Baxter gazed down at the stage as a pair of foolish beaus battled over the titular “beautiful lady,” whose only redeeming quality seemed to be her fair appearance. He longed to shout at the men, for it was clear from her first aria that the lady was naught but a flirt and a tease, yet the men were set to ruin their lives over the ridiculous chit.
That lunacy could be tolerated to a degree if the music were captivating, but the composer (Osborne? Osgood? Oswin?) suffered from the same malady that plagued far too many young creatives. Editing was as important as the initial creativity that brought the masterpiece to life, but rather than selecting only that which improved the piece, these eager artists put everything into a single work. Baxter had seen such hubris, which eschewed subtlety as they determinedly did all they could to show the vast range of their skills.
The soprano launched into another soaring aria, which might’ve been appealing on its own, if not for the fact that it was her third in the past quarter of an hour, and the notes were more interested in displaying their master’s creativity than serving the music. Her voice soared and dipped with abandon, getting lost in a tumult from the orchestra.
Baxter’s gaze drifted to the companion at his side, and he let out a quiet sigh. Stanley and Miss Alice continued to hold whispered conversations, and Baxter longed to follow suit, but Miss Stillwell’s attention was fixed on the stage. The lady exuded contentment, casting it about like a high summer sun on a clear day, and despite their having shared only a few minutes of conversation, it was clear she was one of those souls who could find enjoyment in any situation. Even this.
Leaning back, Baxter cursed boxed seats. They truly were the worst in the entire theater, for they did not place one in a prime position for hearing the music, and being closest to the side of the stage didn’t allow for a good view, either. Usually, they provided more space than the general seats, as theirs were not fixed to the ground and could be moved apart from the others, but with Stanley having placed them all in a single row, they were forced into tight quarters, giving little difference between these and those below.
The only benefit that he could see was privacy, though that was suspect, as the entire point of a boxed seat was to allow people of importance to be seen. And this one was occupied by Hamilton Baxter. What a laugh. He spied more than a few ladies with their opera glasses pointed toward Stanley, though his son was blissfully ignorant of their attention.
Baxter squirmed in his seat and cursed the closeness as his elbow once more met Miss Stillwell’s ribs. He murmured an apology and forced his limbs to still. Would this evening never end? And they hadn’t yet reached intermission.
At least during that time, he’d be allowed a little more conversation. As much as he’d dreaded the evening (and it seemed with good reason, too), there was some enjoyment to be found. Miss Stillwell seemed a kind lady. Amusing, too.
And that was when Baxter realized he was staring at her again.
Turning his gaze away, he forced his attention back to the singers. Now it was the tenor’s turn for an aria. Again. While it was true that such songs were often the focal points of an act, they lost their potency when they came one right after the other. It was as though they were watching a play with naught but monologues stringing the story together.
Interminable.
But then he recalled the small bag of lemon drops he’d secreted in his jacket. Surely there was a way he could indulge without drawing attention to it. Of course, Dolores’s ghost appeared at his shoulder, rapping it with her fan, but Baxter shifted slightly, reaching into his pocket.
Which was when he elbowed poor Miss Stillwell again.
“My apologies,” he murmured. Again.
Though her gaze didn’t turn from the stage, her lips pinched together as though trying to hold back a smile. Then, turning laughing eyes to him, she whispered, “Are you struggling with this interminable mess as much as I am?”
Baxter drew in a breath and considered what to say, but apparently, the heavy sigh that emerged was answer enough, and Miss Stillwell pressed a hand to her mouth as though to stifle a chuckle.
“I fear I am not cultured enough to appreciate what the composer was attempting,” he said, nodding toward the stage as the tenor and baritone began to prostrate themselves before the soprano. Again.
“I do not think anyone is cultured enough to do that,” she responded with an arched brow, and Baxter’s smile matched her own. “Do you enjoy the opera?”
“Like most, I enjoy music to a degree, though I fear many operas are too nonsensical for my tastes,” he replied, his hand still stuffed in his pocket. There was no chance that he could enjoy the sweets now. Unless Miss Stillwell would like one.
Just thinking that had Dolores’s ghost gasping in abject horror, but for goodness’ sake, he wanted one, and it was far more impolite not to offer one to his companion than it was to indulge in sweets during the opera. Outside the theater were food sellers, waiting to ply their trade during intermission, and no one thought twice about it. And it wasn’t as though the audience would be disrupted, if the amount of conversation humming about the theater were any indication.
“Would you care for a lemon drop?” he asked, tugging the small paper sack free of his pocket.
Chapter 3
Miss Stillwell’s brows rose at that, and a grin cracked across her face as she laughed. Stanley and Miss Alice glanced in their direction, but the lady stifled it and snapped her fan open, batting it as though nothing were amiss. The young pair quickly returned to their conversation, and Miss Stillwell turned her fan to block the treats from their view.
Grabbing one of the bright yellow sweets, she popped it into her mouth and grinned around it, her nose wrinkling in delight.
“I see you come prepared, Mr. Baxter,” she whispered.
“I have spent far too many evenings being paraded about stodgy events not to know one must always bring something to distract oneself from the ennui,” he murmured in return. “Books are far too noticeable, and sweets are a tolerable substitution.”
Baxter felt a few of the lemon drops rolling about in his pocket, so he placed the bag on the edge of the box to free his hand. Just as he reached for his jacket, the sweets slumped, the top of the paper bag leaning precariously over the edge. The bright yellow candies rolled free and spilled over the edge, and he snatched the bag up once more—but not before a good half-dozen cascaded onto the patrons below.
With wide eyes, he clutched the bag and stared at the place the candies had been, not daring to look over to see where they’d fallen. Stanley stared at him, an expression so very like his mother’s fixed upon his face that Baxter heard the irritated thoughts whirling about his son’s mind; thankfully Miss Alice hadn’t noticed, and she distracted his son once more.
Baxter’s cheeks heated, and when the lady at his side shook, he hazarded a glance in her direction and found her pressing a hand to her mouth, trying (and failing) to stifle her giggles. Heat swept through him, and he moved to stuff the candies back into his pocket. But Miss Stillwell grabbed his arm to stop him.
“Pay it no mind, Mr. Baxter. Ladies’ hairstyles are so ridiculously elaborate nowadays that they are unlikely to notice a few lemon drops. No doubt next week, it will be all the rage, and ladies will be nestling candies amongst the mound of curls, flowers, and ribbons.”
