“I’m willing to take a role in your play,” he said, gritting his teeth and forcing a smile. He’d already heard a good portion, and there was nothing he wanted less than to get up on a stage and emote the inane, self-aggrandizing lines Digby had penned.

“I knew you would come around,” Digby said with a satisfied grin. “I’m just on my way to hand out the parts now.”

Shermont joined Digby on his way to the parlor, where most of the guests waited to receive their assigned roles. As soon as they entered, Digby called for everyone’s attention.

“I have here …” He paused for dramatic effect and raised a sheaf of papers. “Your parts for tonight’s play.”

Everyone cheered.

“But before I hand them out …”

Everyone groaned.

“I want to explain how this is going to be staged. Due to the short time available, we didn’t have time to copy a complete script for each person, so these papers contain an explanation of the story, facts for your character, and only a few key lines to memorize.”

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

“The rest of the lines you’ll make up as we go along.” Digby passed out a paper to each young person.

“What if I can’t think of anything to say?” Beatrix asked as she took her page with a shaking hand.

“As long as you say those few lines I’ve given you that are crucial to the progress of the story, everything will be fine.” Digby walked by her without apparent concern for her distress and went on to the next person.

Shermont hoped she wouldn’t swoon. The poor girl was probably only doing this to please her supposed fiancé, who didn’t act as though he was her intended. “It won’t be as difficult as you imagine,” he reassured her. “We’ll all help one another.”

Beatrix flashed him a grateful smile.

Shermont looked at his assigned part and stifled a guffaw. A pirate?

“What’s all this?” Deirdre asked, thumbing her sheaf of pages. “I can’t memorize all—”

“You will be able to read your lines. As the narrator you’ll stand to the side of the stage, like the Greek chorus did in ancient times. Your lines will bridge the story action, and you can fill in the gap if someone forgets a line.”

Deirdre leaned back in her chair, obviously not excited with her role. Judging by the mostly silent reactions, no one but Digby seemed overly pleased.

“This is not fair,” Lieutenant Parker said. “Why do I have to be a soldier? I have to wear a uniform all the time.”

“At least you’re not the narrator,” Deirdre grumbled.

“Why do you get to be the enchanted Frog Prince?” Whitby asked Digby. “You always get to be the hero.”

“Because I wrote the play, and I have a green waistcoat.”

“So does Uncle Huxley,” Mina whispered.

But the play was just for the young people. The older generation and any late arriving guests were the intended audience.

“What we need are costumes,” Digby said. He clapped his hands, the signal for four footmen, each carrying a large trunk, to enter. “Each person is responsible for putting together his or her own costume, but these items from the attic may give you some ideas.”

There was a mad dash for the trunks. Shermont waited for the rush to die down then picked up an ornate sword and belt. He debated between a black seventeenth-century Musketeer-style wide-brimmed hat with a sad white feather and one with lots of gold braid that looked like it had once been worn by an admiral. Since Digby had named the pirate the Black Blade, Shermont chose the first hat and held out the other to Parker.

“I don’t need a costume,” he said in a disheartened tone.

“Generals are also soldiers.”

It took a moment, but Parker’s face lit up. “I could be a general.” He stood at attention, stuck out his chin, and gazed into distant battlefields. “Sir Henry Parker, Commanding General, First Brigade.”

Shermont plopped the hat on the young man’s head.

“Just don’t expect me to salute you,” Alanbrooke said as he walked by carrying an armor breastplate and helmet.

“Your attention, please,” Digby called. “Your chosen items will be taken to your rooms, and you’ll have a chance to refine your costumes later. Right now, we’re going to walk through the scenes. Please bring your scripts and follow me.”

As they walked to the ballroom, Eleanor slowed Mina with a hand on her arm and whispered, “Where are Fiona and Hazel? Didn’t they want to participate in the play?”

“Their mother is scandalized at the very idea of us putting on a play and won’t let them take part unless she can read the script first and be present during the rehearsal,” Mina whispered back. “Teddy categorically refused.”

“I’m surprised Mrs. Holcum didn’t insist on chaperoning.”

“Did you forget? It’s Teddy’s project. And anything he does is perfect. At least until her precious daughter gets a wedding ring around her finger. How could she not agree to his terms? But I’d bet she gave Beatrix an earful of instructions. Do this. Don’t do that.”

