“The theater is in our blood, my lady. We have all thrown off the shackles of ordinary lives to pursue the dream that is the theater.” His voice rose, and he stared off into the distance. Camille exchanged glances with her sister. “The dream of speaking the words of Shakespeare as they were meant to be spoken or performing the works of Mr. Gilbert and Mr. Sullivan as they intend them to be performed.” He reached his hand out, palm up, as if to catch something just out of reach. “The dream of taking an audience away from their dull existence and bringing them, however briefly, to another place, another time, to a story they will long remember. And that”—he closed his hand and pulled it back to rest over his heart—“is the dream and, yes, the magic of the theater.” He bowed his head.

Beryl choked back a laugh. Camille wasn’t sure if she wished to laugh or cry.

“Quite,” she said in a weak voice, then cleared her throat. “Well, then, Mr. Fortesque—”

“Simply Fortesque, my lady,” the actor said. “If I am to play the role of your butler, you should address me as such.”

“Yes, of course.” Camille nodded. “Thank you, Fortesque.”

“Now, then, if there is nothing else at the moment, I shall make certain your mother, sister and uncle are preparing themselves for their first appearance, as well as oversee the preparation of tea.” He nodded at the sisters and took his leave.

“That went well.” Camille forced a cheery note to her voice.

“ ‘Well’?” Beryl stared in disbelief. “ ‘Well’?”

“Yes,” Camille said firmly. “Well.”

“It doesn’t concern you that you have a house filled with actors who need to hone their skills because they are lacking in extensive experience?”

“But what they lack in acting experience, they hopefully make up for in the positions of servants.”

“Thank God for that,” Beryl said sharply. “Have you also considered that you have a drunkard playing your uncle—”

“Former drunkard, if you please.” Camille sniffed. “He has given up overindulgence and we should give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“What we should do is inventory the brandy. And probably the silverware as well,” Beryl added darkly. “Add to that, a tart for a sister—”

“With a natural gift—”

“No doubt.” Beryl sniffed. “One suspects that gift is not for acting.”

“You haven’t mentioned Mrs. Montgomery-Wells,” Camille said. “She apparently has a great deal of experience at playing the role of a mother.”

“She forgets her lines!”

“So does Mother.” Camille shrugged. “Yet another way in which this role was made for her.”

“Good Lord, Camille—”