The following is the start of a story called Theater Patron—set in the same world as Hauntings of Claverton Castle. The main character is Roland, who has a large role in Claverton Castle.
The full story, “Theater Patron,” is in the anthology Kaleidoscope—A Queer Anthology: Edition 2022, published by Cloaked Press, which is available on Amazon.com. All proceeds go to The Trevor Project. https://www.thetrevorproject.org/
Theater Patron
A Slightly Different 1820s England
Roland sat alone in the dark theater box where shadows creeped. He leaned forward to hear the performers better over the constant murmur of the audience. When the night’s entertainment began with a pantomime, he had scoffed, for the audience continued chattering and giggling. Inattentive audiences irritated him; they were more interested in socializing and observing their closest neighbors in the next box, than in enjoying the performance. The tradition of leaving chandeliers lit during the performance only encouraged the noisemakers.
After Roland patiently sat through the pantomime and the magician, the play itself, Romeo and Juliet, enthralled him. He sat back and loosened his shoulders. He especially admired the heroine, a golden-haired waif in a trailing white gown; she spoke her lines with more emotion than did anyone else on stage. Roland swiftly scanned his program until he read her name: Clarice Capozzi. This was probably a stage name, since she did not sound Italian when she spoke.
Mercutio cried, “A plague on both your houses!” All the gaslights of the footlights, over the stage, and along the walls of the house blinked. The audience gasped. The lights blinked again. The audience babbled and exclaimed. An inexplicable breeze whispered through the auditorium.
The hair on the back of Roland’s neck stood on end. He faintly heard voices inside the breeze, but he failed to detect specific words. His heart fluttered in a manner typically indicating supernatural phenomena were afoot.
All the lights winked out simultaneously. They didn’t come back on. Roland stood in the dark while the audience gasped, shrieked, and murmured. He leaned down and reached out to avoid stumbling into chairs.
Pushing aside red velvet curtains, Roland stumbled out of the family box and drifted along the dark hallway. Relying on his memory of the hallway, he reached a staircase and clung to the banister while descending the stairs. He descended to the ground floor and entered the auditorium, where he waded through the arguing, yelling, and screaming crowd in the pit. Fortunately, a few people held candles or lanterns, but Roland nonetheless stumbled over a seat in the dark before entering the orchestra pit, where musicians protested.
Someone sensed his intrusion. “Who is there?”
Roland didn’t respond. Thinking it a pity his supernatural senses did not include night sight, he found the steps onto the stage, where a crew carried candelabras and led grumbling performers to the wings. Roland followed Clarice Capozzi’s silk train while she glided through the right wing.
Roland paused backstage. The candelabras stagehands carried ahead of him threw light around what appeared to be a narrow and plain corridor. Roland’s hesitance meant the light was fading fast while the stagehands and performers gained distance. He stepped forward in the growing gloom. In the prevalent darkness, a body that felt padded with fabric rammed into him and gasped.
Roland staggered and backed away, holding out his hands. “Excuse me.”
“I’m so sorry, sir.” The invisible speaker had a high, musical voice. A hand touched the fine wool of his evening coat sleeve. “I’m the wardrobe mistress. I have a bundle of cloth in my arms.” Roland envisioned a woman with a costume draped over one arm while the other arm reached for him. He opened his mouth to ask about Clarice Capozzi, when the voice continued, “If it pleases you, sir, you should return to your seat. The play will continue soon. It’s the ghost, you see.”
The wardrobe mistress confirmed Roland’s impression that the eerie presence in the air was a theater ghost. “The ghost?” Roland forgot the leading lady. “Do you sense its presence, too?” He still felt the jittery sensation the supernatural gave him.
“Yes, sir, I have the Sense. For the supernatural, you understand.”
A stagehand, while passing, turned up the gas on a nearby sconce. Roland exhaled as the corridor lit up. He noticed the costumer had dark red hair and wore a black, high-waisted frock with sleeves that puffed at the shoulders and narrowed beginning at the elbows. Costumes hung from her arms.
“What do you know about this ghost?” Roland clasped his long and slender ring-covered hands together.
More lights came up. Long shadows appeared on the floor and walls. As additional sconces were lit and stage lights behind Roland lit back up, the shadows receded. A voice yelled, “We need lights over here!”
“Not terribly much, I’m afraid,” the costumer said. “I’m aware of the poor soul almost every night. This disturbance in the middle of a play is unusual.”
Roland focused his large blue eyes on her face. “You must, please, tell me all you know about this ghost.”
Two plainly dressed people jogged through the corridor. “Coming through!” They shoved their way between Roland and the costumer.
The costumer bit her lip. “This is hardly the place for it, sir. It’s cramped backstage—”
More crew members pushed by, calling, “Coming through!”
She continued, “After tonight’s performance—”
“If it will continue—”
“—we can meet in the green room and discuss it there.” She nodded toward the left.
