A Christmas Homecoming - Anne Perry [3]
He turned from the fireplace where he was standing, glancing first at Joshua without speaking to him before coming forward to Caroline.
“Good evening, Mrs. Fielding,” he said warmly. He had a rich and exquisitely trained voice, and he never spoke carelessly. “I hope the journey was not too arduous for you?”
She knew he intended to sound concerned, and yet she felt a tiny stab of self-consciousness, as if he was also reminding her that she was older than the rest of them, and an outsider, unused to the rigors of the theater, and the self-discipline that made the players always give their best. For them, weariness, hunger, fear, and private grief were mere irritations to be overcome. She admired that in all of the troupe and wanted to equal them; above all so Joshua would never be embarrassed for her, or of her.
So she forced herself to smile at Singer. “It was a most exhilarating journey,” she lied. “I have never been to this part of Yorkshire before. I could see, even in the dusk as we approached the town, why Mr. Stoker chose to set his story here.”
She had no idea whether he believed her or not, but then she had never been able to read his face. Perhaps instead of trying to read him, and failing, she should make more certain that he could not read her, either.
“Do you think so?” he said conversationally. “I would have preferred Cornwall, myself.”
“Too easily associated with smugglers,” she replied. “Besides, how would one pass Cornwall by sea from Transylvania, in order to be washed ashore, whatever the storm?”
“You are too literal, ma’am,” he said with a tiny shake of his head. “The whole thing is … fantastical.”
“Not at all,” she insisted. “It is a story created out of the darkness of the nightmares within us. It must be consistent in itself or it loses its edge of horror.” Her mind flickered back to the past, to the terror that had surrounded and devastated her own family, sixteen years ago. She forced it away and turned to face Alice Netheridge, who came forward from where she had been standing by the curtains. She was not pretty in the usual way, but there was great emotion in her face, and when she smiled—as she did now—there was a way in which she was quite beautiful.
“Mrs. Fielding.” She held out her hand. “You are marvelously perceptive. That is exactly what I feel, too. Dracula is the demon within us. I wish I could convey it more successfully on paper. I’m Alice Netheridge.” She turned to Joshua, standing slightly behind Caroline, and now she was clearly nervous. She had tried desperately hard to force her ideas into form, and she was waiting for his judgment. She might aspire to be an actress adequate enough for the very small parts she would have to play in the adaptation, but she hadn’t the skill to conceal the vulnerability in her eyes at the moment.
Joshua took Alice’s hand briefly and smiled at her. “We will see how it reads tomorrow,” he replied. “There are always changes; please don’t feel badly if we make a few. The spoken word is very different from the written one. If we are any good at our parts, we may need to say far less than you imagine.” He turned to Singer. “Good evening, Vincent. How was your journey?”
“Tedious,” Singer replied. “But mercifully uneventful. The weather is vile, and apparently likely to get worse.”
“Then it is fortunate that the house is so comfortable and we shan’t have to leave it,” Joshua retorted.
The door opened and they were joined by Lydia Rye, the actress who would play the second female lead, Lucy Westenra, Dracula’s first victim. She was pretty in a voluptuous way, and yet there was a delicate character to her face, and her slightly husky voice