The Theatre Royal in Covent Garden was filled with the great and good of London Town. As Julia took her seat in the box, she cast a glance around her and spotted no less than three viscounts, two earls, and a marquess in attendance.
"It is quite the coup, to have a box for tonight's performance," Lord Pariseau whispered in Julia's ear, for the third time.
"Did you rent it especially?" Julia queried innocently, and Pariseau flushed.
"Well," he blustered, "Not specifically for tonight, but rather for all of the season."
So hardly a coup, Julia thought, though she remained silent for there was no need to quibble over semantics.
"It is kind of you to have invited us," she offered instead, unable to use the singular "me", for it felt too intimate. And, indeed, it was not only Julia who was in attendance; Lady Cavendish, Lady Pariseau—the earl's widowed mama—and Maria were also in attendance.
"I could not imagine watching such a romantic play, with anyone bar you, my lady," Pariseau gallantly replied.
Oh dear, Julia frowned, she hoped the earl would not go mushy on her. She could tolerate many things, but flowery prose was not one of them.
"I have always wondered why people love this story so," Julia replied, as she settled herself into her seat, "When it ends in the death of two young lovers."
"That is a very prosaic summary," Pariseau offered her a grin, "It is not about the end, but the journey to it. I think the audience delights in the hope of it all—the hope that these two star-crossed lovers might make it to their happily ever after."
"But they don't; they die," Julia was dry.
"Yes," the earl gave a chuckle, "But that is Shakespeare's genius; to offer hope and then snatch it away in the final act. I agree, it is not very romantic, but it makes for good theatre."
"Indeed," Julia nodded, unable to add any more to their chatter.
She did not like all this talk of hoping and wishing for the success of two star-crossed lovers, for her own heart had been filled with hope since Aunt Phoebe had mentioned the flying blunderbuss.
Hope is nought but a waking dream, Julia told herself firmly, as she concentrated on making small-talk with Lord Pariseau. It was foolish to wish for Lord Montague, when they were as star-crossed as the characters upon the stage. It was foolish to hope that, despite her cross words, he was out there, plotting something foolish and daring that might take her breath away.
Lord Montague was not her future, Pariseau was, and she would do well to remember it.
"Lud," Pariseau said, drawing Julia's attention away from her inner plight, "Is that Montague?"
"I beg your pardon?" Julia stammered, wondering for a moment if Pariseau was able to read her mind, but then she turned to the direction in which he was pointing, and saw just why the earl had blurted out Montague's name.
Across the way, in the best box in the house, sat Lord Montague alongside six or seven...children.
Not just any children, but street -Arabs, if their dress was anything to go by.
Montague was attempting to control the rag-tag group alongside another bespectacled gentleman, but their efforts did not appear to be enough to tame their motley crew.
The young boys hung over the sides of the box, alternating between dropping fruit down onto the audience in the stalls below, or throwing it at each other. It would have been a disaster, had the stalls not been filled with drunken revellers, equally as misbehaved as the boys.
"What in heavens is he doing?" Pariseau spluttered, "It looks as though he has packed half The Rookery into his box."
Julia's lips twitched, as she valiantly fought to suppress a smile.
"A charitable act, perhaps?" she suggested, as she felt a surge of affection toward Montague, "You are always saying that the poor should be cared for."
"Yes, but not brought to the theatre," Pariseau shuddered, as he peered down his nose and across at Montague, "How vile—I am almost certain I can smell them from here."
"I can't smell anything, except for your pomade," Julia replied sweetly, and Pariseau's chest puffed out proudly.
"Rather nice, is it not?" he asked, entirely missing Julia's subtle barb, "Penhaligon's finest. I am assured that His Royal Highness wears the exact same scent."
"And who would not wish to smell like Prinny?" Julia mused, though again, her sarcasm seemed to go over Pariseau's head.
The lights flickered, indicating that the performance was about to begin, though it did little to quell the noise of the crowd. For some, a trip to the theatre had little to do with watching a play, and everything to do with putting on a performance of one's own. Given the prestige of tonight's event—Montague's guests not withstanding—was it any wonder that as soon as the actors took their places that the audience rose from their seats and began to mingle.
