Half Moon Street

Mrs. Ellison was lying half reclined in bed. The curtains were pulled to keep the light out and she looked asleep. If Caroline had not seen her eyelids flicker she would have believed she was.

“How are you?” she enquired conversationally, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I was asleep,” Mrs. Ellison replied coldly.

“No, you weren’t,” Caroline contradicted her. “Nor are you going to be until tonight. Would you like to come to the theatre with us?”

The old lady’s eyes flew open. “Whatever for? I haven’t been to the theatre in years. You know that perfectly well. Whatever should I do there?”

“Watch the play?” Caroline suggested. She smiled. “And watch the audience. Sometimes that can be more fun. The drama on the stage is seldom the only one.”

Mariah hesitated for just an instant. “I don’t go to the theatre,” she said sullenly. “It’s usually nonsense they are performing anyway: cheap, modern rubbish!”

“It’s Hamlet.”

“Oh.”

Caroline tried to remember Vespasia’s words.

“Anyway,” she said honestly, “the actress who plays the queen is very beautiful, talented and frightfully outspoken. I am terrified of her. I always feel as if I shall say something foolish, or naive, when I see her afterwards, which we will because Joshua is bound to go and congratulate her. They are great friends.”

The old lady looked interested. “Are they? I thought the queen in Hamlet was his mother. She’s hardly the heroine, is she!”

“Joshua likes older women. I thought you had appreciated that,” Caroline said dryly.

Mrs. Ellison smiled in spite of herself. “And you are jealous of her.” It was a statement, but for once there was no edge of unkindness to it, rather something that could even have been sympathy.

Caroline decided to tell the truth. “Yes-a little. She seems to be so certain of herself. . of everything she believes in.”

“Believes in? I thought she was an actress!” Mariah hitched herself a little higher in the bed. “What can she believe in?”

“All sorts of things!” Caroline pictured in her mind Cecily’s passionate face, her vivid eyes and the fire in her voice. “The absolute evil of censorship, the freedom of the mind and will, the values of art. . She makes me feel terribly old-fashioned. . and. . dull.”

“Poppycock!” Mrs. Ellison said vehemently. “Stand up for yourself. Don’t you know what you believe in anymore?”

“Yes, I think so-”

“Don’t be such a milksop! There must be something you are sure of. You can’t live to your age without having at least one certainty. What is it?”

Caroline smiled. “That I don’t know as much as I thought I did. I gather facts and make judgments about people and things, and so often there is one thing more that I didn’t know, and if I had it I would have changed everything.” She was thinking of the old lady and Edmund Ellison. . but there were other things too, stretching back over the years: issues, decisions, stories only half known.

Mrs. Ellison grunted, but some of the anger had drained out of her.

“Then you are wiser than this woman, who imagines she knows so much,” she said grudgingly. “Go and tell her so.”

Caroline did not ask again if the old lady would come. They both knew she would not, and to have made the offer again would have broken the fragile thread of honesty between them.

She stood up and went to the door. Her hand was on it when the old lady spoke again.

“Caroline!”

“Yes.”

“Enjoy yourself.”

“Thank you.” She turned away.

“Caroline!”

“Yes?”

“Wear the red dress. It becomes you.”

She did not look back and spoil the moment by making too much of it. “Thank you,” she accepted. “Good night.”

Caroline dressed very carefully for the first night of Hamlet. She hesitated some time before having her maid put out the red dress the old lady had mentioned. It was actually a rich wine color, very warm, but definitely dramatic. She was uncertain about being so conspicuous. She sat in the chair in front of her looking glass and stared at her own face while her maid dressed her hair. She was still slender-she had not lost her shape at all-but she knew all the signs of aging that were there, the differences between her skin now and how it had been a few years ago, the slight blurring of the smooth line of her jaw, the fine lines on her neck, not to mention her face.

She had not Cecily Antrim’s glowing vitality, the confidence inside which gave her such grace. That was not only youth, it was part of her character. She would always command attention, admiration, a kind of awe, because she carried part of the magic of life in her mind.

Caroline still felt dull compared with her, sort of brown. . compared with gold.

She thought of what Vespasia had said, and Mariah Ellison. But it was the thought of Mariah’s despair which finally made her sit up with a straight back, almost jerking the pins out of the maid’s hands.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, wincing.

“Did I hurt you, ma’am?”

“My own fault. I shall sit still.”

She was as good as her word, but her thoughts still raced, wondering how she should conduct herself, what she should say to be honest, generous and yet not gushing. She cringed inwardly at the picture of appearing to seek favor, push herself forward with too much wordiness in praise she could not mean because she did not really know what she was talking about. They would listen from good manners, wishing she would stop before she embarrassed everyone further. Her face was hot merely imagining it.

Every instinct was to retreat into quiet dignity, say very little. Then she would appear to be sulking, and make herself even more excluded.

Either way Joshua would be ashamed for her. And suddenly it was not about how she felt at all, but how miserable he would be that mattered, and how the change would spill over into all their lives afterwards.

The maid was finished. It was beautiful; Caroline had always had lovely hair.

“Thank you,” she said appreciatively. Now she was ready for the dress. She hated having to go alone, but Joshua’s own performance would not be over until shortly before the end. Thank goodness Hamlet was such a long play. He would be there in time for the last act.

The theatre was so crowded she had to push her way forward, nodding one way and another to people she knew or thought she recognized. She was quite aware, several times, of smiling graciously at complete strangers whose looks wavered in confusion for a moment, then dutifully smiled back.

She made the deliberate decision to treat that as a joke. She refused to be self-conscious.

She found her way to the box Joshua had reserved for her. It was far easier not to come too late and thus disturb no one else, even if she might feel rather more lonely sitting there so obviously by herself. She spent the time watching others arrive. It was such a parade of character. At a glance she could see status, income, social aspiration, confidence or lack of it, taste, and so often what a woman thought of herself. There were those who were diffident, dressed in somber colors, dark blues and greens, modest and well cut. She wondered if they would rather have been more daring, had they had the nerve. Was the sobriety their own choice, or due to fear of displeasing their husbands-or even their mothers-in-law? How much did anyone dress to conform with what others expected?

And there were those in vivid colors, aching to be noticed. Was her own red dress like that, a dramatic gown to disguise an undramatic woman?

No. As Vespasia had said, she was free to choose to be whatever she wished. If she were undramatic, overshadowed by Cecily Antrim, then that was her own decision to retreat, to conceal her beliefs in order to please