“Thank you.” Roland smiled faintly.
The costumer blinked at him as though his smile fascinated her. Roland turned away, heading back to the stage.
Helped by the returned gaslight, Roland returned to his box. Ten minutes later, the play resumed. It occurred to Roland that he asked a strange woman to meet with him, but she must realize it was solely because of the ghost. He was timid and frequented crowded theaters entirely for the sake of art.
As soon as the curtain dropped before the bowing performers, Roland ceased applauding and rose. He left the box and walked swiftly down the corridor. It curved to the right, and he crossed a threshold into the green room, a large meeting place off the left wing. The paneled walls were white with green trim, the furniture upholstered in striped green and white satin. The room was well-lit with a large chandelier and wall sconces.
Roland arrived so early that few patrons and no theater staff occupied the room. The richly dressed patrons, men in evening suits and starched cravats and women in puffy-sleeved silk gowns and sparkling jewels, stood chatting and pouring champagne. Roland sank into a striped side chair and picked up a periodical, The Spectator.
He read a few paragraphs of dialogue, before the costumer glided into the room. Roland rose from the chair and approached the young woman, who stood looking at him with her mouth slightly open. Roland surmised the ghostly incident left her in shock. She looked about his age and was pretty, tall, and a bit plump. She had almond-shaped green eyes and a round face.
“You are… the gentleman who was interested in the ghost.” The costumer raised her eyebrows. Despite her height, she peered up at him since he was six foot four.
“Yes. Pray forgive me for not introducing myself earlier. I am Roland de Montmorency.”
She widened her eyes in recognition. “I’m Millicent Flask. I’m in charge of wardrobe. Oh. I mentioned that before.” She took one step forward and clasped her hands together. “Aren’t you the son of Sir Bryant Gibraldon?”
“Yes, indeed.” Roland could not suppress a proud smile.
“I’ve read everything by him. He’s inspiring.” Her eyes glowed when she smiled.
Roland’s heart warmed at hearing high praise of his father. “Thank you. I… quite agree.” Roland waved toward a sofa. They approached it, weaving through the thickening crowd of patrons, performers, and technicians, and he sat down.
Millicent Flask sank onto the other end of the sofa. Still clasping her hands together, she leaned slightly forward. “I surmise you avidly read your father’s writings?”
“Yes. Large shoes in which to put my feet. He is not only a writer but a hero who, among other things, used his powers peacefully while rescuing potential victims from the war atrocities in France.”
Miss Flask bounced on the sofa. “Yes, I know! How brilliant! I didn’t think that war would ever end. No doubt your father isn’t idle now.”
“No, he continues writing. I am a writer myself, mostly poetry. I fear I’ve scarcely tried on his shoes. Margot takes after him more. She makes such a great mark in the world.” Roland felt surprised at himself for such loquaciousness with a stranger, but her energy calmed him.
“Oh—your sister, Margot. I have heard about your adventures.”
“Yes, she is my twin.”
“Why is she not here tonight?”
“She is banishing a demon in Yorkshire.”
Hauntings of Claverton Castle, Chapter 1:
Chapter 14:
https://open.substack.com/pub/whimsicalwords/p/hauntings-of-claverton-castle-chapter-e38?r=5m2is&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true
Hauntings of Claverton Castle, Chapter 15
Mr. Prendregast sat at the head of the supper table with a book before him and the butler standing behind him. Harriet and Samantha sat beside each other, and Harriet repeatedly glanced at her father and wrung her hands. Mr. Prendregast had been seated for supper more than ten minutes, waiting for Reginald. Samantha gathered from her host’s muttered remarks whilst he flipped through the pages that the book was about his family tree, his ancestors and immediate family. She wondered what other peculiar behavior she could expect from Mr. Prendregast, since she had been taught it was bad manners to read at the table.
Harriet, lip twitching, turned to Samantha. “Father is obsessed with genealogy.”
Samantha raised her eyebrows, feigning interest. It struck her as a pity that Mr. Prendregast’s family hubris did not extend to his daughter. She looked at Mr. Prendregast out of the corner of her eye. No longer absorbed in his book, he glared toward the door and pressed his lips together. He clutched his hands together on the table, as though about to commence twiddling his thumbs.
“The Fae take him!” Mr. Prendregast pounded his fist on the table. Samantha jumped and stared at him, but he took no notice. The butler’s eyes widened, but otherwise he remained statue-like. The dogs stirred slightly, clicking nails on the floor. “Where’s Reginald?”
Samantha raised her eyebrows. “Maybe the Fae did take him.”
She finally attracted Mr. Prendregast’s attention. He swiveled his glare toward her, and his bushy eyebrows knit at her. She gulped, though she was accustomed to worse than glares. She momentarily conjured a painful memory of how it felt when Uncle Bradford’s fist contacted her eye. She winced.
