precisely so people will not become used to them and no longer care.”
Mr. Marchand frowned. “I am not sure that I follow you. What new things must we say?”
Her husband set down his wineglass, his expression tightly controlled, his eyes very steady. “I admit to being old-fashioned. I believe the ideals of my father and grandfather were high, and I have no desire to see them questioned, let alone flouted,” he replied. “They believed a man was bound by his honor, and his word, once given, was unbreakable.” His voice warmed. “They held duty sacred, thought of others before self, service the highest calling. They treated all women with gentleness, and those of their family they were not only bound to protect from all violence, coarseness of thought or word, or vulgarity, but it was their pleasure as well. Surely that is what love is, the desire above all things, no matter at what cost to oneself, to protect and make life joyous and rich and safe for them?” He looked at her earnestly, his blue eyes unclouded.
Caroline thought of Edward, and of Samuel Ellison, and heard Joshua’s voice in her ears. Oddly enough, she also heard Pitt.
“It is a kind of love,” she answered gently. “Is it what you would wish for yourself?”
A shadow crossed his face. “I beg your pardon?”
“Is it the kind of love you would wish extended towards yourself?”
“My dear, our circumstances are entirely different,” he said patiently. “It is my place to protect, not to be protected. Women are uniquely vulnerable. If they become coarsened by what is violent and destructive in life, what devalues innocence, reverence for the beautiful and precious, for intimacy and the finer emotions, they pass it on to our children, and then what is there left for anyone? There must be some hallowed place where there is no mockery of the sacred, no belittling of tenderness, no willingness to injure or take advantage, where the spiritual always outweighs the carnal.”
Caroline felt a strange, painful mixture of shame and frustration, and at the same time, of comfort.
“Of course there must,” she agreed wholeheartedly. “I wish I knew how to keep it without at the same time closing my eyes to everything that is uncomfortable or questioning. How can I keep innocence and yet also grow up rather than remain a child? How can I fight for what is good if I have no idea what is evil?”
“You should not have to fight, my dear,” he said with intense feeling, leaning toward her, his face very earnest. “You should be protected from such things! That is society’s duty, and if those whose charge and whose privilege it is were honoring their callings, then the question would never arise. As it is, the Lord Chamberlain is gravely remiss, and there is all manner of dangerous-deeply dangerous-material around.” He stared at Caroline, faint spots of color in his cheeks.
“You can have no concept of how terrible some of it is. I pray God you never do!” His face tightened. “The damage is irreparable.”
“He certainly does not do enough.” Mrs. Marchand agreed, turning to him with a pucker between her brows. “I think you should write to him, my dear, say that many of us are deeply concerned about the openness of very private emotions expressed on the stage, which may suggest to susceptible minds that women in general may be possessed of the kind of. . of appetites indicated by Miss Antrim’s character-”
“I already have, my dear,” he interrupted.
She relaxed a little, her shoulders easing, a slight smile returning to her lips. “I’m so glad. Think of the kind of effect, the fearful notions, that could place in the minds of young men. . like. . like Lewis! How could he, or they, grow up with the tenderness and respect towards their wives and daughters, not to say mothers, that one would desire?”
Caroline understood only too easily what she meant. It was not herself she thought of, but her own daughters. She remembered with grief, even now, so many years afterwards, how Sarah had suffered, before her death, the fear and the disillusion in her husband because of his behavior. Any censorship at all was better than the misery they had endured then.
“Of course,” she concurred, but there was a small voice nagging at the back of her mind, one that condemned cowardice and told her she was sacrificing honesty for comfort. She quelled it and continued with her dinner, although she was aware that Mrs. Marchand had been far more easily reassured than her husband. He had been gentle with her, wanting to give her a comfort he himself could not share.
When she arrived home, Joshua was in the withdrawing room, sitting in the large chair he liked best, a book open in his lap and the gaslight turned high so he could read. It caught the few strands of silver in his brown hair and the shadows of weariness around his eyes. He closed the book and smiled at her, rising to his feet slowly.
