Ivy’s children, unlike Alexia’s daughter, seemed unpardonably well behaved. On those few occasions when they had had occasion to meet, Lady Maccon had said the customary “goo,” and the babies had cooed and batted their overly long eyelashes back until someone came and took them away, which was all that one could really ask of babies. Alexia found them charming and consequently was perversely glad they were abed when she arrived.
“My dearest Alexia, how do you do?” Mrs. Tunstell greeted her friend with genuine pleasure, hands outstretched to clasp both of Alexia’s. She drew Lady Maccon in to blow air kisses at either cheek, an affectation Alexia found overly French but was learning to accept as a consequence of time spent in the company of thespians.
“Ivy, my dear, how do you do? And how are you enjoying this fine evening?”
“I am quite reveling in the commonplace refinement of family life.”
“Oh, ah, yes, and how is Tunstell?”
“Perfectly darling as ever. You know, he married me when I was but a poor and pretty young thing. All that has changed since then, of course.”
“And the twins?” Born some half a year after Prudence, they were named Percival and Primrose, but more commonly called Percy and Tidwinkle by their mother. Percy was, of course, understandable, but Alexia had yet to understand how Tidwinkle evolved from Primrose.
Ivy smiled her sweet mother’s-little-angels smile—accompanying the expression with a sigh of devotion. “Oh, the darlings. I could just eat them up with a spoon. They are asleep, sweet, precious things. And your little Prudence, how is she?”
“A tremendous bother and holy terror, of course.”
Mrs. Tunstell tittered at that. “Oh, Alexia, you are too wicked. Imagine talking about one’s own child in such a manner!”
“My dearest Ivy, I speak only the barest of truths.”
“Well, I suppose young Prudence is a bit of a mixed infant.”
“Thank goodness I have help or I’d be practically run off of my feet, I tell you!”
“Yes,” Ivy said suspiciously. “I’m sure Lord Akeldama is invaluable?”
“He is taking Prudence for a stroll in the park as we speak.”
Ivy gestured Alexia to sit and sent the maid for tea.
Alexia did as she was bid.
Ivy settled herself happily opposite her friend, delighted as always that dear Lady Maccon still afforded her any time at all. There was such a large disparity in their consequence as a result of marriage, no matter how much Alexia tried to convince Ivy otherwise, that Ivy always felt she was being honored by the continued acquaintance. Even a position as intimate as fellow member of a secret society and spy was not enough to reconcile Mrs. Tunstell to the fact that Lady Maccon, wife of an earl, came to take tea with her… in Soho! In rented apartments!
Still, it did not stop Mrs. Tunstell from reprimanding said Lady Maccon gently on the subject of Lord Akeldama. The man was, after all, too outrageous for fatherhood. The vampire side of his character being, in Ivy’s universe, far less a thing than his scandalous comportment and flamboyant dress. Even her fellow actors were not so bad. “Couldn’t you have gotten yourself a nice nursemaid, Alexia dear? For stabilization of the vital emotional humors? I can recommend them highly.”
“Oh, Lord Akeldama has one of those as well. His humors are quite stable, I assure you. It makes no flour for the biscuit in the end with my daughter. Prudence requires all hands to man the forward deck, if you take my meaning. Twice as difficult as her father, even on his best days.”
Ivy shook her head. “Alexia, really, you do say the most shocking things imaginable.”
Lady Maccon, knowing such pleasantries might continue in this vein for three-quarters of an hour or more, moved on to a topic more in alignment with her visit. “I managed to catch the opening of your new play the night before last.”
“Did you, indeed? How kind. Very patronly of you. Did you enjoy it?” Ivy clasped her hands together and regarded her friend with wide, shining eyes.
The maid came in with the tea, giving Alexia a moment to properly phrase her reply. She waited while Ivy poured and then took a measured sip before replying. “As your patroness, I approve most heartily. You and Tunstell have done me proud. A unique story and a most original portrayal of love and tragedy. I can safely say, I am convinced London has never seen its like before. Nor will it again. I thought the bumblebee opera dancer sequence was… riveting.”
“Oh, thank you! It warms the cudgels of my heart to hear you say such a thing.” Ivy positively beamed, her copious dark ringlets quivering in delight.
“I was wondering how long you’re scheduled to run this performance at this particular venue, and whether you had considered taking it on tour?”
Ivy sipped her tea and considered the question with all seriousness. “We have only a week in our contract. We had intended merely to test the waters with this new style, with an eye toward expanding to a larger venue if it went over well. Why? Have you something in mind?”
Lady Maccon put down her teacup. “Actually, I wondered if you might consider”—she paused for dramatic effect—“Egypt?”
Mrs. Tunstell gasped and put one small white hand to her throat. “Egypt?”
“I believe the Egyptian theatergoing public might find The Death Rains of Swansea truly moving. The subject matter is so very exotic, and I understand there is a lady of means in residence there who is particularly interested in performances of this kind. Had you thought to take the production outside of London?”