Page 1 of The Legend of Lovers Hollow

1

“Nay, Father! I refuse his offer of marriage for I love another!” John the Maid looks up from the script he has clutched in one hand, the skirt of his heavy brocade gown gripped in the other. “Nay? She isn’t a horse, you know.”

“Cut! Cut!” Mr Pennington lowers the dark, old-fashioned conical megaphone. “Mr The Maid”—he frowns beneath the black beret he has set at a jaunty angle on his head—“John…”

“The Maid,” the huge man corrects in his customary flat tone.

“Excuse me?”

“John the Maid.”

“Yes, quite,” Mr Pennington huffs. “Mr John… the Maid. I have asked repeatedly that you don’t break character. Yes, the language is somewhat archaic, but this is a historically set work of theatrical entertainment. Which I spent a great deal of time writing, by the way.”

“Lady Clare was a local woman born only a couple of hundred years ago, according to the legend, she’s not Lady bloody Guinevere.”

“Alas, Guinevere, Arthur, and Lancelot. Another tragic love triangle,” Mr Pennington laments with a sigh.

“I’m surprised you wanted to write a play about the legend. I thought you wrote horror novels?”

Mr Pennington blinks. “Well, the tale of Lady Clare is sort of a horror.”

“It’s not,” I finally chime in, flicking through the pages of a book on local history I found in the library. “It’s a romantic tragedy. Lady Clare was forced into a loveless marriage by her callous father even though he knew her heart belonged to another. Then, when she planned to escape and run away with her one true love, her husband murdered her.”

“Whereupon her lover murdered her husband and then killed himself.” Mr Pennington waves his hand. “It was a bloodbath! Ergo, a horror story.”

“Hmm, I think you’re missing the whole romance of it,” I reply.

“The stupidity of it you mean.” A disgruntled voice scoffs, followed by a loud clattering sound stage right. We all look over and see the short, plump figure wearing an ill-fitted suit of armour push up their helmet visor. “Do you think you can argue about this some other time?” rings out a loud Scottish brogue. “Some of us have a ton of veggies to prep for this evenings stew.”

“Sorry, Aggie.” I smile at our cook as she waves her sword about.

“And besides, I have to agree with John the Maid.” She clomps awkwardly to the front of the makeshift stage and looks down at us. “Lady Clare and the Legend of Lovers Hollow wasn’t set in the Middle Ages. She came along after Cromwell, around the time of The Restoration, so why am I wearing a suit of armour?”

“Because you’re supposed to be Lady Clare’s cruel and jealous husband, Clement St. John!” Mr Pennington rolls his eyes and gives a long-suffering sigh.

“The way I heard the legend, Clement St. John was landed gentry. The man had money but no title. He wasn’t a knight.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of artistic licence?”

“Is that why I look like a cross between one of the Village People and the town mayor?” Rosie interrupts, absently scratching her fake moustache and adjusting the huge golden chain of office slung around her shoulders.

“No, it’s because you’re Lady Clare’s father. You’re supposed to look commanding and authoritative.” He pauses. “Plus, we didn’t have a costume budget so we had to use whatever we could find in the attics and the storage room.”

“Can I go?” Rosie wrinkles her nose and wiggles her mouth as if the moustache is tickling her. “No one is actually manning the front desk right now.”

The hooded figure of Lady Clare’s lover stands to Rosie’s right and suddenly hops up and down, raising his hand and waving it.

“Are you alright there, Wally?” I ask our newest member of staff.

He pulls the hood back to reveal messy hair the colour of bark, warm brown eyes, and rounded cheeks that are stained pink. “Um, can we take a break? I really need to use the um… bathroom.”

“Does no one have any kind of artistic work ethic? Whatever happened to suffering for your art?”

“I am suffering.” Wally dances from one foot to the other and fists the sides of his long cloak in his hands. “I’ve been holding it for the last twenty minutes. It’s really not good for the kidneys, you know.”

Mr Pennington flings his script over his head dramatically, sending the sheets of paper scattering across the shiny floor. “Oh, why not!” he cries loudly. “Let’s all just take a break willy-nilly, why don’t we? May I remind you that the newest influx of guests arrivethis afternoonand our debut performance is scheduled for three days’ time?!”

“Don’t you mean three days hence?” John the Maid says dryly and then stares at the papers that now litter the ballroom floor before raising his gaze back to Mr Pennington. “I hope you’re going to pick those up.”