance,” she whispered in her ear. “He needs you.”
FIFTY-NINE
“YOU LOOK stunning, Cait,” Jason said as they walked catercorner through the square toward the Lincoln’s Inn Fields Theatre. “I expect you’ll be the talk of the ball.”
Cait saw him shoot her a sidewise glance, perhaps the hundredth since she’d come down the stairs wearing Kendra’s clothes and cosmetics. When she finally met his gaze, his green eyes smoldered. “Though I must say,” he added, “I think I prefer you barefoot with your hair loose and a daisy chain about your neck.”
She nearly tripped, even though Kendra’s gown was an inch too short, and she’d thought she was becoming rather competent walking in the absurd English high heels.
He took her arm to escort her across the busy street. “You’re quiet,” he said, his gaze safely fastened on the traffic. “If it’s because I deceived you, I’m very sorry. But I had my reasons. Though hang it if I can remember what they were.”
“My head is awhirl,” she admitted as they dodged a sedan chair. “I never thought to find myself in London at all, let alone attending a play and a ball. I mean to enjoy it. Though I fully intend to be angry with you tomorrow.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he said dryly. He headed toward a flat-fronted brick building with tall, rectangular windows that looked similar to the ones on his house and most of the others around the square.
“The windows are enormous.” Cait looked up in awe. “The building must hold a thousand people.”
“About right,” he said, although she’d been fooling. A thousand people in one building. The concept was mind-boggling. “I don’t suppose you see Palladian windows in Scotland. As for the size of the theater, it used to be a tennis court.”
“A tennis court, really?” A wooden sign leaned against the wall, advertising the day’s performance. Caithren read aloud. “’Sir William D’Avenant presents The Duke’s Company in Sir Martin Mar-All, or The Feign’d Innocence, by John Dryden, adapted from Molière’s L’étourdi, as translated by William Cavendish, Duke of Newcastle.’ Whew. I am suitably impressed.”
“Nothing like London pretension.” Jason laughed as he ushered her toward the entrance. “Word is the play was conceived by Newcastle, but corrected by Dryden.” He counted out eight shillings and handed them to the doorkeeper. “A side box, if you please.”
Inside, the large windows allowed plenty of afternoon light to illuminate both the stage and the patrons. “We must make haste.” Jason sought out their box. “The play will begin momentarily. They have to finish before dark.”
A symphony played onstage, but Cait could barely hear the tune over the theater’s noisy assemblage. People in the middle gallery were seated for the most part, but those in the pit were milling around, talking and laughing, some of them even fighting. Orange girls circulated among the crowd, offering their sweet, juicy treats in a singsong chant.
The upper tier had no seats—it was crammed with people leaning over the rails. Jason led her up a flight of stairs and into a quite-civilized private box that sat off to one side, equipped with four chairs. No one else had been seated there yet, so they took the two in front.
“Never did I think to see so many people in one place,” Cait said as she adjusted her skirts. “And so many sorts of people as well. I imagined only the wealthy would attend the theater in London.”
“For a shilling”—Jason gestured toward the top—“many can afford to be entertained. Footmen and coachmen are admitted free near the end.”
“Who would want to come at the end?” she wondered. “You wouldn’t know what was happening.”
He took her hand. “Most folk don’t seem to pay attention anyway.”
He was right. Despite a lot of hush-hushing that rippled through the crowd when the curtains opened, no one seemed to quiet down much when the play began. The patrons in the pit scrambled to take seats on the backless benches, and Cait