“What was that, young lady? Are you being impertinent toward your host?”
“Not in the least, sir.” Samantha bowed her head in embarrassment. “I was merely stating a fact. I have seen Fae folk in and around the moat. They may well have taken Reginald away.”
“Humph!” Mr. Prendregast said. “I was merely using an expression.” Though distressed by her host’s foul mood, Samantha clenched her fist and frowned; he apparently thought her foolish enough to take his expression literally. Mr. Prendregast turned and scowled at his daughter, who stared wide-eyed and gulped. “And the Fae take my genealogy books! Confound it, things simply don’t add up properly. This one part of the family tree is confusing me.”
Samantha knit her brow. “How is it confusing. sir?”
He shook his head. “Deuce take it, every family tree is probably confusing if you stare at it too long.”
Reginald stepped into the dining room. One of the Border collies, Shadow, rose and approached him with her tail and rear wagging. Reginald said, “Hallo, girl!” and stroked the dog’s shaggy flanks. She wagged her tail even more. He ignored his father’s glare. “How has your day been, Miss Ponsonby?” He approached the chair across from Harriet and pulled it back, allowing it to scrape against the wooden floor.
Samantha wondered if he did it more loudly than customary to irritate his father. “It has been quite lovely. Harriet gave me a tour of the house, and we took a walk on the property.”
“I showed her the garden.” Harriet’s voice trembled slightly, and she wrung her hands. She glanced at her father.
Reginald sat down in his customary chair. “Splendid.” Shadow settled at his feet. As though envious, the other dog, Fiona, wiggled her way from the master’s feet toward Reginald and settled down near him and Shadow. Mr. Prendregast glowered at his son before casting his eyes down toward the dogs.
Raising his gaze to Reginald and sitting up straight, Mr. Prendregast scowled and straightened his lapels. “Enough of your laziness, boy! You need to show the courtesy of arriving for dinner on time.” Reginald lowered his head and rearranged his flatware by a few inches. The butler nodded to the footmen. “At last, we can finally dine.”
Samantha watched the food glide toward the table whilst the two footmen stared at it and directed the dishes with their hands. Bowls of soup landed on the table so slowly that not a drop spilled. Plates of salad landed beside the bowls.
Mr. Prendregast ignored the footmen’s demonstration of Sensitive powers and began slurping his soup enthusiastically. “Now that you have deigned to join us, Reginald, I am inclined to entertain our guest with our family history.” Samantha smiled and leaned forward. Her smile faltered, as she recalled the reflection of the veiled woman. “We have lived in England since 1066. Ours is a great and noble family traceable all the way back to the eleventh century.”
“What about before the eleventh century?” Samantha asked.
Mr. Prendregast paused and knit his shaggy brows. “Before that? Well, that hardly matters, does it? We were not in England yet.”
“Father worships this country.” Reginald waved around a forkful of watercress.
Mr. Prendregast cleared his throat. “And so I should. We don’t have ruffians overthrowing our government and chopping off the heads of the aristocracy, causing mayhem. We have no worry about a violent revolution.”
“La, not another jibe at France.” Reginald raised his hand and pressed the back of it against his forehead. Samantha suppressed an urge to laugh.
“Some people fear that a revolution will happen in England,” Harriet said.
“Well, I certainly don’t.” Mr. Prendregast scowled. “England is far too civilized for that.”
“Perhaps we shall have another nonviolent revolution,” Samantha said. “Much like the civil war.”
Reginald waved his fork dismissively. “La, you must have a fondness for history, Miss Ponsonby. That was so long ago—was it the seventeenth century?”
Samantha nodded. She watched more dishes flying from the pantry to the table. “Not so long ago as the eleventh century.”
“Never mind all this talk of revolution.” Mr. Prendregast pounded his fist on the table. Samantha jumped and blinked at him. She heard the clicking of claws, a dog standing. Mr. Prendregast petted the dog. “Where was I? Oh, yes, the eleventh century. An old house occupied the property before this one was built over four hundred twelvemonths ago. It also consisted of stone, with a thatched roof. But it had wooden battlements.”
Samantha sipped at her claret. “Was that typical of the era?”
“Yes, even the origins of the castle were initially wood and mud.”
Reginald pinched his earlobe. “Those first castles must have been frightfully easy to burn to the ground.”
Mr. Prendregast glowered at Reginald, who quickly absorbed himself in eating.
Harriet put down her fork. “Yes, especially if it is true dragons existed.”
Mr. Prendregast sniffed and glared at Harriet. “Dragons, my foot! I never put such claptrap into your head.”
Samantha blinked at her host. She knew of few people who did not believe dragons lived in England long ago, before it was called England. If he didn’t believe in dragons, Mr. Prendregast might not believe in ghosts.