Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [48]
He was interrupted here by the tutor, Bulstrode, who always assumed he would receive immediate attention. ‘What do you think, Parker?’ he said, advancing on them, glass of wine in hand, some remnants of cake in his mouth still not fully masticated. ‘As the speech stands it is quite out of character for Prospero, at least as I conceive him. As I conceive him, he cannot err, he is infallible. I am talking about the scene we have just done, where he sends Miranda to talk to Ferdinand. It is a most egregious blunder for Prospero to tell her to speak for Hippolito, as this only arouses Ferdinand’s jealousy and brings about the duel, the very thing that Prospero –’
Erasmus saw Sarah get up from the bench and settle her skirts in a way that suggested she was not going to sit down again. Perhaps he could intercept her somehow, contrive a tête-à-tête, however brief. ‘I think we have difficulties enough, without starting to rewrite the play,’ he said to Bulstrode. She was coming towards them with the apparent intention of joining her brother and Miss Edwards, who were standing together further along the lakeside. He excused himself and moved away, timing the manoeuvre so that he and Sarah came face to face as she was passing between the water and the edge of the trees.
Both stopped. There was no one else within the space of several yards. Erasmus was awkwardly silent for some moments – he had not thought of what he would say. Absurdly, he found himself tempted to echo Ferdinand. ‘While I stand gazing thus …’ But she did not, as Miranda did, sustain his gaze for long. ‘How did our scene go, do you think?’ he said. ‘Any better?’
‘Yes. I think it was better this time.’
Erasmus hesitated. She was looking away from him still. Some grace bade him tell the truth. ‘It was no better,’ he said. ‘And it is all my fault. I cannot act – I cannot stop thinking of Erasmus Kemp for long enough.’
She had smiled at this. ‘And Mr Bulstrode, for example, does he not think about himself?’
‘Aye, but he thinks of himself and his part together. I cannot think I could have the luck to be Ferdinand.’
‘Luck?’
‘Yes. His Miranda loves him … She returns his love. He can speak to her when there is no one else nearby.’ He paused again, confused by the rush of feeling his own words had brought. He said precipitately and almost violently. ‘That would be a welcome prison to me too, in the like case.’ He saw her bring a pale hand up to her neck to touch the small locket there, in a gesture that seemed like one of self-protection or alarm. But her eyes rested on him steadily. ‘May I come to visit, to the house?’ he said, and felt the blood leave his face with the question.
As he whitened she had blushed. ‘My brothers,’ she said, ‘will always –’
‘No, it is to see you.’
She surprised him now with a smile in which there seemed genuine amusement. ‘To practise our scenes?’
‘If you like.’ He had little humour and certainly saw nothing at all humorous in the present situation. That she could do so, that she could have this difference of sensibility, came as a shadow on his sense of her perfection. Other girls he had known took their tone from the man. And he was to remember later how, even at such a moment, the play was uppermost in her mind. There was a firmness of self-possession about her which he felt fully now for the first time. She was fair-skinned and the motions of her blood betrayed her, but whatever agitation she felt was mastered quickly. Her face as she regarded him now had returned to its flawless and delicate composure, her blue eyes were fixed on him with a candidness he found difficult to match. She was seeing him, he felt suddenly; and something within him quivered at being seen. ‘Will you allow me?’ he said.
‘I shall have to speak to my parents.’ There was a quality in this almost childish, as if it concerned permission for some treat.
‘Yes,’ he said,