Blindingham Hall, August 1863

Lord save me from theatrical troupes! How tiresome and self-regarding they are, it’s exhausting. A Travelling gaggle has arrived in the village from somewhere godforsaken, on their way to London. They must not yet be proficient in their art because they need us to watch it for them before they decide whether it is good enough for the theatregoers of the capital. Apparently they want to hear what the good folk of Blindingham – and every other village between here and the Haymarket – think of their tedious tale-telling. Quite frankly I would sooner place my toes in a vice, but as Lady of the Hall I have been invited to patronise the event, so I shall have to go. I hope they put a cushion on my seat.

I was quite unaware of our bounty at such cultural diversion until Villiers told me that a little man had been accosting innocent people going about their business at the market, entreating them to stop their work, ignore their duties and present themselves in the church rooms at 7pm on Wednesday. As if we have nothing better to do. The little man wore a banded hat so his baldness wouldn’t scare people as he approached. Villiers apparently told the man who his mistress is, and was thereupon beseeched to ensure my attendance. He was so enthralled by this man, a rattle-teeth by the name of Sloakham whose whispering tone and slight air of menace had earned him the role of chief persuader, that Villiers forgot his market errands and rushed back to the Hall.

‘Ma’am! Actors are in the village, actors! Look!’ he panted, ‘They are putting on a play – how lucky we are, will you go, Ma’am. Might I accompany you in the carriage and wait for you? Shall I go right away to where the actors are preparing and tell them you will attend their performance?’

He handed me a crumpled piece of paper, much smoothed but barely legible, with the name of the play in large letters – LOVE IN A VILLAGE by Mrs Edith Feltwhistle, and some names underneath, none of which meant anything to me. Apparently I would laugh, cry and understand the human condition, all in the space of 100 minutes. I did not think this would be the case but I could see how much Villiers wished it to be true.

I forgave him for not bringing back any eggs or bread, and allowed myself to indulge his palpable excitement.

‘Very well, Villiers. We shall go. Tell Moss to have the carriage ready for 6 o’clock on the night, and pack yourself a blanket. You can not sit with me of course, but I dare say there will be room outside for you to watch through the door’ Villiers squealed his thanks and swept off to find the little man and his actors.

I am dreading the evening already. Such shouting, men with painted faces and women who should be at home, such drama. And then the play itself. What possesses people to dress up and prance about pretending to be other people?

Thursday can not come quickly enough for me.