Part 11 (2/2)
”For argument's sake, let's say that I am,” said Bertie. ”I therefore direct them to make a lovely, lovely mess on your table.”
”Nyah!” the boys jeered, and did just that.
And Peaseblossom-decorous, proper Peaseblossom-dropped her trousers to waggle her naked, pale bottom at the Stage Manager. Bertie laughed involuntarily, choked on her coffee, and nearly died as it came out her nose, but it was worth the searing pain in her nostrils to see the look on the Stage Manager's face. He spun away from the table and disappeared into the wings, presumably to retrieve his headset and his dignity.
”Wow,” Bertie said. ”Add Peaseblossom's rump to the list of things I never thought I'd see.”
”Aye,” agreed Nate. ”That were truly appallin'.”
Peaseblossom did up her pants and straightened her tunic. ”I don't have to be perfect all the time, you know. Being the responsible one gets tiring.”
”Tell me about it.” Bertie grabbed another doughnut and headed for the front of the stage. The realization dawned that there were too many Players milling about, sitting in the auditorium, gathering in the balconies. She turned to Nate. ”What are Oth.e.l.lo and Desdemona doing here? And Rosalind and Viola and-”
”Ye called fer everyone,” said Nate.
Bertie shook her head in vehement denial. ”No, no, I just needed the Hamlet cast.”
”Oh, dear,” said Peaseblossom.
Bertie pivoted in time to see the fairy slap herself on the forehead. Both of them winced.
”You didn't!” Bertie said, not holding out any hope.
”I did!” the fairy wailed. ”I posted the call for everyone!”
A few of the Players peered at them with great curiosity, so Bertie tried to look resilient and indefatigable despite the pajamas and crazy bedhead. If she left to change her clothes now, the Stage Manager would spread rumors and misinformation the entire time she was gone, doing his best to make it look like a retreat.
”It's all right,” she said, trying to believe it. ”It's not the end of the world.”
Peaseblossom peeked at Bertie through her fingers. ”It's not?”
”I might as well make the announcement to the entire Company. They don't need to get it secondhand though the rumor mill.”
”That's th' spirit,” Nate said. ”Now go an'. . . er . . . do whatever 'tis ye plan t' do.”
”Thanks, Nate. Truly inspirational.” Bertie tossed him the rest of her doughnut and absconded with the wooden crate from under the refreshment table.
Situations like this require as much stature as possible.
”Beatrice Shakespeare Smith!” Gertrude bellowed as she made her entrance, very late and hardly sorry.
”Thank you so much for joining us,” Bertie said to the queen, dragging the crate to the front of the stage.
”What are you doing at the front of this a.s.semblage?” Gertrude demanded.
It was the sort of question that didn't have any right answer, like ”does this pannier make my royal b.u.t.t look big?” Bertie sorted through her options, but not quick enough for Gertrude. The queen reached out to rap Bertie's pate with her ruby-ringed knuckle.
”I require your a.s.sistance. My silk overskirt must be mended before the next performance, my son is off sulking. . . .” She paused and a.s.sessed Bertie's pajamas. ”Your attire is most inappropriate, even for this early hour.”
Bertie shook her head at the errant royalty. ”Never mind my clothes-”
Gertrude snorted with enough force to set the velvet curtains flapping. ”I'll have none of your excuses, miss. The moon shall find me dancing, or I'll know why.” She turned away to take full advantage of the refreshment table.
”Please do help yourself to coffee before joining the rest of the Company.” Bertie climbed onto the crate and cupped a hand next to her mouth. ”Excuse me, everyone!”
Trying to capture their attention was like throwing pennies into a restless ocean; the words sank, unnoticed, into the churning waves of morning gossip.
”You need a bullhorn,” said Moth.
”Or an air raid siren,” said Mustardseed.
”You need a commanding presence and an air of authority,” said Peaseblossom.
”Thank you, fairy G.o.dmother, I'll get right on that.” Bertie signaled to Nate. ”Will you gainsay me a whistle?”
”Not this time.” Nate reached for the small, copper bosun's pipe that hung around his neck. ”Which do ye want?”
” 'All Hands on Deck,' just in case we have Players missing, followed by 'Word to Be Pa.s.sed,' if you please.”
Nate obliged with the high-pitched signals used to gather the crew and command silence for an order to follow. The noise was meant to carry from s.h.i.+p to s.h.i.+p; as such, it would have driven a dog under the bed, if there had been a dog, and if the bed hadn't already disappeared below the stage. The Players as yet unaware of Bertie's presence winced and looked around. Hero upset her coffee down her front, and Claudio tried to mop it up, doing more harm than good where her dress was concerned.
Bertie tried to ignore the suspicious looks now aimed at her. ”Thank you all for coming this morning. I appreciate your punctuality and graciousness at such an early hour.”
The Players complained to their neighbors in rumbling undertones. Though she couldn't see the Stage Manager, Bertie caught his muttered whispers of ”whippersnapper” and ”troublesome little baggage” in the slosh of conversation. When Nate crossed his considerably muscled arms, the crowd fell into a grudging silence.
”You know that I've been asked to leave the Theatre.” There was another rumble, this time with varying degrees of sympathy. Heartened that they did not cheer and throw half-eaten pastry at her, Bertie continued. ”Now I have to prove to the Theater Manager that I belong here. That I can contribute something unique and valuable. So I'm going to become a Director.”
The Players looked around in confusion. Bertie heard several voices overlapping as they spoke the same question. ”What does that mean?”
Bertie rushed to answer. ”I want to direct Hamlet.”
A resurgence of protests, in large part from the characters not involved with that production. Lady Macbeth, in particular, was livid.
”I don't see why that play should take precedence over the cla.s.sics!”
”You would think that,” Gertrude said with a sniff. ”Just because you've performed for the queen-”
”I am the queen!” bellowed Lady Macbeth.
<script>