A Christmas Homecoming - Anne Perry [1]
Introductions were made and orders given. Footmen materialized to unpack the boxes and trunks and see to the horses.
Charles Netheridge was a stocky man, thick-chested, heavy-shouldered. His gray hair was still strong, but receding a little at the front as he moved into his sixties. In the flare of the outside lights, his features were blunt and vigorous, as was his manner. He had made a fortune in coal, and later also in jet. It was his pleasure to donate generously to the theater in London and to know that some of the best performances would never have found an audience without his intervention.
Now he had Joshua, one of England’s most dynamic actors, in his own home, and he was brimming over with satisfaction. He led them inside, calling out orders for their comfort, refreshment, for luggage to be taken to their rooms, and anything they wanted taken care of immediately.
Caroline barely glanced around the hall, with its gray-and-white marble floor and high ceiling from which hung a splendid chandelier. The warmth now enveloped her and just at that minute, it was all she cared about.
“Mr. Singer is already here,” Netheridge said cheerfully. “He told me he is to play the hero, Van Helsing.” He looked a little self-conscious as he said this last, watching Joshua earnestly, as if trying to read his thoughts.
Joshua composed his expression in a manner Caroline had come to understand. He was concealing a very considerable amount of irritation.
“I think he will be,” he agreed. “But we will make no final decisions until we have read through Miss Netheridge’s dramatization.”
“Of course, of course,” Netheridge agreed. “All in good time. I hope Mr. Hobbs and Miss Carstairs, and Miss Rye will get here before too long. It’s a nasty night, and set to get worse, I think. No doubt we’ll have a good deal of snow by Christmas. Nine days to go before the performance.” He looked at Joshua narrowly, with a steady, curiously unblinking stare. “Long enough for you to get it right, do you think? No idea if it’s any good. Alice has no experience, you know.”
Joshua made himself smile. “You’ll be surprised how quickly a production can come together.”
“Damn silly story, if you ask me,” Netheridge murmured, half to himself. “Vampires, indeed! But it seems to be all the rage in London, or so they say. Who is this fellow, Bram Stoker? What kind of a name is ‘Bram’?”
“Short for Abraham,” Joshua replied.
Netheridge looked at him wide-eyed. “A Jew?”
“I’m told he’s Irish,” Joshua said with a slight smile, but Caroline saw the slight stiffening of his body and the tension in his shoulders. She had learned not to leap to his defense: To do so was patronizing, as if there were something about being a Jew that needed explaining. But it was difficult for her. It is instinct to protect those whom we love; and the more open to hurt they are, the fiercer our retaliation.
Netheridge did not even appear to be aware that he had been clumsy, and this was not the time to let him know. They needed him in the coming year of 1898. Without his support, their next play would not open. It was the promise of that support that had prompted Joshua and the lead actors in his company to agree to spend ten days over Christmas as Netheridge’s guest, and perform his daughter’s amateur dramatization of Stoker’s new novel, Dracula. It was fitting; in the book, a storm had washed the coffin containing the vampire ashore at Whitby. The play would be performed on Boxing Day, the day after Christmas, for an audience of Netheridge’s friends and neighbors.
Eliza Netheridge came hurrying out of the passage at the back of the hall. She was a small woman with a gentle face, her fair hair just beginning to turn gray. She looked concerned as her husband made the introductions; he spoke with a touch of impatience, as if he was annoyed that she hadn’t been there already, waiting for them.
“You must be tired,” Eliza said warmly, looking first at Caroline, then at