“Mostly don’t do that,” Eleanor whispered, and Mina giggled.

“Whenever you’re ready to start,” Teddy called to them. He stood on the stage at the far end of the ballroom with his arms crossed, tapping his foot impatiently.

Eleanor hadn’t noticed they’d fallen so far behind. All the others stood in front of a wooden platform framed by curtains that looked suspiciously like the drapes from the dining room.

Everyone soon learned Teddy took his theatrics seriously.

* * *

Eleanor stood to try on the costume she was making.

When her necklace caught on the material, she took it off and laid it on the table. Then, worried it might get misplaced, she set it inside a decorative ceramic box.

“I thought putting on a play was supposed to be fun,” Deirdre said. “Like when we were children.” She listlessly sorted through the two additional trunks the servants had brought down from the attic. She held up a white silk domino with elaborate gold braid around the edges and peeked through the eyeholes of the mask which covered the upper half of her face.

“You’re just crabby because you don’t get to dress up in a costume,” Mina said without looking up from the black material she was sewing. “I’m not all that thrilled with being the witch, but …”

“Go on. Say it’s better than being the narrator.”

“That wasn’t what I was—”

“What do you think?” Eleanor asked. She walked to the center of the sitting room and pirouetted. She’d found an old ball gown with a nearly sheer overskirt of pink and gold tulle. There must have been eight yards of material in the skirt alone. She’d cut and basted together a tunic with long bell-shaped sleeves that she could wear over her regular dress and still had enough leftover material to use as a veil. “A Camelot-style princess gown. Will it do?”

“It’s amazing,” Mina said.

A knock on the door forestalled Deirdre’s answer.

Beatrix entered, face red and eyes swollen. “I don’t know how to act like a gypsy, and I can’t make a gypsy costume. Mother is horrified at the very thought of me being displayed on a stage, but she fears if she says anything to Teddy, he will put an end to our engagement. She’s so upset that she took to her bed with a headache.” She dumped a tangle of brightly colored silk scarves and shawls onto the chair. “What am I to say to your brother? He’ll think I ruined his play, and he’ll hate me.” She blinked away her tears and said to Eleanor, “Your costume is beautiful.”

“Thank you. We’ll help with your costume.” She slipped the dress off over her head carefully, since it was only basted together.

“I wish I could be the princess,” Beatrix said with a sigh.

“At least a gypsy is better than—”

“A narrator,” Mina and Eleanor finished in unison.

“Of course, Teddy did mention the narrator served the function of a Greek chorus,” Eleanor added.

“What’s your point?” Deirdre asked. She sat back, crossed her arms, and stuck out her lip in a pout.

“So wouldn’t it follow logically that the narrator could be a Greek goddess. The Goddess of Destiny would be an appropriate choice.”

Deirdre shook her head. “The Goddesses of Fate and Destiny were old hags. I’d rather be Aphrodite, Goddess of Love and Beauty.”

“I always liked Iris, Goddess of the Rainbow,” Beatrix said.

“If I have to be a witch, you can be a hag,” Mina said.

No one seemed happy with their assigned roles. If this were a Jane Austen novel, one of the women would come up with a clever idea. Suddenly, Eleanor realized how to solve one of her concerns. “I’ll be the witch,” she volunteered. “You can be the princess.” She held out her costume to Mina.

Mina looked horrified rather than pleased. “I’m not going to kiss the Frog Prince. Yuck.” She pushed Eleanor’s hand back.

“I’ll do it,” Beatrix said. She grabbed the princess dress and held it to her breast. “Please.”

“Fine with me,” Mina said. “I’d love to be the gypsy.”

“And I’ll be the witch,” Eleanor said.

Everyone smiled until Beatrix said, “We can’t change parts.” She gazed fondly at the pink tulle before giving it back to Eleanor. “Teddy would never allow it.”

Eleanor refused to take the dress. She didn’t want to kiss the frog either. The play called for the princess to kiss the frog mask, a hideous clay and paper head that their father had picked up on his Grand Tour during carnival in Florence. Why anyone would choose such a monstrosity was anyone’s guess. Teddy would then lean the princess over his arm, and while his back was to the audience, he would whip off the frog head. They would stand up still in an embrace. A bit of stage hocus-pocus that would change him back to a prince.