A Slight Miscalculation: A Half Moon House Short Story Read online

The footman had been correct, the first hackney driver knew the place, although he gave Worthe an odd look when asked. Worthe climbed down when they arrived, paid the jarvey, and stood, contemplating the place.

  The townhouse looked ordinary enough, but the door was distinctive. The fan above had been carved with a half moon and a scattering of stars, all set with glass. A very pretty effect at night, he’d wager, when the light shone through. But he could not recognize the pattern of the stars.

  He snorted. A very amateur society, after all.

  His knock was answered immediately—by a girl wrapped in a sheet, one corner thrown over her shoulder. She beamed at him while he stared at the ivy in her hair and the waxed grapes tucked in the crook of her arm. Granted, he was largely out of touch with the ton and their interests, but this? He could not explain it.

  “Welcome, Mr. Middleton, sir! I am a nymph of the vine, handmaiden to Dionysus. Won’t you come in?”

  She opened the door wider. Frowning, he opened his mouth and stepped in—just as a call rang out.

  “I’m Diana, Goddess of the Hunt!”

  Suddenly, Dionysus’s handmaiden screamed. She jumped back as an arrow shot past her—and straight into Worthe’s shoulder.

  The impact knocked him back, he stumbled . . . and fell back, landing hard and grunting as his head struck the stone walkway. His last thought, as the light faded, was that he didn’t recognize the pattern of stars dancing overhead, either.

  “Oh, please, sir. Do wake up!”

  The stars were still there when he opened his eyes again.

  Wait. Not stars. Sunbursts of gold in a pair of wide, green eyes. He blinked, still befuddled, but immensely relieved to find a recognizable pattern at last. Andromeda—the princess constellation—laid out clearly in the form of faint freckles across the bridge of a finely crafted nose.

  “Is that real?” His tongue felt thick, but he reached up to brush a soft cheek. He checked. His thumb remained clean and the freckles were still in place.

  “Oh, Molly.” The owner of the freckles drew back, worry etched across her pretty face. “You’ve addled his wits.”

  “No.” Worthe struggled to sit up. “I’m fine.”

  “I’m ever so sorry, sir!” Another young woman enveloped in white wrung her hands at his side, her bow discarded nearby. “I meant to hit the door!” She looked to Andromeda. “I’m so glad you made me blunt the end!”

  “As am I. The poor man will likely have a bruise, you shot with such force. But never mind. Let’s get him up.”

  The world tilted again as Worthe sat up. Mist rushed in to blur his vision. Groaning, he felt gingerly along the back of his skull.

  “Oh, that’s quite a lump!” Andromeda exclaimed. “Peggy, will you run for ice?”

  The nymph hurried away, leaving her grapes. Frowning, Worthe counted five young ladies surrounding him—all draped in white linen—except for his Andromeda. He squinted to see that she wore sprigged muslin in a light green that showcased those spectacular eyes and contrasted nicely with soft, chestnut curls.

  “Can you stand?” she asked.

  He nodded. A mistake, as nausea tried to wash over him, but he found it easy to ignore as she pressed close to help. The princess Andromeda possessed ample curves to go along with her sun-burst eyes and intriguing freckles.

  She held him steady as they made their way inside, never faltering as they passed through a wide entry and headed for a parlor on the right. “It makes sense, Andromeda,” he said through the fog. “You must have been both beautiful and strong to survive being chained and left for that monster.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid you are rattled, sir. I’m so sorry about all of this, Mr. Middleton. You’ve mistaken me. My name is Jane.”

  Alarm bells worsened the din in his head. Worthe abruptly stopped. Jane?

  “Mr. Middleton? Oh, sir. Mr. Middleton?”

  “Yes?”

  Worthe turned. Too suddenly. He groaned. He hadn’t made that answer. Another chap stood in the open doorway behind them, dressed like quality, foot tapping impatiently. “I’m here to see Hestia,” he announced.

