Page 57 of Beguiled
“Apparently the theatre has been practically under siege since three o’clock this afternoon,” he told David after greeting him. “They opened the doors to let some patrons in a few minutes ago, and there was nearly a riot.”
“What? Why? Is someone protesting against the King?”
“Not at all,” Murdo replied. “From what I can make out, it’s because it’s the King’s last public engagement and they all want in, but since there are seats inside for only one in twenty of this crowd, it’s beginning to get rather ugly.” A hesitant smile tugged the corner of his expressive mouth, and he raised one dark brow. “We don’thaveto go, I suppose. You could come straight to my house instead. We could have an early supper.”
A bolt of panic ran through David at that suggestion. “I thought you had a box,” he blurted out.
“I do,” Murdo conceded. “But we’ve still got to fight our way through the crowd,” He gestured at the sea of people stretching from where they stood to the doors of the Theatre Royal, and hopelessness surged in David. What if Elizabeth didn’t come? What if Kinnell turned their carriage around and took her home?
“If you’d really rather not fight your way through the crowds, I don’t mind going alone,” David said. Too late he realised how ungrateful that sounded. Worse, how hurtful. As though he didn’t even want Murdo’s company.
Murdo stared at him in silence for a long, uncomfortable moment. When he finally spoke in a flat, calm voice, it was to say, “Of course I’ll come. You are my guest.”
“Murdo, I’m sorr—”
But Murdo just cut him off, striding past him. “Come on, then, if we don’t get a move on, you’re going to miss everything, and I wouldn’t want you to feel deprived.”
He began to push his way through the throng, earning himself some ripe curses in the process, and David followed in his wake, heartsore.
As they drew closer to the theatre—though still a good way off the main doors—it grew more difficult. The crowd was tightly packed here, none of them willing to give an inch.
Just then a man’s voice behind them gave a loud bellow. “Make way!”
David turned his head and saw the voice came from a coachman. He was walking his horses right into the crowd, his whip held aloft in a blatantly threatening manner. Men and women scuttled out of his way, cursing him. Someone hurled a stone. It hit one of the horses on its flank, making the beast toss its head and pull against the traces. The coachman had to stand in his seat and haul at the reins to stop it rearing. David leapt back, pushing at Murdo’s shoulder to get him out of the way of the panicky animal.
“Move aside!” the coachman shouted, swiping his whip at a man standing close by. David would have admired his reckless pluck if he hadn’t found the man’s attitude so offensive.
At that moment, a head popped out of the window of the carriage. At first all David saw was a handsome red-and-gold shako topped with an ostentatious black plume. Then his gaze moved down, and he saw that the owner of the shako wore a wicked smile, white teeth glinting under a splendid moustache.
It was Captain Sinclair.
“I say, Lord Murdo!” The captain grinned. “Whatever are you doing out here? This riffraff are waiting for the cheap seats. Don’t you have a box? Oh, and it’s your prodigy! Mr. Latimer, isn’t it?”
“Fuckin’ nerve!” someone beside David exclaimed. “Callin’ me riffraff!”
Sinclair turned his grin on the offended man—a big man with hands like hammers. “No offence intended,” he said with a twinkle that disappeared when the man made a noise like an angry bull. “Come on, Lord Murdo, in you get. You too, Latimer. Cunningham will have us at the doors in a jiffy.” He opened the door of the carriage, and before David could protest, Murdo had dived inside, pulling David in behind him by the collar of his coat. They toppled down onto the floor of the carriage while Sinclair quickly closed the door and snicked the window shut.
Something slammed into the door an instant later, followed by another bellow of “Fuckin’ nerve!” A few shouts of agreement chorused this conclusion, and then the coach was creaking forward again, punctuated by the coachman yelling at the crowd again.
David got to his feet and sat down, taking the empty bench opposite the captain, while Murdo settled into the space next to their host.
“Your coachman’s going to harm someone out there,” David snapped as he dusted his clothes off. “One of the horses was spooked by the crowd and looked ready to rear. We had to jump out of the way. It is beyond reckless to plough into them like this.”
The captain just laughed, uncowed. “Don’t fuss, Mr. Latimer. These are the calmest horses you could hope to find. I’d happily take them on a battlefield.”
“It’s Lauriston,” Murdo said. “Not Latimer.” His voice sounded oddly tight.
Sinclair sent Murdo an interested look. “Lauriston,” he said as though weighing up the name, then turned to David and said lightly, “My apologies, Mr. Lauriston.”
“No apology necessary,” David replied, shrugging.
“Doyou have a box?” Sinclair asked Murdo then.
“Yes.”
“Might I join you?” Sinclair wheedled. “I was going to share Lord and Lady McInroy’s, but McInroy’s a terrible bore and I’d lief as not, if you could accommodate me.”
Murdo hesitated for a barely perceptible instant. “Of course,” he said eventually, and David felt a flush begin to rise up his neck. Brief as Murdo’s pause had been, David had noticed it and heard the note of reluctance, and he rather thought, from the one-sided smile tickling the captain’s mouth, that Sinclair had too.