The Plain Old Man by Charlotte MacLeod

Author:Charlotte MacLeod [MacLeod, Charlotte]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, humour, cookie429, Kat, Extratorrents
ISBN: 9780002319966
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2012-10-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

DAME PARTLETT WAS SARAH’S next customer, neat and far from gaudy in her ankle-length brown dress set off by a plain white apron, kerchief, and ruffled cap. Martha was looking downcast and sober as befitted her role of pew opener. It was a trifle early for her to start acting, Sarah thought.

Cousin Frederick, who was still hanging around the makeup table either for moral support or for want of anything better to do, noticed also.

“Why so glum, Martha?”

“Hello, Fred. Don’t ask me to talk just now. I’m getting bedizened.”

“You look a damn sight better without that glop on your face. Watch it, Sarah. You’re making her look old.”

“I am old,” said Martha, keeping her lips stiff so as not to discommode Sarah.

That didn’t go down with Frederick. “You old? Balderdash! You’re a damn sight younger than I am.”

“No young giddy, thoughtless maiden full of graces, airs, and jeers; but a sober widow laden with the weight of fifty years.”

It was Martha’s number, but Sarah was the singer. She’d meant to lighten the mood of the moment. She’d have done better to keep her mouth shut. Why remind Martha Tippleton that she’d soon be having to sing those lyrics to her own husband while the cast stood around trying to put a brave face on so obvious a misalliance as Sir Marmaduke’s getting himself plighted to a member of the servant class? Whatever had possessed Aunt Emma to permit so tasteless a piece of casting?

The situation might be merely amusing if Jack Tippleton could have refrained from making an ass of himself over a younger woman, but Aunt Emma ought to have known he couldn’t. There he came now, out of the men’s dressing room. He’d done his own makeup, getting himself up to look at least twenty years younger than his part called for.

And there was Gillian Bruges darting up to drop him a curtsy, winsome as all get-out in a costume like Martha’s but with perky white ruffles on the kerchief and apron, and saucy white polka dots on the demure brown dress. She had chestnut-colored ribbons on her cap, and chestnut brown false ringlets peeping out from under its ruffle. If Uncle Jem were here, he’d be calling her a fetching minx.

Sarah could think of a few other things to call her. Didn’t Gillian know better than to carry on her flirtation, even if it was nothing more than that, directly under Martha Tippleton’s nose? Or was that part of the fun? It was a matter of deep personal satisfaction to Sarah when Aunt Emma sailed out with her bustle a-rustle and put the superannuated swain in his place.

“For the love of heaven, Jack, what have you done to your face? You’re supposed to be a respectable English country squire, not a gone-to-seed Riviera gigolo. Sarah, fix him up quickly. Ready, Martha? They’re starting the overture. Come along, Gillian. I’ve never held a curtain for anybody yet, and I don’t intend to start with you.”

“Break a leg, Mummy.

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