  Andromeda looked between them. “You’re Middleton?” she asked the other man. “Then who—?” She eased Worthe down on a long, low sofa. “Never mind, now.”

  Dionysus’s handmaid returned with ice wrapped in a cloth and Andromeda . . . No, not Andromeda. “You said your name was Jane?” he rasped.

  She nodded and pressed the ice to his aching head.

  Worthe waited for anger to push back in, but it was no match for the disappointment churning up from his gut. His Andromeda must be Jane Tillney.

  “Sit a moment, please?” she asked. She turned to the other man. “I’m sorry, sir. Hestia Wright has been called away, and Callie Grant with her. I’m helping out as I can. Won’t you come in? She told us of your play, though, before she left, and that you are looking for girls to travel with your company.”

  “Aye. Six girls to act as a sort of Greek chorus,” Middleton answered, his head bobbing enthusiastically. “Just a line or two each, nothing difficult. Bit parts only, they will deliver commentary on the action from the heavens above. But they’ll be counted full members of the company.”

  “And you’ll be performing first at Sadler’s Wells?”

  He nodded. “A couple of weeks to perfect our performance and then we set out. Late summer is prime for a travelling company. We’ll be back before the weather turns.”

  He ran an eye over the girls. They had grouped together, listening avidly. “I’ve others interested. Auditions are Thursday. I see you’ve heard you must provide your own costumes.” He sighed. “I do wish you’d come up with something different than the rest. Ah, well. Make them good. I imagine they’ll be the deciding factor.”

  He bowed low to Jane and grinned at the others. “Until Thursday!”

  The din that exploded in the room once he’d left had Worthe clutching his head again.

  “Did you hear that? We need better costumes!”

  “Miss Jane will help. She’s got us this far.”

  “I’ll carry wine instead of grapes!”

  “He said there’s more wanting the spots. Probably there’s no use in even trying.”

  “Oh, dear,” Miss Tillney said.

  “Now listen here, you lot!” Worthe winced again as Diana brandished her bow and raised her voice. “We’re doing this! I went with Middleton’s company last year. He does a proper job. No hedge inns or hayseed barns. Only sizable village fairs and towns with assembly rooms.” She glared around her. “Hestia got me the chance and it was the first time I made my own money and got to keep it. All of it,” she said with a significantly raised brow. “I got a few more roles besides, when I come back. And,” she paused to be sure of their focus, “We went out with seven last year and only four returned—‘cause three met nice, young farmers with harvest blunt in their pockets and an eye for a wife to occupy the winter.”

  A moment of dead silence quickly gave way to a cacophony of shrill exclamations. Worthe looked up to find Jane smiling fondly at the lot of them.

  “Surely you’re not running away with the troupe?”

  “No.” She smiled. “Can you hold the ice yourself now, Mr.—Wait! I still don’t know your name!”

  “But you are Miss Jane Tillney?”

  She nodded.

  “And this place?”

  She frowned. “You don’t know Half Moon House? Hestia Wright’s infamous home for women in need?”

  “I don’t get to Town often.”

  “Hestia and this place are known the world over.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t spend much time with people, either.”

  Her frown deepened. “How did you find—”

  “Tell me,” he interrupted. “Why do you help these women?”

  Solemn, she paused, watching the excited group. “Because ev
eryone needs help sometimes.”

  The words hit him with nearly as much force as Diana’s arrow. His first instinct was to dispute them. He got on very well on his own, without anyone’s assistance.

  He stopped. Did he? She’d helped him, too, hadn’t she? At least, he’d wager that was how she thought of that provoking letter. And maybe she’d been right. It was better to know about his mistake, now, was it not?

  He wanted to know how she’d found it. Why she’d written. He eyed her slim figure, the earnest lift of her chin—and knew there were other things he’d like to know as well.

  “Your name, sir?” she asked again.

  “Constellations.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Constellations,” he said, raising his voice to be heard above the racket. “That’s what your costumes should be.”

 

  Chapter Two