“Nice evening with the Marchands?” He came towards her and kissed her lightly on the cheek. She felt the warmth of him and the very slight smell of stage makeup, and that indefinable odor of the theatre: sweat, excitement, fabric, paint. Ten years ago it would have been as alien to her as a foreign land. Now it had familiarity, a host of memories of laughter and passion. She realized with a rush of confusion how much she was still as sharply in love with Joshua as if she were a girl and this were her first real romance. It was absurd, ludicrous in a woman of her age. It made her unbearably vulnerable.
“Yes, very pleasant,” she answered, forcing herself to smile brightly, as if it were all quite casual. “I met their son for the first time. A very shy boy.” She walked on past him towards the fire. It was not really cold outside, but she was shivering a little. And she was unprepared for the intimacy of retiring to bed. Her mind was still busy with conflicting thoughts, Edward and the past, Samuel Ellison’s smile, his stories, Hope Marchand’s fear of the depiction of new ideas, the passion to protect the young from the intrusion of violence and degradation of things they needed to believe in as pure, and Ralph Marchand’s longer sight and far deeper fear of things to come. He was right in believing that when you lost the ability to feel reverence, you lost almost everything.
She thought of her own daughters when they had been young. Joshua would not understand that; he had no children. The need to protect was so deep it was far more elemental than thought or reason, it was at the core of life. And it was so much more than merely physical. . it was a need to nurture all that was of beauty in the heart, that gave happiness. Who wanted her child alive but incapable of faith in the essential value of love, honor or joy?
“Caroline?” There was an edge of anxiety in Joshua’s voice. He had sensed the distance she had placed between them.
She swung around to face him, and emotion overtook her. She saw confusion in him also, and tiredness after the mental and physical effort of a performance, and yet his concern was for her. She felt utterly selfish. What did the issues of censorship, or what the Marchands thought about it, matter tonight?
“Silly dinner conversation.” She dismissed it with a smile, stepping forward into his arms. It was still easier to hold him than to meet his eyes. She felt his slightness and his strength. He was very gentle. It was far too late to wonder about whether she had made the right decision in marrying him, whether she was absurd or not. She could either go with her heart or deny it. Nothing would change the commitment inside her.
But in the morning censorship mattered very much. She saw it in Joshua’s face even before her eye caught it in the newspapers.
“What is it?” she asked, a lurch of alarm inside her. “What has happened?”
He held up the paper. “They’ve taken off Cecily’s play! Banned it!” He sounded stunned, defeated. There were pink spots of color in his cheeks.
She did not understand. “How can they? The Lord Chamberlain gave it a license. .” She stopped. She did not understand the details of the process, but the principle was clear. Something in his face held her. “What?”
“It isn’t quite. . like that.” He bit his lip. “He would never have given it a license,” he admitted. “Because it would raise questions, make some people uncomfortable.” He shrugged very slightly. “There are ways around that- submit the script late and hope he’ll not read it carefully. . that seldom works because he’s clever enough to suspect anything presented that way and read it extra carefully. The other is to perform a new play under the title of an old one that already has a license. That’s what they did this time. . ”
“But they’d all have to know!” she protested. “The theatre manager in particular!”
“They do. Bellmaine is as keen as Cecily. He’s prepared to take the chance, pay the fine if he has to. It’s worth it to say the things you really believe in, to ask the questions, shake the damnable complacency! If we could stir public opinion, we could reform all manner of laws that are antiquated, unjust.” He leaned forward a little, the flush in his cheeks deepening. “More than that, alter the attitudes that are beyond the law, the prejudices that wound. . and cripple. Can’t you see how. . how terrible this is? Some censorship is absurd. Did you know we aren’t even allowed to represent a clergyman onstage-at all. Not even sympathetically! How can we question anything?”
